Pat Kelleher - The Alleyman

Edith stepped forward. “Padre, no. Remember what it did to you the last time.”

The Padre remembered very well. The rite was one that new immigrants to Khungarr were required to undergo as a test of loyalty and faith. It was seen as a symbolic washing away of old lives and old beliefs. He would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t afraid, but he was more fearful of the shadow it had cast over his life since he first experienced it, of the night terrors that hid in the dark corners of his mind during the day. This was why he had returned.

He clasped Bell’s hand in his own and flashed a beatific smile. “I survived last time, I will do so again,” he reassured her.

Sirigar regarded the Padre, its large dark eyes unblinking. “Very well, undergo the Kirrijandat. It will not save you. When the Shura stands behind this One and decrees your herd to be the Great Corruption the perfumed prophecies speak of, you will be the first of the Tohmii to die. You and your djamirrii.”

Sirigar turned and directed its ire at Chandar. “Despite knowing what they are, you dare bring them here, when the Great Corruption has already tainted Khungarr and may even now threaten the very future of the colony itself–”

Sirigar glanced at the Padre and lapsed into its own tongue; a guttural stream of harsh smacks, clicks and snips. Chandar countered him, both creatures swaying and moving with each exchange, until Sirigar, rearing up on its legs, let out an aggressive hiss. It swept from the chamber, its scentirrii following. The plant door contracted shut behind it.

Both Padre Rand and Edith held their breaths for a heartbeat before exhaling with relief. They were still alive, and the seditious scents they had smuggled in had not been detected.

Chandar turned to the pair. “This One has bought some time, but precious little. Your submission to the Kirrijandat has bought more. But unless this One succeeds before the Shura then it will have been to no avail. Sirigar will consolidate the Shura behind it and your herd will be culled.”

The Padre and Nurse Bell exchanged anxious glances. This was becoming more dangerous than either of them had realised.

“You can’t leave Nurse Bell here while I undergo the rite,” said the Padre. “Not now Sirigar knows where she is. Not when you know what she carries.”

“This One agrees,” said Chandar. “This One will make sure that your djamirrii is kept out of the way and hidden from Sirigar’s spies.”

Chandar addressed Nurse Bell. “Rhengar will escort you.”

“Where to?” she asked.

“The safest place in Khungarr.”

CHANDAR ESCORTED PADRE Rand through the high, domed cathedral-like Chamber of the Anointed Ones. Set in the walls of the great circular hall were large alcoves, decorated with hieroglyphs impregnated with sacred scents. Chatt dhuyumirrii occupied many of the alcoves, facing the walls, their antennae waving over the glyphs. The susurration of chatts at prayer filled the space, their clicking mandibles sounding, to the Padre’s mind, like a women’s knitting circle making socks for soldiers.

They continued down a passage, past the alchemical chambers where the chatt apothecaries distilled and stored the sacred scents. Here had been the Scentorum, the repository of all their knowledge. Jeffries had destroyed it; thousands of years of accumulated scent scriptures and commentaries boiled, burned and vaporised in the conflagration, generations of knowledge gone. It had been an act of desecration akin to the burning of the library at Alexandria. The chambers had since been rebuilt, but many ancient scent texts had been lost forever.

The Padre was here to rectify that, if his mind survived the rite.

They left the Scentorum behind and proceeded to a string of small chambers barely big enough to stand erect in. They reminded him of confessionals.

Two acolyte dhuyumirrii nymphs approached, guiding them towards the ritual chamber. The Padre paused for a second. If he was going to back out, now was the time. God knows he wanted to. But this wasn’t just about him anymore.

“You will be safe in here. No One will harm you while you are undergoing the rite,” Chandar told him. “Not even Sirigar.”

With a deep breath, he ducked his head and entered the small chamber. A large clay oil burner moulded up from the floor dominated it. The Padre sat as the acolyte poured viscous oil into the burner, then lit it with a taper before retiring from the chamber.

“GarSuleth guide you,” said Chandar as the plant door expanded to close off the chamber.

As he breathed in the fumes, the Padre began to pray. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name–”

Under the influence of the alien fumes, the prayer became a mantra, the words warping, shifting, slurring, as the alien vapour enfolded his mind.

“Our Father, give us this day our hallowed Earth which art our English heaven, forgive us our daily trespass and deliver us from this evil kingdom. Forgive us our sins and lead us not into the earth. Lead us not into temptation, but into glory. Thine is the power to grant this. Amen.”

He began to feel hot and faint. His fingers reached for the dog collar around his neck and pulled it free. “No, let this cup pass from me,” he gasped. He struggled to get up, but his limbs wouldn’t obey. He slid to the floor, staring into the guttering flame of the oil burner.

The vision came and he was powerless to stop it…

CHATTS MADE EDITH’S skin crawl. It was a base, primal revulsion, something she had no control over, no matter how much she tried to rationalise it. She wished that Chandar had blessed her again; frankly, the chatts’ ability to affect your mind like that revolted her, too, but the mild euphoria had helped last time. However, both she and the Padre needed their wits about them here. So why, she wondered, did the Padre feel the need to undergo that rite again? What was it he was trying to prove?

She didn’t know, but she couldn’t wait to be out of here. She’d thought she could face it and conquer her fear of chatts, but it was proving harder than she’d expected. When she first signed up to be a VAD she had little knowledge of what it might entail. Oh, she had some romantic girlish notions about mopping the brows of wounded heroes. Experience disabused her of that: maggots in wounds, the telltale smell of gas gangrene, suppurating sores; all these she had faced and conquered, until now she was able to deal with them as a matter of routine. But the chatts still made her squirm.

Rhengar led her down through narrower utilitarian tunnels. Here, the lichen light became less frequent. Despite promises of safety, Edith began to feel uneasy.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You are a nurse,” it replied.

“Yes,” she said cautiously.

They arrived at a small, unremarkable plant door at the end of a passage.

“Do you have a patient you want me to see? Are they in here?” she asked.

“Here, yes,” said Rhengar.

Edith suddenly became afraid. She wanted to turn and flee, but where was there to flee to in this nest of insects, when every denizen could be turned upon her in an instant with an insubstantial chemical alarm?

She gripped her haversack tighter and tensed as Rhengar breathed on the door. It opened, and Edith found herself pushed through.

“No, wait,” she pleaded, but Rhengar was already striding back up the passage and the plant door was blooming shut.

Oh, how she wished Nellie were here.

Edith found herself confronted by a small chatt, its carapace a smooth pale white. It wore no silk garment like Chandar and its caste, or like the scentirrii. It stepped forward as its antennae investigated her. It seemed satisfied that all the required scents and aromas were in order and scuttled off down a ramp, stopping only to see if she was following.