Pat Kelleher - The Alleyman

“It’s the telluric energy,” he said. “That’s what’s holding it at bay.”

“And if we stay in here, the same energy might kill us,” said Everson grimly.

AT THE CANYON, having sent, and received, a message from Lieutenant Everson in the crater, Buckley found himself regarded in a new light. The ability to press some technological advance on this world seemed like a triumph of sorts, as though they had managed to bend this alien nature to their will.

As a reward, Sergeant Dixon had him manning a permanent, if precarious, listening post atop the scree slope at the base of the exposed wall. For a job that required quiet, the last few hours of distant booms from beyond the canyon didn’t make his job any easier. They echoed off the canyon’s walls, rebounding in a constant barrage of noise and flashes.

Dixon tramped loudly and carelessly up the scree slope, hoping for more news. Buckley frowned at him and held up a finger for quiet. Dixon curled his lip and said nothing, waiting impatiently.

Without warning, Buckley ripped the earphones from his head with a yelp of pain as a high-pitched howl threatened to burst his eardrums.

Arcs of energy began to lash from the metal, rolling over the surface of the wall, spitting and hissing like an angry cat, until they danced and flickered out over the top of the scree slope, sending Dixon tumbling back arse over tit.

Buckley disconnected his equipment, lugged it behind a boulder, and prayed.

A bolt of lightning burst up the wall and exploded through the top of the canyon with a clap that echoed round it for what seemed minutes. It crazed briefly up into the sky, starkly illuminating the canyon, causing the blue-green lichen blisters scattered across the canyon rocks to burst in showers of glutinous acid that hissed as they etched speckled pits into the surrounding rocks.

Dixon looked up at Buckley, apoplectic with rage. “What have you done, lad? What the bloody hell have you done?”

“It wasn’t me, Sarn’t,” said Buckley, looking down at the Sergeant in alarm. “It wasn’t me.”

THEY HAD TO leave the temple. Atkins watched the telluric energy flicker and spit round the walls above them, the arcs becoming weaker and fainter.

“Isn’t there any way we can channel this telluric energy, direct it somehow?” he asked.

“I don’t see how,” said Mercy. “Even if we could get near the rocks, how do we move them?”

“We don’t even know what generates it,” said Pot Shot.

“Oh, that’ll be you and your books again, will it?” snapped Mercy.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Nellie snapped at them.

Tonkins said something, but the thick flannel of his gas hood muffled it.

Riley jabbed his elbow into Tonkin’s ribs. “Speak up, lad. They didn’t hear you through your gas hood.”

Awkwardly, Tonkins raised his hand, cleared his throat. “It’s only electricity,” he said, emboldened by Riley’s encouragement.

Fifteen pairs of blank mica eyes turned to stare at him. Their unblinking glares unnerved him until Riley urged him on, kicking his foot. “We – we don’t need the rock for that,” he added quietly.

Everson clapped his hands and pointed at the signalmen. “You’re right, private. Riley. Tonkins. You wanted to test those electric lances in the field. Now’s your chance.”

“Well done, lad,” muttered Riley with pride.

“They will work, won’t they?” asked Tonkins.

“Our bits I’m sure about,” said Riley shrugging heavily for effect to compensate for his gas hood as he dragged the kitbags towards them. “The chatt stuff, not so much.”

They pulled the two jerry-rigged chatt backpacks from the kitbags, along with the electric lances attached to them by insulated cable.

“You can’t be serious!” said Hepton. “You’re putting our lives in the hands of a pair of Iddy Umpties?”

Everson turned on his heels. Even through his gas mask, his tone was hard. “Mr Hepton. Entire divisions have often depended on Signals. The lives of every member of this battalion have depended on Signals. Their work, under dangerous conditions, has saved countless lives, so if you have any complaints I suggest you keep them to yourself, if you get that message.”

Tonkins ran a hand over the smooth clay battery backpack, checking for damage.

“You ready?” asked Riley, setting his pack between his legs and gripping it with his knees.

Tonkins nodded and did the same.

“Good lad.”

They began cranking the magneto telephone crank handles set in the back; the clay battery packs whirred as the charges began to build.

“How long?” asked Everson.

“We’re going as fast as we can, sir,” said Riley, frantically turning the small crank handle. “Some chatts generate a natural bioelectrical charge that they can store. We have to do it manually.”

Atkins peered out of the loophole and watched as the urmen bodies beyond desiccated further, crumbling to dust before his eyes.

Outside, the telluric discharges no longer preventing their advance, the grey men shuffled closer, dragging swathes of white filaments along with them as they moved. They stopped at the boundary where the mycelia had stopped, unable or unwilling to advance further. The inert carpet of fungus at their feet began to grow once again, its mycelia threading its way towards the temple.

“It looks like we’re out of time!” said Atkins.

“Tulliver, anything?” asked Everson.

Tulliver glanced out of the corner of his eye at the boulders. He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Without the telluric discharge from the meteor to hold it in check, the web of fungus continued its relentless advance towards the temple.

“Whenever you’re ready, Corporal,” said Everson impatiently, as he watched Riley.

The fevered whirr of the magnetos filled the air with an insect buzz as the two men wound the handles for all they were worth. Tonkins resorted to short bursts of frenzied turning, stopping once in a while for a few seconds to catch his breath.

“That should be enough,” said Riley, standing up and trying to shake some life into his cramped hand. Beside him, Tonkins eased himself up onto unsteady legs, like a newborn foal.

“Right,” said Riley, picking up the attached electric lances. “I’m going to need four volunteers, two to fire and two to wind the crank handle and recharge the battery. It’s a bit like a Flammenwerfer, you see, where you have to keep pumping.”

Everson flicked out a finger. “Atkins, Evans, Tonkins, Blood.”

Mercy and Gutsy shouldered their rifles and fell in by the signalmen, taking Atkins’ and Tonkins’ knapsacks for them.

Riley lifted a clay backpack and slipped the webbing straps over Atkins’ shoulders, and helped Tonkins follow suit. Atkins hefted the unfamiliar lance, connected by cable to the backpack.

“Atkins, Evans. I want you at the van,” said Everson. “Tonkins, Blood, you’ll have to bring up the rear.”

Both men nodded with slow exaggerated movements from under their gas hoods to show they understood.

Nellie wrapped bandages round the face of the young injured urman to protect him from the spores. She called to the urman guide huddling sullenly against the wall. “Napoo,” she asked. “Can you help the Padre carry this young lad?”

“His name’s Tarak,” said Alfie, through his gas hood.

Napoo, seeing the brand burn on Tarak’s chest, shook his head and backed away.

“Napoo, it’s not his fault. It was an accident.”

“He is cursed!”

“He will be if we don’t help him!”

Nellie gave the book she had prised from Tarak to Everson, who told Mercy to pack it in his knapsack.

The Padre and a reluctant Napoo lifted the now semi-conscious Tarak between them.