Pat Kelleher - The Ironclad Prophecy

ATKINS GAVE MERCY and Chalky five seconds. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, then took two grenades in one hand and pulled the pins. He dropped the grenades into the middle of the gallery, on the floor at the mouth of the tunnel, and sprinted up the incline. Five second fuses. How far could he get in five seconds?

Four thousand. He heard something ploughing through the rubble below him.

Three thousand. He felt his stomach churn as another low howl reverberated through his body.

Two thousand. An arm reached out of an opening to his left, grabbed his webbing, and yanked him into a passing niche.

One thousand. The bomb went off. A blast of dirt roared past the opening.

Coughing, Atkins looked up to see Mercy and Chalky grinning at him.

They waited for almost a minute, but heard no further sounds of pursuit from below. They allowed themselves to breathe again. The three dust-covered men grinned at each other with the elation of survival.

“I could murder a bloody fag,” said Mercy, patting his pockets. “But I’m right out.”

“Blood and sand,” said Atkins. “If you’re all out, things are a lot worse than I thought.”

THE LIGHT OF a torch, filtered by the still settling dust, bobbed back down the passage towards Atkins, Mercy and Chalky. “Only!” It was Pot Shot, speaking in a low, urgent hiss. “Only? The chatt’s turning nasty. You’d better come and sort it out or Gutsy says he might have to kill it.”

“Bloody hell!” Atkins’ jubilation melted away and his face set again as he, Chalky and Mercy followed the lanky private up the gently rising passage until they could hear Chandar hissing and spitting.

By the time Atkins arrived, the unsealed chamber was the scene of a tense stand-off. Mathers had slumped to the ground, a couple of his crew clustered around him. The big one, Jack, was holding back Norman, who looked as if he wanted to bash the chatt’s brains out. The others were squaring off against Chandar. 1 Section had leapt to the chatt’s defence. Napoo had stepped in front of Nellie, his sword drawn, watching the proceedings warily.

Atkins was stunned. He turned his back for five minutes and they were at each others’ throats! “What the hell’s going on? There’s a thing — things — out there that are trying to kill us and you lot want to do this? Now?”

“That’s your problem!” Frank said with a snarl, jabbing his revolver towards Chandar. “Bleedin’ chatt freak. Norman picked up one o’ them old jars and it got all cut up about it.”

Porgy butted in. “Lieutenant Mathers was looking a bit ropey so we ducked in here to rest. We saw these chatt bodies and jars and stuff, and Chandar gets all excited until that tanker starts clowning around with ’em.”

Chandar raised itself up on its legs, in Norman’s direction, and hissed, slicing its mandibles. Cowed, Norman slunk back.

Atkins stepped between the Hush Hush crowd and the chatt, his bayoneted rifle pointed at it. “What’s going on, Chandar?”

The chatt turned to him, but did not relax its defensive stance. “These receptacles, they contain many sacred texts. To treat them like that is disrespectful.”

Atkins glanced at the shattered vessels. “All right. He won’t do it again. Now calm down. What’s so important about them anyway?”

“There are copies of scentopedia, holy books, here, that were destroyed in Khungarr by Jeffries. There are aromatomes, even older. This one” — it indicated a jar — “this one was declared heretical in Khungarr many spira ago. Some of these are older than Khungarr itself. Do you not realise? This is a find of incalculable importance. The Ones here sealed themselves in with them in order to protect them from whatever befell the edifice. They gave their lives to guard them. There are scent texts here of great significance and antiquity, and that urman almost destroyed one — on a whim.”

“I don’t understand, why didn’t they dig themselves out?”

“Because these Ones were commanded not to, or commanded to await rescue when it was safe. This one cannot say. But with these, Khungarr can begin to replace the scent scriptures we lost, that you cost us. Some may even provide the scriptural proof we need to finally move against Sirigar and his olfaction. But if these ignorant urmen proceed to destroy them, then this One will never know and the Tomhii Clan may yet be doomed. They must be salvaged and taken back to Khungarr. You must aid this One. It is Kurda. If this One had not accompanied you to this place, then these would have been lost or destroyed forever. Their discovery is the will of GarSuleth, and so is their retrieval.”

“What, so we’re working for chatts now?” said Mercy, with disdain.

Atkins knew from Chandar’s interrogation by Everson, and his own conversations with the thing, that there were bigger matters at stake here. He didn’t quite understand, but he knew this scent library was important. They had the tank. They could transport all these things back. It wasn’t going to be a popular decision, but it was the right thing to do.

“It’s not good enough they’ve got urmen slaves to do their dirty work for them, now you want us to help them?”

“It’s not that simple.” Atkins lowered his voice briefly so the tank crew couldn’t hear. “You saw those American pioneers. They’re dead. They couldn’t survive on this world by themselves. Besides, we have urmen flocking to us for help, and protection, too. Tell them, Napoo.”

The wily old guide nodded. “The Tohmii are powerful, like the Ones.”

“But the chatts use chemicals to keep the urmen docile!” said Nellie. “I’ve experienced it.”

“I said it’s not that simple,” said Atkins, remembering his recent experience with the Zohtakarrii. “Those urmen work for them in return for food, shelter and protection. How is that different from you, Gazette, at the mill, or you, Mercy, at the Brewery, or your uncle down the pits, Pot Shot?”

Pot Shot shrugged, as if pained to admit it. “The man’s right, we may not use chemical decrees to keep our workers in place but we use money to the same ends. It’s not that much different. Still, doesn’t make it right, though.”

“But the chatts are attacking our trenches right now and you want us to help them?”

“Chandar’s part of a movement that can stop that, and these jars can help. We have orders to return to the encampment with the tank anyway, so we might as well take these back with us.”

Gazette spoke up. “Only has a point. Whatever way you look at it these jars are valuable. It gives us an advantage. We have something they want. We can hold them to ransom.” He looked round the chamber, meeting everyone’s eyes with a challenging glare.

There was a murmur of agreement, even among the tank crew.

Chandar began pointing out the most important jars to salvage. Atkins’ section took off their packs and began filling them.

Reggie and Norman slipped off their coveralls from over their service dress, tied knots in the arms and legs to create makeshift bags and began to load them up under Chandar’s direction.

In their haste, one of the tank crew, Reggie, let an amphora slip from his fingers.

“Dash it!”

It shattered against the earthen floor, its thick oily contents permeating the chamber as its contents splashed into the dirt. A pungent odour rose from the spreading pool.

“Be careful!”

There was a loud clicking from Chandar as it picked over the shards of stoneware jar. It hissed and clicked rapidly as it turned one over, marked with chatt glyphs.

“What is it?” Atkins asked, recognising the sounds of agitation.

“A heretical unguent, prepared from the living bodies of Ones. Used to aid prophecy. The prophecies that arise from it are said to be dire and inescapable. No One has dared use it for spira, beyond counting. Perhaps it is just as well it is gone.” Chandar sank down on its legs.