“Well, we’re in a jungle aren’t we? That shouldn’t be too hard,” said Atkins curtly.
Alfie Perkins stumbled out of the tank.
Atkins noticed the other members of the tank crew cast him black looks. They didn’t even try to disguise it.
“What’s all that about?” Gutsy asked Jack.
“His fault,” said Jack flatly.
Atkins accepted the explanation, figuring it wasn’t any of his business. “1 Section to me,” he said. “We need to find some logs to get this thing moving again, but I don’t want anyone going off alone. I’ll take Chandar. The rest of you, pair off. Gutsy and Porgy. Gazette and Pot Shot. Mercy and Prof. Napoo, Chalky, you stay here with Miss Abbott.” He stepped in towards Chalky and added in a low voice, “and keep an eye on that lot. I don’t trust ’em.”
“Oi, excuse me, don’t I get a say in all this?” said Nellie. “I’m quite capable of looking for logs. If you think I’m going to sit around here like a helpless gel then you got another think coming. You ought to know better than that by now. Shame on you, Only Atkins, shame on you.”
Gutsy grinned at him. Atkins shot him a glance.
“Don’t look at me,” said Gutsy, with a look of guileless innocence. “My missus has a voice like that. If you want my advice, you’ll let her have her own way. It’ll be less painful in the long run.”
“Fine!” agreed Atkins irritably. “Go with Napoo and Chalky. Meet back here in ten minutes. Watch out for the wire weed.”
“And Jeffries,” said Mercy with a grin.
“I should bloody well think so, too. Come on, Chalky!” Nellie growled as she stalked off. Flustered, Chalky ran to catch up, the jeers and catcalls of his mates ringing in his ears.
The question was, where to find logs? True, this was a jungle, but the trees were like no trees Atkins had seen before. Now that the ironclad’s engine had stopped, he could hear low clicks and creaks permeating their surroundings. More than that, he could feel something reverberating through his chest, like the deep bass notes of the organ at church; felt, rather than heard. Was it an animal, or the trees themselves?
Atkins pushed on warily through groves of scab trees. Chandar kept pace with him, looking around with quick bird-like movements. It was impossible to read any expression on its chitinous white facial plate, but its chitterings had become more profuse. As the resonant note continued, he became aware of a rising nausea and, while he didn’t feel sick enough to vomit, he was left feeling distinctly queasy. If the noise bothered the chatt, it was hard to tell.
“So, you really think this dulgur is this Croatoan, that’s taking the urmen?” he asked, as they searched for logs big enough to suit the tank crews’ purpose.
The chatt regarded him for some moments before replying. “It is a possibility,” it said. “You urmen and Croatoan are inextricably linked in the lore of the Ones.”
Atkins resented the remark. “Look, don’t try and tar us with the same brush. We’re not urmen. We’re nothing like them. We don’t even come from here. We don’t belong here.”
“No,” agreed Chandar. “You migrate from burri to burri scavenging off the land granted by GarSuleth to the Ones.”
Atkins shook his head in disagreement. “No, really. You don’t understand. We’re not like them. We’re not urmen at all. We come from somewhere else.”
Atkins pushed his bayonet into some coiled plants.
Chandar’s middle limbs opened. “But where else is there?”
Atkins wheeled on him, annoyed by the chatt’s questions. He leant in towards its face. “Up there!” he said, pointing at the sky through the forest canopy. “We came from up there. From the stars!”
The chatt craned its head for a moment, looking up at the firmament above it. Then looked at him. It stepped back on its chitinous legs, as a man might, staggered by the news. “That is the sky web of GarSuleth,” it hissed, rising up on its legs in the threatening manner of the chatts and striking a defensive pose. “It is not possible. It is heresy.”
Atkins was unprepared for the strength of Chandar’s reaction. His goaded, off the cuff remark seemed to have struck a nerve at the very heart of its beliefs. He brought his bayonet into the guard position, ready to run the chatt through should it attack.
He had no further time to ponder the consequences of his remark as, from out of the scabrous boughs with their scaly leaves, half a dozen hissing arthropods leapt down around them, while others in red silken robes stepped from hiding, their mandibles open, spraying an atomised mist into the air about them.
CHAPTER TEN
ATKINS GOT A shot off with his rifle as he sank down to the ground. Holding his breath, he struggled for the gas hood in the bag at his chest. When the atomised mist didn’t burn, he knew it wasn’t acid. It was the mild euphoric spray that chatts used for control, which didn’t make it any less dangerous.
One of the chatt scentirrii stepped towards him, a hiss rippling its mouth parts, and swung its staff at him. He blocked it with the butt of his rifle and countered by lunging forwards with the bayonet, but as he did so, another chatt drove the end of its staff into his solar plexus, winding him. Involuntarily he gasped for air, realising too late what he’d done.
However, once he’d caught his breath, Atkins felt relieved. He relaxed and looked up at the creatures. There were nine of them. They looked like Khungarrii. From the knobs of bone on their facial plate and the dark iridescent chitinous armour, they were obviously scentirrii; so, a war party, then.
But then, what were those other ones doing there, tall and regal ivory white with a featureless facial plate, and the metal bands around their heads, the ones that had breathed on him? The burden of worries that he had carried with him lifted. Still cradling his bruised stomach, he sat back on his haunches and looked up at the creatures that surrounded him and Chandar. He smiled at them. He felt quite content to let them take over the situation. Whatever they wanted, that was fine by him.
They urged him to his feet with clicks and hisses and he obliged, not wishing to put his hosts out. The regal ones with the silken cloaks seemed to be having some sort of angry exchange with Chandar. He turned to scold Chandar for being rude towards the tall ones. After all, weren’t they Chandar’s people? He didn’t exactly like them, but he was no longer afraid of them. In fact, for the first time in a long time he felt happy. As they ushered him along, he was able to look at the trees and plants around him and appreciate them for possibly the first time, without expecting something to leap out and kill him. It reminded him of his gun. He checked his shoulder. It wasn’t there. Never mind. He didn’t need his gun anymore anyway. They would protect him.
IN THE END, Alfie and the others found a fallen log large enough for the job and laid it into place just under the front track horns. Mathers stood watching, still wearing his splash mask. Alfie saw him slip an arm under his rain cape and clutch his stomach.
“Are you all right, sir?” he asked.
“Of course! Mind your own damned business,” snapped the Lieutenant. “Just do your job and get the tank unditched. Hurry up.” He turned away from the crew and thumped his free fist against the side of the hull.
Wally and Frank hauled clanking lengths of chains out from under the gangway floor boarding. They wound them round the log and, struggling with spanners and bolts, attached the chain to track plates. When the tank started forwards again, the log would be dragged under the tank by the movement of the tracks, lifting the tank’s belly free of the obstruction. At least, that was the idea.