Everson and the others crawled back to the camp and the waiting platoons, where they quickly mapped out the plan of attack. Everson noticed the Chatts avoided the dung ball pyramids of the dead and so, too, did the Urmen. If that was the case then they could use them as cover to get them in close to the Edifice. From there they could head for the midden heaps which would provide cover for their break-in.
“I suspect we have a window of opportunity now before the workers start returning to the edifice. I’ll lead the assault with 1 Section,” he said. “I doubt that we’d win an all out pitched assault. Stealth is the only option. We’ll have to bypass those entrances; they’ll be too heavily guarded. We’ll make our own way in. Dixon, see that the rest of the party take up defensive positions on the outskirt of the clearing. Baxter, your Vickers and Lewis MGs I want set up to provide a field of fire to cover our escape from the edifice. Mathers, hold your tank in reserve. We may need it. And if Hepton gives you any trouble, you have my permission to stick his camera so far up him he’ll be able to use himself as a darkroom. If we’re not out in six hours don’t waste time attacking. Get back to the entrenchment. You’ll have a better chance of survival there. It’s easier to defend.”
“If it’s still there,” muttered Ketch.
Blood glanced at him blackly.
“Hobson, Ketch. You and your men are with me. Poilus, you’re coming too.” Everson had no doubts. He knew the men could do this. He had every faith in them. After all, hadn’t Hobson himself told him they were the best Black Hand Gang he knew? He raised a hand and the entire section melted into the undergrowth.
“BLOODY HELL,” SAID Atkins when he got his first full view of the edifice. “It’s not quite what I was expecting.” The scale of it tied a knot in his stomach. How many Chatts lived in there? Thousands? Tens of thousands?
“What were you expecting?” asked Half Pint.
“I don’t know; exotic palaces, gleaming towers, metal roads, automatons, flying machines. Not this. Not earth. Not dirt. We can do that. We have done that. Look at the way we’re living, we’re still bloody doing it.”
“Well, then you should feel right at bloody home, then shouldn’t you, Atkins,” sneered Ketch as he crawled up beside him.
Atkins’ mouth was dry. He took a swig from his canteen. The thought of attacking the Khungarrii edifice made his balls shrivel. He’d done trench clearance and even been down the mines dug under No Man’s Land as a guard, neither of which could prepare him for invading a giant insect nest.
He and William had poked twigs into wood ant nests as boys. He remembered Flora squealing, equal parts delight and horror, urging them on. Emboldened by her, they squatted down on their haunches and thrust their sticks further in with more and more savagery, taking glee in watching the ants pour out frantically — just before the biting began as they swarmed over their clogs. William threw away his stick and danced around yelping and howling, much to Flora’s delight.
There were probably thousands of the revolting Chatts in there — and they’d do a damn sight more than just nip.
POILUS TAPPED EVERSON on the shoulder.
“We must move to keep down wind of the scentirrii.”
“Scentirrii?”
“Soldier Khungarrii, may Croatoan curse them!”
He hadn’t factored in the wind. He was getting slack. Even in the trenches, it was one of the main factors of a daily report. Gas attacks were dependant on wind strength and direction. Here, apparently, these considerations were just as important.
“You,” said Poilus to Atkins, thrusting a grey army blanket into his hands. “We will need to capture a Khungarrii to help us get into the edifice. As soon as I grab it you must throw the blanket over its head and wrap it tight, do you understand?”
No, he didn’t, but he knew when to follow an order. Atkins nodded.
They watched and waited as the parties of workers and Urmen disbanded across the clearing, each appointed their daily tasks. Chatt soldiers accompanied the groups who walked off into the forest. As the Chatts drew near they heard the harsh, clicking language for the first time.
“Bloody hell,” hissed Mercy. “They’re only talking flamin’ iddy-umpty. We should’ve brought a Signaller.”
Atkins noticed that the Urmen each had a mark on their foreheads, a blue rune of some description.
“Why don’t they make a break for it?” said Porgy.
“You’ve seen what’s out there. Where the hell would they go?” said Atkins.
“Better that than serving some chatting tyrant race of insects. Makes my blood boil, does that,” said Gutsy.
“Well maybe it just takes someone to show ’em eh? That’s why we’re here. Get our men back and just maybe teach these Urmen a thing or two about standing up to them bloody bug-eyed Bosche,” said Pot Shot.
One Chatt wandered too close, its curiosity piqued by some sign or spore. Poilus gave an almost imperceptible nod to Atkins, who gripped the edges of the blanket firmly and tensed his legs. The Chatt’s segmented antennae started twitching moments before Poilus leapt up from the undergrowth. He grabbed the creature from behind and Atkins tossed the blanket over its head, wrapping it round as Poilus sliced through its neck with a bayonet. The creature dropped with Poilus still on top of it. Atkins tensed, expecting a cry of alarm at the Chatt’s absence, but none came.
“They can raise the alarm by scent,” explained Poilus in a hushed tone as the men gathered around the kill. “It looks like we caught it in time though.” He carefully unwrapped the blanket from the creature’s head and handed it to Atkins. “Take it and bury it, carefully. We don’t want the scent getting caught on wind.”
Poilus then sliced his bayonet into the segmented abdomen of the dead Chatt, ripped down, pulled the wound open and exposed dark, swollen organs, sheathed in a slick wet cawl. This he tore from the body before easing his hand inside.
“Poilus, what the hell are you doing?” asked Everson.
“Looking for scent organ,” Poilus pulled his hand out, holding a soft translucent greenish-red bag that sagged over the end of his palm. “We need to smear ourselves with its contents. We need to smell like Khungarrii.”
“Oh Jesus!” groaned Porgy.
“He’s right,” said Pot Shot. “Many insects use scent as a primary sense. Those that don’t smell like them are attacked as enemies.”
“That’ll be you and the Worker’s Institute Library again, will it?” said Half Pint.
“What, you mean we cover ourselves with this stuff and we can just walk right in?” said Mercy.
“That seems about the size of it, Evans,” said Everson. “This may fool them but we don’t know for how long.”
Poilus tore a small hole in the organ, pushed his fingers in and brought them out, covered with a greenish grey slime that he proceeded to smear around his face and exposed skin. He passed the organ round. Everson took it, cleared his throat and dipped his fingers into the wet sac, smearing himself with the warm goo.
Once the men had anointed themselves with Khungarrii scent they set off around the edge of the clearing. Leaving the rest of the party in the capable hands of Sergeant Dixon, Everson, Poilus and 1 Section edged toward the pyramids of dead, each man hauling extra weapons and ammunition with which to arm the hostages while Mercy lugged a mysterious tarpaulin-covered object. From the cover of the shunned pyramids they then made their way, cautiously, to the midden piles and the Urman dwellings.
IT SEEMED THE dwellings slumped up against the side of the edifice were empty. There was no sign of any Urmen. Atkins knew if you scratched a living on this world, or any world for that matter, there was no time for idleness. It was obvious that the Chatts themselves never came here unless they had to, so it was an ideal place to make a discreet entrance. In the shadow of a huge midden: an accretion of dirt and gnawed animal bones, pottery shards, composting vegetation, dung, and rotting food, Gutsy and Pot Shot started work with a couple of pickaxes. Their points hammered into the hardened earth at the base of the edifice with very little initial effect, while the rest of the section kept watch nervously.