The Black Tattoo (48 page)

"Sorry," said Jack.
 
"You've lost me."

"But it's simple, sir!" squeaked the Chinj exasperatedly.
 
"Think about it:
 
think about us and what we actually do.
 
We carry essential nutrients to the various parts of the demon population.
 
We feed the body politic!
 
In essence, there's no difference between Chinj and your blood cells — it's simply a matter of scale."

Jack gave this his best shot — and failed.

"No, I'm not getting this at all," he said.
 
"How come you're awake and the Dragon isn't?
 
How come, if you're part of the Dragon, it was okay for you to leave and come to Earth to get me?"
 
And how come I'm even
asking
questions like this?
 
he added, though not aloud.

"I told you," the Chinj replied.
 
"If you'd stayed away, I'd just have to come back here every day.
 
And to answer your other question:
 
well, your body keeps going when you're asleep, doesn’t it?"

"Yeah, but—"

"You remain alive even when you're not awake, don't you?"

"It's not the same thing.
 
We're talking about being asleep since
time began
."

"That's true," said the Chinj, "but the Great Depositories — the stores of eternal nourishment to which all Chinj must return to replenish themselves — are bigger than you can possibly imagine.
 
They're a long way off running out yet.
 
Perhaps," it added, with a mischievous nudge of one leathery elbow, "one day, if we survive this, I may even show them to you.
 
But there, now:
 
I'm talking about secrets that even demons do not know."

"Really?" asked Jack, frowning.
 
"The demons don’t even know this stuff?"

"Of course not," said the Chinj, shocked.
 
"Why, none but the Chinj may know the secrets of the gruel.
 
In fact," it went on, its small furry face taking on an unmistakably guilty expression, "strictly speaking, it's only the Chinj themselves who are allowed to enter these tunnels.
 
On pain of death, actually."

Jack gave the Chinj another long look.

"Well, I'm sure it won't happen in this case," said the Chinj, a little too enthusiastically for Jack's liking.
 
"I mean, these are rather particular circumstances, don't you think?"

"Hmmm," said Jack.
 
"Who's in charge down here?"

"The Grand Cabal," said the Chinj loftily.
 
"The Parliament" — it paused — "of the Chinj."

"Oh!" said Jack.
 
"Just you Chinj, then."

"Naturally."

Jack let out a sigh.
 
"Phew.
 
That's all right, then.
 
I thought for a second you were telling me we were in trouble here."

The Chinj flared its tiny nostrils and shot Jack a look of surprising venom.

"Do
not
," it said, "underestimate the power of the Grand Cabal.
 
We Chinj have guarded our secrets for longer than you could ever understand.
 
Why do you think the demons are afraid to come down here?
 
Because only a fool would risk the wrath of the Parliament of Chinj."

"Sure," said Jack distractedly.
 
"Right."

He was concentrating on the floor.
 
The passage was now so steep that he was finding it hard to keep his footing — and the Sons were having the same problem.
 
He looked ahead, just in time to see Number 2—

"Gah!"

—slip, and bring the full weight of the pack down with him as he fell.
 
Wham!

"I'm all right!" he said, flinging off the helping hands of Number 3.
 
He shuffled around to face Jack and the Chinj; Jack struggled to wipe the smile off his face in time, but he wasn't quite fast enough.

"Mind telling me how much more of this stuff there is to deal with?" Number 2 growled.

"These passageways are not usually navigated on foot," the Chinj replied sniffily.

"Is it going to get much steeper?"

"Yes," said the Chinj.
 
"I'm afraid so."

"Terrific," said Number 2.
 
"So how do you suggest we continue?
 
Besides on our asses, I mean."

"That," said the Chinj, drawing itself up to its full height on Jack's shoulder, "is
your
problem."

For a long moment, the man and the Chinj looked at each other.

"Let's keep going," said Jack quietly.

"What did you say?" asked Number 2, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"I said, let's keep going.
 
We can't solve anything by standing about here."

"You know," said Number 2, "I think I've had just about enough of you.
 
You're not here to give orders.
 
In fact," he added, "why
are
you here?
 
I wish someone would tell me why we've got to have a
kid
along, because I'd really like to—"

"Jack is right," said Number 3, from up ahead.
 
He shrugged.
 
"Let's go."

For a second, Number 2 seemed so enraged that Jack thought his eyeballs were going to pop right out of his head.
 
This was no figure of speech:
 
Jack had seen it happen to someone once before, after all.
 
But when Number 2 had got himself and the pack turned back round again, all he said was, "All right,
 
Let's keep it moving.
 
But watch your step now."

They continued in silence down the passageway.

Now Jack found himself having to turn his feet sideways to stop himself from slipping completely:
 
the sides of his trainers seemed to bite a little way into the soft pink surface of the wall, giving him a precious bit of extra traction, but soon just trying to stay upright became a hard enough task, even without the effort to keep going.
 
The walls were close enough for him to support himself with his hands:
 
the passage was now so narrow that Jack could barely see past the struggling figure of Number 2 and his pack.

Jack was looking at the pack, still trying to guess what it might contain, when, suddenly, Number 2 lost his footing again.
 
His big boots slid out from under him.
 
The pack hit the floor, and in another second he was plunging down the tunnel.

Number 3 didn't stand a chance:
 
Number 2 scythed helplessly into him, then the pair of them vanished from sight.

Jack looked behind him at the two remaining Sons — Number 9 and Number 12.
 
Both were wearing identical horrified grimaces on their faces.

"Great!" said Number 12.
 
"Now what're we going to do?"

"We go after them," said Number 9.
 
"Obviously."

"Wait!" said Jack.
 
He turned to the Chinj.
 
"What's down there?
 
Is it safe?"

The Chinj shook his head.
 
"I—I couldn't say.
 
I've always flown this way before.
 
Perhaps the impact might—"

"Look, we've got to go after them!" Number 9 repeated.
 
"We've got to.
 
Right?"

"I think the landing should be soft enough," said the Chinj.
 
"I'm just worried that all this noise might—"

"Kay," said Number 9.
 
"Let's go."
 
He shoved past Jack.
 
He reached his hands out to either side of him and took as good a grip of the slippery pink walls as he could.
 
Then he swung himself once and set off.

Jack and Number 12 exchanged a look.
 
Sheepishly, the last Son squeezed past Jack, shrugged, sat down, and gingerly pushed himself off, following his comrades out of view almost instantly.

There was a pause.

"Humans," said the Chinj.
 
"So impetuous.
 
As bad as demons, really."

"I guess we're going to have to follow them," said Jack.

"I see no other option," the Chinj replied.
 
"They'll definitely get into trouble without us."

"Why?
 
What's down the end of this thing?"

"It's not what's down there," said the Chinj.
 
"It's what all their noise is going to bring.
 
Look," it added distractedly, frowning and gesturing with one wing.
 
"you'd better go."

Jack looked down the tunnel.

"Oh, Hell," he said, but he sat down.

"Piece of advice, sir," said the Chinj into his ear from behind him.
 
"There's a bit of a drop at the end.
 
My guess is that you'll minimize any injuries you sustain if you keep as relaxed as possible.
 
All right?"

"What?" said Jack.

But with a sudden leaping movement, the Chinj had knocked Jack's hand away from the wall.
 
Jack scrabbled to get his grip back, but already, inexorably, he had begun to slide.

"Good luck, sir!" Jack heard the Chinj call after him.
 
"And remember!
 
Do try to relax!"

Jack picked up speed quickly.
 
Once he'd forced himself to take his hands in from the sides and fold them in his lap, he began to go faster still.
 
The tunnel was now almost vertical:
 
the walls were accelerating to a smooth pink blur — and Jack found, to his surprise, that he was enjoying himself.

It was better than any water chute he'd ever been on.
 
Still the tunnel continued, an apparently endless tube of glistening fleshy red.
 
The only sound was the soft hissing from where his jeans and T-shirt were still making contact with the sides — and soon even that had faded away, because the chute was now so steep that he was barely touching them.
 
There was a long, drawn-out moment of absolute silence, a silence in which Jack had time to reflect that whatever was at the bottom of this thing had better be
unbelievably
soft, when, suddenly, without warning, the pink walls of the tunnel abruptly vanished, to be replaced by — nothing.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!
 
said his brain, not unreasonably.
 
Darkness and emptiness gaped around him.
 
The trickles and droplets of thin, clear slime that had eased his descent seemed to thicken in the air, drifting up past his face as he fell.
 
His arms began to paddle and flap.
 
He waited, plummeting for long, aching moments, and then—

WHUDGE!

He hit something.

There was a thrashing of darkness, warm and wet.
 
It streamed past every inch of Jack's body.
 
Gradually, he felt himself slow, then stop falling — and then, of course, he had another problem.
 
He couldn't breathe.
 
His chest was going tight and his ears were beginning to sing.
 
The thick, squidgy liquid seemed reluctant to let him through.
 
Jack struggled and kicked, struggled and kicked.
 
Then, suddenly, he caught a glimmer of light.
 
He flung himself upward.
 
Strong hands had grabbed him.
 
The dreadful slime burst over his head — and he was out.

He gasped, sucking in a great glob of gunge with his first breath, which made him start couging all the air out again.

"There," said Number 3's voice.
 
"Just breathe.. You
 
are safe."
 
Jack hacked and spluttered some more.
 
"Blimey!" he managed finally.
 
Then he fell silent, looking at Number 3's face, which loomed palely at him out of the surrounding darkness.
 
Jack saw the expression there change from concern to relief.
 
Number 3 was actually glad he was all right:
 
Jack found that oddly touching.

"Did, er..." he said, once he'd got himself together.
 
"Did everyone make it all right?"

"They are all 'ere," said Number 3, gesturing with his torch.

For a second Jack didn't recognize them, covered as they were in the same tarlike substance he could feel dripping from his own ears, hair, and everywhere else.
 
The other Sons were all taking a moment.
 
Number 2, who'd presumably had an especially difficult time, what with the pack, simly sat, breathing hard, with his oil-black legs sticking out in front of him.

The floor was strange.
 
It crackled and crunched like shingle when Jack moved.
 
He reached underneath himself and picked up a bit of it.
 
Whatever the object was, it was too big to be a pebble.
 
It felt hollow and delicate, and it was an odd shape:
 
his probing fingers suddenly slipped into two little holes in the thing, and Jack hurriedly shook the object off with a shudder he couldn't explain.

"Is anyone hurt?" he asked quickly.

Hearing him, Number 2 looked up and took a deep breath.

"Everyone okay?" he barked.
 
"Everyone still five-by-five?"

"I don't know about anyone else," said a voice in the darkness, "but — as far as I'm concerned?
 
This mission sucks."

"You shut your mouth, Number Nine," said Number 2.