The Rats, the Bats & the Ugly

by Eric Flint

  Ariel had discovered that there was a huge difference—if you were a rat, anyway—to traversing a city by car, with a human who knew where they were going, and walking it. The paratrooper's base was somewhere outside town to the northeast of the city. And the court had been somewhere to the southeast.

  There was an awful lot in between. If Ariel had been a crow, not a rat, it would have been about sixteen miles.

  As a rat, it was much farther. There had even been a stupid cat or two on the way. Ariel had found that when she shouted at most dogs, they tended to become very confused. Cats usually needed to be bitten. And they were fast. But she'd noticed that in the middle of town they tended to steer around her.

  The only problem she'd had, besides a need to forage and cross streets, was that when she'd gotten to the far side of town . . . she'd realized that she was in suburbia, a long way to the west of where she wanted to be. This was Shareholder suburbia—which seemed to mean pretentious houses, smallish yards and an awful lot of dogs. There were Vat tenements just further west, and maybe that explained the dogs.

  It was a choice of crossing a wilderness of roads and gardens—or heading back into downtown, and going back to where she thought she'd gone wrong. Night was falling, and that should make keeping out of sight easier. And the sooner she got walking . . .

  But it was an awfully long way and her paws were soft from being human-carried so much. She snuffled a bit. After all, there was no one around to see her missing Fitz.

  "Misery me, lacadaydee. What have we here?" asked a voice from the shadow of some dustbins.

  Instinctively, Ariel dropped into a crouch, and prepared herself to either attack or flee.

  A noble ratly nose poked itself out of the heavy darkness. "Now, lass. There is no need to be so affrighted. It's not trouble I intended . . . Oh."

  He'd plainly caught sight of her amputated stump of tail. For a rat that was a severe lack of physical attractiveness.

  She, on the other hand, had identified him. "Gobbo! You cozening rogue! What are you doing here?"

  "Ariel?" he asked incredulously.

  " 'Tis none other, Gobbo." She bowed. Gobbo had been a rat in her section during Fitz's front-line stint. He'd been one of the rats in the "glorious rearguard," who had held off the Magh' when Divisional headquarters had refused to provide reinforcements. He was a drunkard, a thief and a lecher: in other words, as good a rat as you could find. "So: you answer my question. What are you doing here?"

  "A little banditry," he said cheerfully. "A spot of conveying. Some drinking and wenching when we get the opportunity. 'Tis rich pickings on soft country."

  "How long have you been here? Fitz tried to find you when he got out of hospital."

  Gobbo nodded. "Indeed. We came to look for him. But as hayseed lads we got lost. And then, well, the living was good here in the city. We found that we hath no desire to go back to being soldiers. So: hath swapped soldieree for burglaree. 'Tis more rewarding."

  "We? How many of you are there?"

  "Well, some ten. In a manner of speaking."

  "In what manner of speaking?" asked Ariel, suspiciously.

  "Well, some of them are called Pooh-Bah," admitted Gobbo.

  Ariel understood, then. Pooh-Bah was several people. Eight, if she remembered rightly. They all just happened to live in the same ratty soft-cyber, and, usually, worked together for profit.

  "So. Where is Pooh-Bah? And who is the other one of your little band."

  "Ol' Bluefur-bigteeth. Come and see him," said Gobbo, proprietarily. "We have prog, and not just that fishy stuff Ol' Bluefur-bigteeth eats, and fine grog."

  The thought of food—and of course drink—were tempting to any rat. But Fitz came first. "Methinks I'd love to. But I need to get to the paratrooper's camp. 'Tis a weary walk."

  Gobbo stared at her with his mouth open. "Walk!" He shook his head incredulously. "Hath not heard of busses?"

  "And how would a kiss help me, Gobbo?"

  "Nay, not proper busses," explained Gobbo. "Omnibuses. Vehicles for the transporting of Vat-labor. The number eighty-nine doth head out that way, if I have the right of it. In which case you've just missed it. There'll be another along in an hour from the Malham Street depot."

  It was Ariel's turn to look at the streetwise rat in openmouthed amazement. "Doth catch this 'bus' to wherever you want to go?"

  Gobbo nodded. " 'Tis a situation much to be desired. We city rats do not walk. Come, you can meet Ol' Bluefur-bigteeth, see the crowd that is Pooh-Bah, and find some victuals and a mouthful or two of as fine a sack as you've yet tasted. Then I shall set you upon the next 'bus with my own paws."

  It was too good an offer to be refused.

  * * *

  Ol' Bluefur-bigteeth was indeed worth seeing. He would have been worth seeing even if she had not seen him before in the captured scorpiary.

  All of Pooh-Bah was delighted to see her. "Methinks you are what we chiefly need." In a slightly shifted tone of voice he said: "And all of us are agreed. There are other rats in town. Bluefur wants to organize them."

  Ariel had ideas of her own on that. She could use a squad of rats to rescue Fitz. Especially if he didn't want to be rescued. She'd been at a loss as to how to carry him, before meeting Gobbo and Pooh-Bah. "Methinks it hath merit. But why? And how many?"

  " 'Tis thought twenty to fifty or so," answered Gobbo. "And Bluefur doth not say. No doubt he has his reasons. He is a capital rogue, even if he doth eat only fishy stuff."

  "Tell you what. You take me to the 1st HAR Airborne and we have a deal. Needs must I should talk to a human there."

  "Not about Ol' Bluefur-bigteeth?"

  "Nay. Fitz. He is in durance vile and I must spring him."

  "The captain! He is still here?" asked Gobbo eagerly.

  "Aye. But a Major now. Or was. Methinks they have made him a private again."

  * * *

  So Ariel had eight escorts on her trip in the spare tire of the number 89 bus. It was not everyone who had a First Lord of the Treasury, Lord Chief Justice, Commander in Chief, Great Scientist, Master of the Buckhounds, Groom of the Backstairs and the Lord Mayor to accompany them. It was a good thing that they conveniently occupied one body or they would have had to travel on the roof, which was a great deal more breezy.

  * * *

  Van Klomp was fortunately still at his desk. "Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. "Fitzy has been worried stiff about you."

  She leapt up onto his desk, knowing that Pooh-Bah was listening in. "Where is the strong drink then?"

  Van Klomp raised his eyebrows. "You don't care much, do you?" he said irritably. "He's in jail, due to be hanged, and all he's doing is worrying about you."

  She reached out and tweaked his nose. "Doth know where a suburb called Highbury is?"

  He blinked. "Yes. It's a fair distance away."

  "And doth know where the building used for the military court is?"

  "Naturally. I seem to spend too much of my time there. It's a good three-quarter hour's drive each way, too," answered Van Klomp.

  "Hath ever thought how far it is for a rat on foot . . . via Highbury?" asked Ariel.

  Van Klomp had the grace to look discomforted, and got up and fetched a beer. "Uh. Well, have some beer. I've only got beer here. I hadn't thought of that. Why Highbury?"

  "I got lost. I've never had to find my way on foot before. And beer doth go straight through me," she said grumpily, tilting the bottle and sneezing froth.

  "Fitzy asked me to look after you. So you'll have transport again."

  "Doth not need it anymore. But I do need to talk with Meilin." Meilin was Van Klomp's chief factotum and general bottlewasher. She was also a particular friend of Ariel's, and figured in Ariel's ratty plans for organizing the rats and freeing Fitz. "And then I could use a lift back to the Siradolalis Center."

  "But that's in the middle of town!" protested Van Klomp. "Meilin can take care of you at my apartment."

  "I am going to s
tay in the middle of town. And if they try to kill Fitzy, I will deal with it," said Ariel fiercely. "And the less that you know about it the better. Now take me to see Meilin. We will need a hedge."

  "Hedge?"

  "Ach. I mean fence."

  Chapter 19

  The largest office in Military HQ. No Horsey Prints.

  18th century Naval engagements instead.

  Army Jails Hero for not being Dead!

  In a stunning example of military bungling, the Army jailed Private Charles Connolly for desertion.

  Connolly, whom Lieutenant Colonel Van Klomp of the 1st HAR Airborne said "should be considered for as many medals as he can wear and still stand up under the weight," was listed as dead when a Magh' advance overran his position. Buried alive in a cave-in, Connolly survived, dug himself out and fought courageously on behind enemy lines. Battling million-to-one odds with a group of loyal Military Animals, he succeeded in rescuing the daughter of our late Chairman, Virginia Shaw. Against all probability and with suicidal courage he and his companions then managed to destroy the force-field generator, allowing our heroic 5th Infantry Brigade to make their dramatic advance in Sector Delta 355.

  Private Connolly, described by Virginia Shaw in her interview on her release as "the finest soldier," was liberated during Major Fitzhugh's successful push forward. However, when he returned to his base, Colonel G. Brown, CO of Camp Marmian, promptly had Connolly arrested for desertion because the record listed him as "died in action."

  When questioned later by reporters, Colonel Brown placed the blame on the camp's clerk, whom he said would be severely punished. Connolly spent eight days in the cells awaiting trial, before being completely acquitted.

  * * *

  General Blutin put the newspaper down and sighed. Another article on the front page had been about Conrad Fitzhugh. The editorial had been by a military history buff. The army—more precisely, the high command—was now being shredded almost daily in the papers, on radio and on television screens. The media, having slavishly quoted the military press releases for the past year and a half, had suddenly discovered the army brass could be wrong. They were still one hundred percent behind the men and women on the front lines. It was just the crenalated Military HQ that was becoming the place everyone loved to hate.

  He'd liked being a general, back in the peaceful prewar days. There had been just three enlisted men for each officer, and, other than a liking for spit-'n-polish, there had been no vast military demands made on the army. At first, the huge increase in power and influence that had come with the Magh' invasion had been heady, if frightening. The Korozhet advisors had helped them to cope with the unknown, and Lieutenant General Cartup-Kreutzler had expanded like a peony to take control of the now burgeoning army.

  Blutin had been content to let him. Cartup-Kreutzler had always intimidated him, to tell the truth. The booming, powerful personality of his subordinate was stronger than his own.

  Too late, he was beginning to wish that he had reined the man in. Or that he'd listened to that terrifying half-Halloween-mask-faced intelligence officer, Fitzhugh. Blutin hadn't liked the man. Disliked him intensely, in fact. But at least the intelligence major had made the army look good for a change. It was only since that Delta 355 victory—and the idiotic subsequent arrest of Fitzhugh—that media attention had suddenly focused on the way the army was run by the General Staff, almost as if they were waking up to the idea that it could be done differently. For the first time, the media had cameramen right up there on the front. The people of Harmony and Reason were getting the war right in their living rooms. And they wanted to know why it couldn't be like old DVDs. At the moment they seemed ready to blame the General Staff for losing . . . now that they'd seen that they could win.

  And then had come Fitzhugh's trial: General Cartup-Kreutzler had assured him it would all be over and forgotten in a day. "Best done quickly," he'd said.

  Only it hadn't worked like that at all. The media were calling it a kangaroo court. There were daily demands for a retrial. There were scathing editorials. More and more evidence was emerging about Fitzhugh's role. And none of it made the high command look good.

  General Blutin wasn't enjoying suddenly becoming a social outcast. The vendetta that Cartup-Kreutzler and his brother-in-law Talbot had pursued against Fitzhugh had certainly not worked out the way that they'd planned. This latest story about some blasted private—as if the army couldn't make an innocent error about one stupid Vat!—just made things worse.

  He needed to do something about it. Blutin scratched his jowls. There, as that unpleasantly smart-tongued Sanjay Devi would say, was the rub. Other than in a rage, he really wasn't up to taking on Cartup-Kreutzler. Not head on, at least, nor at office politics. Cartup-Kreutzler had filled the ornate, crenelated military magnificence of HQ with his sycophants and allies.

  Blutin sighed, reached for the telephone on his acreage of gleaming desk, and picked it up. "Miss Burgess. Get me the Judge Advocate General. And when I've done with him, the Surgeon General." They were both what General Cartup-Kreutzler referred scathingly to as "Johnny-come-latelies." Not the "old army" that he and Blutin knew and trusted. General Blutin was not keen to ask them for help. But the alternative was far worse. He might actually have to do something himself.

  * * *

  The two major generals seldom came into the huge Military Headquarters building. They had offices of their own, and seemed to prefer their less grandiose settings. General Blutin had always felt that rather strange in an officer; but then, as General Cartup-Kreutzler had disparagingly said, they weren't "proper officers." Well, right now that was perhaps what he needed.

  General DiMillio, the Surgeon General, looked at the thick fitted carpet. "You do yourselves awfully well over here at HQ," he drawled.

  Blutin started to draw breath for a furious retort, and then remembered that he was seeking allies. "The job's got its perks, but"—he pointed to the pile of newspaper clippings he'd assembled—"it's got its problems too. I asked you to come here today to discuss them. I need your help, gentlemen."

  The Judge Advocate General, General John Needford, was a tall, ominously silent and very black man. He made General Blutin sweat and feel aware of just how tight his tailored uniform had become. Needford didn't say anything, just walked over to the desk and looked at the clippings.

  The doctor snapped first. "I'm a busy man, General Blutin. Tell us what this is about so that I can say 'no,' and I can get back to my work."

  General Blutin sucked his teeth. "Well. It's about this affair with Major Fitzhugh . . ."

  The Judge Advocate General narrowed his eyes. "You do realize that attempting to influence the course of justice could invalidate the whole case, General Blutin. Anyway, I'll have no part in railroading this man. I said as much to General Cartup-Kreutzler. This retrial is something I intend to see is as fair and legal as possible."

  "And I'll stand by the steps my medical personnel took. Fitzhugh shouldn't be in jail."

  "Good! Good! Then we agree on this!" Blutin said with relief, sitting down.

  The two generals stared at him.

  "You mean . . . that's what you wanted us for?" asked the Surgeon General suspiciously. "You want us to support this Fitzhugh?"

  "Well," said General Blutin, uneasily, "not support in so many words, but . . ." He rushed his fences. "Look, Cartup-Kreutzler is all set for a personal vendetta on this man. I . . . I think it would be better if we . . . er . . . let sleeping dogs lie. Got out of it as quietly as possible. The man is very popular. I don't want to cause any further trouble, but, well, General Cartup-Kreutzler and his brother-in-law are set on it."

  The Surgeon General blinked at him. "Then why don't you tell him to back off?"

  "Er. He doesn't listen to me very well," said General Blutin, hoping that he didn't sound as feeble as he felt.

  The Judge Advocate General raised his head and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Ah. Now I understand. You want us—Nick and I
—to organize a palace coup."

  "Well, I, er . . . wouldn't have put it that way myself. But, well, they seem to be being very foolish about this. And . . . um . . ."

  The Surgeon General began to laugh, softly. "If even you can see that, General, what do you think that the rest of the world thinks of it? I came here ready to fight. I didn't think I'd come here to rescue you, General. But it sounds like you need it."

  Even you indeed. That stung. But before he allowed it to goad him, the Judge Advocate General spoke again. "Well, I don't think it's a laughing matter. But seriously, General Blutin, just what do you think we can do? The command structure at the top end is solid with General Cartup-Kreutzler's loyalists. And the army is not exactly designed to be a democracy anyway."

  There was an uncomfortable silence. General Blutin realized that they were actually waiting for an answer. An answer he didn't really have. "Well," he said awkwardly, "this Fitzhugh affair. We seem agreed that, well, General Cartup-Kreutzler is damaging the image of the General Staff with his public pursuit of it. Can't it be dropped? Tossed out?"

  The Judge Advocate General shook his head. "No. And I would not be prepared to collude in any such process. The best we can do is to see that he gets a reasonably fair trial this time around. I've looked at the charges. Some of them won't stand. I suspect that if General Cartup-Kreutzler had stayed with a few basic charges, they'd have stuck like glue. But someone has gotten quite imaginative with these charges. There were shenanigans in that first trial. I've put Ogata onto it and he'll root it out. This time I can recommend a good defense team, and a good military judge. But when it comes to prosecution, well, that's a mixed bag." He smiled wryly. "My officers are all ex-civilian professionals. Not all lawyers enjoy a good reputation."

  "Do any?" asked the medical man, returning the wry smile. "I've been thinking, General. Your problem is essentially not that Cartup-Kreutzler directly disobeys you, is it? He—and his staff—just find ways of not quite doing what you wanted."

  General Blutin nodded, gloomily. "I've tried to assume the reins in the last while. It's been hopeless. There is always a reason why things have not been done. And things are always going to happen. They just never do. Everything gets referred back to Cartup-Kreutzler."