by Eric Flint
The doctor nodded thoughtfully. "But, if I am correct, the final appointment of new staff to the General Staff is signed by you?"
"Two signatures. Lieutenant General Cartup-Kreutzler's and mine."
The Attorney General shook his head. "Not according to the standing regulations. Any promotion to the level of staff officer must be recommended by an officer of the General Staff, and approved by you. Or by the elected head of the board of Shareholders. It certainly doesn't need Cartup-Kreutzler."
"Oh. It's just always been done like that," said General Blutin.
"Which naturally means it is right," said the Judge Advocate General sardonically. "Anyway, what's your idea, Nick? I think I know where you're going, but as I think your field of expertise is renal and colonic medicine, I want to make sure that hasn't influenced your judgment. Medical personnel are usually no use in legal matters. They usually try to 'help' the accused."
The doctor laughed. "We're a helping profession. And everything ends up with the kidneys or the colon, sooner or later. There's a glass ceiling in the army's General Staff. There is hardly anyone on it who hasn't had at least twenty years prewar service. If you want to change things, General, you will need to move a few new officers up. Officers with actual combat experience on the front lines. I think I can recommend a few. And they can recommend a few more. Even my grumpy legal colleague could probably recommend a few more, if he wanted to."
The Judge Advocate General scratched his chin. "I wish I had some spare staff. We're hopelessly understaffed. That's why we agreed to allow regimental court-martials, which in retrospect, was a big mistake. But I suppose we'll have to deal with this. So. Actually, what you need is an attempt to crush the medical, legal and indeed the Quartermaster General's little kingdoms."
The other two stared at him. "The Mongols tried it in China," he said by way of explanation.
That didn't clarify anything, thought General Blutin. However, he managed to keep quiet for long enough to let the Surgeon General be the one who said: "What?"
The Judge Advocate General gave a half-smile. "The study of history would benefit both of you. By putting officers from, if you pardon my saying so, the least efficient part of the army into those parts that run well, they'll either have to shape up or be shipped out by us. And that creates any number of vacancies here. People answerable to you, and not part of the power politics of this place, but also with a great deal of executive power."
His smile became grim. "And, it gives you a reason for having called us in here. You were trying to instruct us on the Fitzhugh case, but we were singularly recalcitrant. So now you want some reliable men from HQ transferred into our units. I should imagine General Cartup-Kreutzler will be so delighted that he'll forgive you for having a meeting with us without inviting him. And just send any new recommendations from him for new staff officers over to the JAG for background checks or a medical evaluation. I think we can guarantee that they'll take a long time. We'll come up with a few recommendations, in reply to that general memo to all departments that you are going to issue. Those, I think, will proceed swiftly."
* * *
In another part of the same building, Major Tana Gainor shook her head calmly at the furious brothers-in-law. "No, General. There is nothing I can do about that. He will go for retrial. And I'm not about to return your money, Talbot. I did what I was paid to do. In fact, if you want me to do it again—and you will need me to—it is going to cost you more."
Talbot Cartup snorted angrily. "Don't forget that I've got you pinned."
Tana smiled seraphically. "And, needless to say, if I go down, or have an unforeseen accident—so do you. So let's forget the histrionics and get down to business details, gentlemen. The law is always for sale, to the highest bidder."
* * *
"No," Needford said firmly into the telephone, tilting the chair back from the desk in his office. "There's not a chance of that, Len."
After listening to the response, the Judge Advocate General shook his head. "That may be the lamest insult I've ever gotten from you. Stick to physics, Dr. Liepsich. There is not a cold chance in hell that Cartup and his crowd will suddenly be seized by intelligence. I can guarantee you that at this very minute they are digging themselves deeper into the pit."
He waited a few more seconds. "And that one was even lamer. Look, Len, they won't be able to resist. Not with the shiny new shovel I just handed to them."
Chapter 20
Under the rooftops, with the rafterlines hung
with a black mass of bats.
Bats hung and chittered. Bronstein found it wonderful to have so many others all around again, like some huge, enveloping cloak. Bats were just not designed to be solitary creatures. Even with three of them, Bronstein had always felt exposed. Now, in the warm, crowded hangings of the belfry, she felt security in the togetherness of it all. And yet—she felt even more alone, because of what the three of them had seen and had to prove to batdom. It was time to put aside the petty bickering of the myriad factions and unite against the true foe. Could the bats do that? And where did they start?
A bat leaned his head towards her and spoke confidentially, with the gossip's delighted tone of scandal. "You know what I've heard from a friend of mine who was actually part of the attack on that scorpiary? She said there was a dead Korozhet there."
The whole idea sent a frisson of horror through Bronstein's neurons. A horror that she knew was artificial, but nonetheless left her uncomfortable. But she had to start somewhere. "We call them Crotchets. Yes. I saw it, too."
"Crotchets? Surely that's not after being respectful?" asked the other bat doubtfully.
"Indade. Who said bats had to be respectful to Crotchets? We have respect for our elected leaders, our bats, not some Crotchet." It was mere semantics, she knew. But the software in the chip had no programming for alternate names. The K . . . Crotchet language was quite unlike English, she now knew. Each word only had one meaning.
The bat wrinkled her forehead. "I must admit that it is right that you are. I have no feeling of natural respectfulness for a Crotchet. Nasty things, actually."
" 'Tis not right that respect should be imposed. It must be earned," said Bronstein. It was an idea that would ring a chord with any bat.
The bat nodded. "Did this . . . Crotchet die in the course o' furthering our struggle against the oppressors?"
"The Crotchet was a traitor. Death was too good for him," snarled Bronstein.
Another bat fluttered up and squeezed into the chittering huddle. Bats will always squeeze up to someone. They'll usually complain about it. This one whispered in Bronstein's ear. "Easter uprising."
Bronstein fluttered off to report to the Provisional Revolutionary Army Council of the Battacus League. She caught a glimpse of Eamon, going the other way. Doubtless off to a meeting of the Battybund Liberation Army. He was quite high in the Battybund, she'd been told. Given the way bats thought, his password had probably also been "Easter Uprising."
She had a few new ideas to put forward. About a bank, for starters—and not a bloodbank, either.
* * *
Later that evening when the conspirators had had a great conspire, and Michaela Bronstein had fed a number of new ideas into her faction, she realized it wouldn't all be plain sailing.
"I take your point, Bronstein, that the Vats too labor under enslavement. And it would be right comradely to lend our aid in freeing them. But a bank? It's very bourgeoisie for a revolutionary movement. And would they not be after calling us bloodsuckers?"
"And does banking not require capital?" demanded another dubiously.
This was something that had worried Bronstein, too. But she hadn't realized just how serious it could be. Before she could speak, this thoughtful conspirator continued, "Would that not make us . . . Capitalists?" She shuddered at the thought.
* * *
On the more positive side, Bronstein was not in the least surprised to have the rumor she'd started herself repeat
ed to her by three different bats. It had become slightly garbled, but basically the K . . . unthinkable, had been taken over by evil aliens called "Crotchets" that looked just like the good Korozhet. The evil aliens were in league with the entrenched exploiters, apparently. Now there was a surprise.
Chapter 21
INB head office, a rather run-down and
light-industrial part of GBS City.
Chip was intensely grateful that Nym wasn't with him. Chip's first experience of a sports car, albeit what the reporter referred to disparagingly as a "kit-car," was a delicious shock. He'd only been on a Vat omnibus, or a troop-transport truck, or in the sealed-and-not-meant-to-carry-passengers back of Chez Henri-Pierre's van before. Oh, and at the wheel of the vineyard tractor that had taken them nearly all the way to the brood-heart.
Chip hoped that this vehicle differed from that one in two important respects. Firstly, that it had brakes. Secondly, that it had a qualified driver.
He was sure Nym wouldn't have noticed the comfortable seats. He was certain Nym would have sworn that the racing shift and small walnut steering wheel meant it was built for him to drive. They sped away from the court.
"Phew!" exclaimed the reporter. "I thought someone would hook onto what I was getting away with. But they're all too busy mobbing Van Klomp. He's the flavor of the moment with HBC, although I hear there is some general at headquarters ready to murder him. No one has managed to get their hands on Fitzhugh yet, so Van Klomp is the best, so far."
All of this was as confusing as fog to Chip. He knew, by now, that Fitzhugh was the intelligence major who had orchestrated the army's move into the scorpiary. Fitzhugh had apparently seen the explosions that Chip and his motley crew had created on satellite images. He'd put two and two together, and taken things into his own hands to take advantage of the situation. It was just as well he had, Chip supposed, or they'd have had to fight their way out again. "It's a beautiful car," he said.
"She is a beaut, isn't she?" said the owner proudly. "Even if she's just a kit-car crib, the engine gives me 470 kilowatts at 5200 rpm. She's a twelve-cylinder twin turbo."
"Er. Fascinating."
The driver grinned and looked at his passenger. Chip restrained himself from telling the guy to watch the road. After all, he'd once gotten the tractor to nearly thirty miles an hour, on a steep downhill. This guy could presumably drive. "Doesn't mean much to you, does it?"
"Er. No. But I know a rat who would commit mayhem to listen to you, and kill to drive this thing."
"A rat!" exclaimed Fuentes. "Drive? Those critters can't handle mechanical stuff, can they? Anyway, they're far too small."
Chip found himself a bit stung on the rat's behalf. "Well, technically speaking, Nym did drive the tractor. And he adores mechanical things. He figures that he loves them, and would do anything for them, so they must love him and be prepared to do anything for him."
"You make this animal sound as if he were almost human," said the driver with amusement. "Drove a tractor! The mind boggles."
"Mister," said Chip, his hackles beginning to rise. Shareholder arrogance! "You've got to get one thing straight. As far as I'm concerned the rats and bats aren't animals. Not if you mean 'animals' like a side of pork. A side of pork doesn't think and reason and . . . and talk. I bet you've never spent ten minutes talking to your pork chop. Try it with a rat or a bat. They're . . . they're just like people."
The reporter grinned. "I did an interview with a lady you'd get on well with. The colony's Chief Scientist. Real little old battleaxe. She said we'd created two new intelligent species, and we'd have to make space in our society for them. It was on a late night nature slot. She kept quoting Shakespeare at me."
"So do the rats," said Chip.
"Might make a story," said the reporter, thoughtfully.
Chip began to realize that this man saw the whole world as simply a place for news stories.
* * *
The first stars were out when they turned into a parking lot at a small, rather dingy downtown building. By that time of night, this part of town—mostly offices and light industry—was almost deserted except for the building's parking lot, which was close to being full.
"Welcome to Independent News Broadcasting," said Fuentes grandiosely. He smiled wryly. "Bit of a dump, really. The area is going downhill fast. We've had to put a fence and guard on the car-park, because the cars were getting trashed at night."
They drove up to the boom. "That's odd. He's supposed to be on the gate. Do you mind opening the boom for me?
Chip got out, and walked over to the boom. As he got there, he tripped over someone in the dark.
The guard was still breathing, at least. Well, he groaned.
War-honed reflexes cut in. Chip looked for foes. And found two. Like all infantrymen, Chip had IR sensitive implanted lenses. The men lurking in the deeper darkness between the vehicles were less invisible than they'd hoped to be.
"Mister Fuentes," said Chip evenly, not taking his eyes off the lurkers. "Drive off and use that phone to call the cops. Do it!"
The reporter was unfortunately not a veteran. He said "What?" and then "Why?"
"Go! Call the cops," snapped Chip.
Fuentes reacted at last. He stalled the car. One of the two shadows stood up with a gun in his hand. "Don't think of starting it again," he said. "Just keep dead quiet and get out slowly." Behind him, the second man also stood up. He only had a pry bar in his hand.
"Help!" yelled the reporter.
Things happened very fast then. There was a shot and the shattering of glass. Chip was already moving. Briefly. His slowshield froze for an instant, absorbing the bullet impact. A door and several windows were flung open. The two men were now running straight towards Chip.
Chip Connolly didn't think, he just reacted. If you lived through your first week in the trenches you had to react fast. The man with the pry bar had overtaken his companion. He swung, viciously. Only Chip wasn't there. All that was in the way was Chip's Solingen, returned by Sergeant Ngui. You weren't supposed to take side arms with you on pass—but Chip hadn't gone back to Camp after Ngui had returned it to him. This knife wasn't the trash they issued as a trench-knife to the infantry. It was stolen from Chip's old place of employment, the Chez Henri-Pierre. It was a monomolecular-edged chef's knife, a piece of late twenty-first-century engineering from old Earth. Nothing produced on Harmony and Reason came anywhere near.
It was a very, very, very sharp knife, in the hands of a combat veteran who had formerly been a sous-chef. Not a combination to argue with, as the now screaming attacker found out the hard way. The pry bar fell as he clutched an arm slashed to the bone from hand to shoulder.
Leave a Maggot-warrior alive, and you are dead. The scorps took no prisoners. Chip moved in for the kill, without any conscious thought.
Fortunately, his victim wasn't a Magh'. The aliens didn't know what "run away" meant. This man did. He fled like an antelope, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"You bastard!" yelled his companion, taking a pistol marksman's stance and firing again.
The slowshield had been one of the two main "gifts" from the Korozhet, along with the soft-cyber implant. It had changed war from mass, long-range combat, to hand-to-hand fighting, which Magh' mostly did better than people. The slowshield Chip wore was standard issue to all troops. It was implanted just above the breastbone, and powered in the "reception state" by the wearer's own bioelectric field. It hardened, using the kinetic energy of any object coming into the passive exclusion zone that was moving faster than 22.8 miles per hour.
That included bullets. A bullet is a low-mass, high-velocity item. It doesn't activate a slowshield for long. Not long enough for the horrified shooter to realize that he ought to give up trying to reload, and run, too.
Long enough for Chip to stop operating on automatic and think, which undoubtedly saved the gunman's life. It would have been awkward for Chip if the fellow hadn't been so terrified, as Chip had absolutely n
o idea how to take a prisoner. "Drop it," he said, holding the knife to the man's gizzard. "Drop the gun or I'll gut you like a herring."
And then people bundling out of the building seized the gunman. In the distance a siren wailed.
Chip turned and ran back to the little sports car. Fuentes was still there, his face bloody, the windscreen shattered.
The reporter blinked, and wiped at the blood on his forehead. He looked at it, unbelievingly. "My God! Where the hell was my cameraman?"
There were already some cameramen spilling out of the building. It was a news-broadcasting studio, after all.
* * *
Chip knew the discomfort of being the only person who knew nobody else, except for the injured Fuentes. The place seemed to be under the control of one small woman. She had the type of unlined face and dark hair that made guessing her age very difficult. She gave orders, which people jumped to despite calling her by her first name. Chip, who had been brought into the building, was trying to fade into the background, when she came bustling up, stuck out a hand and said: "Lynne Stark, soldier. I gather we owe you thanks for the life of at least one of my staff. You can put the knife away now."
"He'd better not, Lynne," said another man. "They'll want it for DNA analysis."
Chip looked at the Solingen steel. There was a little blood on it. He very nearly wiped it, by sheer instinct. "Will they take my knife away? It's . . ." he prevaricated. "Part of my issue-kit. I'll be in trouble if I go back without it. Besides, it's kept me alive."
"And from what I can gather from Fuentes, through quite a lot. The police are here already. They've taken the gunman into custody, but not before we got some camera-shots for the program." She beamed at the thought, and then looked carefully at Chip. "You're a Vat, aren't you?"
Chip felt himself redden. Not many Shareholders were that open about the class-divide in HAR society. "Yep. What's wrong with that?"
