by Eric Flint
"Partisans?" asked Chip.
"Oh, there were some of the diners for you, and others who thought that the chef would be doing the world a favor by shooting an upstart Vat. There was quite a foodfight going on. Now what is this, anyway? I wouldn't normally think about it for pudding but it seems to be what we've got." She pointed at the conical glass.
"Au diplomate a l'anglaise. Basically what you would call a trifle, if you weren't being charged forty-five dollars for it."
"Trifle," Lynne Stark said wryly. "I should have guessed. Why couldn't it have been double chocolate mousse? Oh well, come on. Let's go to the office. We can do the station at Wesdene precinct from there. The Mayfair one near here will be full of irate diners."
She smiled mischievously. "Well, Maxine. Those photographs should be worth a mint to Interweb. Remember we got you this story. And we agreed to share pics."
"For the human-interest story, yes. Not for the celebrity foodfight and famous-chef-goes-mad story," said the young Interweb reporter. "And you promised us dinner."
Lynne's smile widened into a grin. "All I can offer you is this unconsidered trifle I picked up, and a teaspoon from the office. But later, when we've done what must be done, we'll send for some take-out chow. I have already ruined one perfectly good frock tonight. With our Chip around, the next dinner would probably be worse."
Eric Flint
The Rats, the Bats amp; the Ugly
Chapter 27
Eric Flint
The Rats, the Bats amp; the Ugly
A mock Tudor mansion in the wealthy northern suburbs.
General Cartup-Kreutzler was still dealing with a chilly atmosphere at home. At the office, he wore the trousers. Maria, however, made sure that he did not have any such delusions at home. It was her family's money, and he'd better not forget it. And she'd had to come and get him out of jail when Major Fitzhugh had ruined his little tete-a-tete with his secretary, Daisy.
That wasn't something that she was planning to let him forget, ever. However, what she was really bitter about was that he'd broken one of her Queen Anne chairs in his attempt to escape from their country getaway.
Since that scandalous affair, she'd let him know that he'd better be here for his meals of cold shoulder and hot tongue every night, if he didn't want to be paying her alimony. And he had very little money of his own, anyway.
The telephone rang. He ignored it.
She handed him the phone. "I hope you don't think I'm your secretary," she said arctically.
He labored under no such delusions. His secretaries always had good figures, and a high degree of compliance. Also, they tended to be thirty years younger than Maria. Who had dared to call him at home? It wasn't Maria's brother Talbot. Maria hadn't belittled him for half an hour, and no one else would call. "General Cartup-Kreutzler here," he snapped.
The breathy voice on the other end of the line was immediately recognizable. The general stiffened. The army was in a poor position to offend the Korozhet. They supplied the soft-cybers and the slowshields. Without those, the soldiers would be totally unable to slow the relentless Magh' advance.
***
Two minutes later, he had INB News on the TV and was just in time to catch a full repeat of the story about the snotty little Vat trooper that had given Fitzhugh his break. As he watched, the fury in him grew. Without this Vat, he would never have ended up in this invidious, defensive position.
General Cartup-Kreutzler wanted Major Fitzhugh crucified and boiled in hot oil. But, in the meantime, this Vat would do.
He picked up the phone again and set some of his staff onto chasing up Colonel Rastapolous. "Try the Paradiso. He's usually there."
Ten minutes later he had his legal advisor on the phone. "Get to my office. And sober up. I need some charges drawn up."
That meant going in to work, but that was better than staying at home, anyway.
***
The colonel was fairly far gone into inebriation, despite his boss' instructions. The general looked at him in disgust. The fool was turning into a lush. "Go and drink some coffee," he ordered. "Not Irish coffee, either."
While he waited for Rastapolous to pull himself together, Cartup-Kreutzler telephoned Talbot. He was mildly pleased to think that, judging by the out-of-breath state of his brother-in-law, he'd probably managed to ruin Talbot's evening. "I had a call from the senior Korozhet advisor. You know they asked us to locate the private who was involved in the death of Virginia Shaw's tutor?"
His brother-in-law successfully irritated him with his reply. "Yes. Thom called me earlier. The soldier tried to call Shaw today. We have arranged to allow a meeting, and then he'll be quietly removed from the scene at the Shaw house and delivered to the Korozhet. No one will even know where he disappeared to."
"Leave your little pastime and watch the news on INB. The media will be going there with him, so he can't just disappear. He's been telling his story, and there are any number of things he can be charged with. But that legal fool of mine is drunk again. To be realistic, he'll have to serve the charges in the morning."
"Hmmm. Let me think about it," said Talbot. "It might be easier just to get my men to kill him tonight. Mind you, the Korozhet have asked that he be handed over to them. They suspect him of murdering that tutor of Shaw's. Look, I'll take some advice from a friend of mine; she's astute about these things. If need be we can always get Thom to delay things. In the meanwhile go and push Rastapolous' head under a cold tap. I suspect the best answer might be to arrest him and to take it from there."
"He's being made out to be a hero by the media, Talbot," cautioned the general. "Arresting him could create more complications that we don't need."
There was a silence. Then: "The army has a DNA match for this soldier on file?"
"He's a Vat, Talbot. Of course. If we had enough time we could clone him."
"I think we've got him then, Henry. Thom examined Virginia Shaw. Somebody had been screwing the dummy. He's got some interesting DNA material out of that examination. Odds are that matches that soldier. Public support for rapists is slim."
Now, that was an interesting idea. "But surely she'd have complained. Had him arrested. It must have been consensual, Talbot."
"Almost certainly," said his brother-in-law. "She was very affectionate towards him when they first got back. But then, she won't be testifying, Henry. Any attempt to subpoena her, we'll meet with medical excuses, and I can deal adequately with providing fake depositions."
"It could work." Cartup-Kreutzler paused. Sometimes his brother-in-law worried him. He could be so inventive and yet so blind. "Do you realize where this could have led, Talbot? We could have handed thirty-four percent of the Company to a damned Vat."
There was a pause from Talbot now. Then he said, dismissively: "Don't be ridiculous, Henry. He's nothing but some Vat-scum."
"I'm not being ridiculous. Remember what you told me about her. She's brain damaged, Talbot. Your Thom said she had a mental age of about seven after that horse-riding accident. Damage to her speech centers, if I remember rightly. She couldn't speak properly. Is there any sign of that now? No. That's because Shaw had her implanted with one of these animal-control devices we use on military animals. She's a little robot, and doesn't really know how a Shareholder should behave. And she is heir to both her parents' shares in the HAR colony. You know perfectly well that Shaw married Gina Roussel to get control over her fourteen percent of the stock." For once General Cartup-Kreutzler felt that he had his brother-in-law on the back foot.
"A good thing we parted them!" exclaimed Talbot. "To think that I said someone was welcome to screw the dummy."
"If I were you, I'd look carefully at who else might think of doing so," said the general slowly. He'd married a midden for the muck, so the idea might just occur to someone else. "That Thom, for instance. How far do you trust him, Talbot?"
"Not at all," said Talbot. "But I've got the black on him, Henry. He was the kingpin in the methyldeoxymethamphetami
ne ring. That's why I inveigled him into taking up the post as Shaw's personal physician."
"You think that's enough to hold him back from thirty-four percent of the shares, Talbot?"
Talbot snorted like an irritable pig. "Next thing you'll say I should marry her myself."
"It might not be a bad idea, actually. The alliance of two powerful Shareholder houses and all that sort of thing. Think about it."
Eric Flint
The Rats, the Bats amp; the Ugly
Chapter 28
Eric Flint
The Rats, the Bats amp; the Ugly
Scenes various, but mostly Shaw House.
Vat Provokes Riot in Top Restaurant!
Henri-Pierre L'escargot, the renowned Chef of the famous Chez Henri-Pierre…
"But that's not what happened!" Chip looked at the paper in disgust. "They've got it all wrong. I never even said anything to him, never mind trying to force my way in. It's all lies. Mucking Shareholders!"
Lynne Stark smiled. "I put that one on top for that reason. The others all have varying but greater degrees of accuracy-the ones that got feed from Interweb, got pictures, witness statements, and the facts more-or-less straight. And believe me, a picture is worth a lot of words. More than a thousand, in the case of the HAR Times," she said dryly. "They got their story from a still incandescent Henri-Pierre, and never bothered to check it. I've got some of my staff collecting statements right now."
Stark's expression resembled that of a very well-fed and self-satisfied shark. "Heh. At the very least, they'll have to print a retraction. And HAR law states that it has to be the same print-size, column length and in the same position. Great front page they'll have! I suppose that old fart Laverty thought he was on safe ground with a bit of Vat-bashing."
She studied the headline for a moment. "What an idiot. Even using the term 'Vat' in print was a mistake. The official term is 'cloned citizen.' Under the circumstances, 'Vat' is clear evidence of news bias."
Now she was practically licking her chops. "Vats don't take people to court, but I do."
"I've seen enough of courts," said Chip warily. "I don't mind if I never see another."
"I don't think you will. He'll settle. Now, are you ready for your visit, lover boy?"
Chip blushed. He was wearing one of her dressing gowns. But both of them knew it was merely because his uniform was in the dryer. Lynne Stark hadn't slept alone that night. But she hadn't slept with him, either.
He knew exactly what she was referring to. "It's not like that," he said hastily.
She raised an eyebrow at him. "Really. But yet you told Maxine, when she invited you home, that you were already spoken for, as it were. And that you didn't break your promises. You did it very nicely, I thought, with just the right amount of regret."
"Do you always listen to other people's conversations?" asked Chip sourly.
She nodded. "If at all possible, yes. I sell news, remember."
Chip pointed to the newspapers. "Why don't you just make it up like most of these do?"
"I lack the imagination for fiction," she said, without even a hint of a smile.
***
General Cartup-Kreutzler took a long pull at the Bloody Mary he habitually had for breakfast. He'd better call in and see if that idiot Rastapolous had actually managed anything coherent in the way of charges against the Vat. He reached for the paper, which, naturally, was the HAR Times. The headlines delighted him.
He reached for the telephone. They could add a few extra charges to the list.
***
Having led his men in their ten-mile run, Van Klomp had showered, breakfasted and sat down at his desk for his least favorite part of the day, paperwork, when his telephone rang. "Seen the morning papers, Bobby?" asked the voice on the other end.
The cheerful tone in the voice of Lieutenant Mike Capra on the other end did not make Van Klomp feel at ease. He knew the attorney too well. "Not yet," he said grimly. "What's up? Fitz?"
"No," said Capra. "Just your latest protege got himself into a fight with his ex-boss last night. The papers are carrying three different versions of the event. And before that, the boy got himself into a shooting match with some supposed 'car-thieves.' That was on the nine o'clock news."
"I'd better get the papers, then. Or is there a decent report on Interweb?"
"One of the best," said Capra with a laugh. "The picture of your new corporal about to shove a sticky chocolate cake into the chef's pump-action shotgun is priceless."
"Hell's teeth! Is he in jail again?"
"Not yet, anyway," said Capra cheerfully. "But he's going to see Shaw this morning."
"She should be pleased to see him. I didn't think she'd let him get away."
"There are some odd stories coming out of that lot, Bobby. Old friends of the Shaws have been turned away from the gates when they tried to see her. And Shaw's attorney wound up dead under mysterious circumstances three days ago. This is deep water your new corporal is swimming into, with leaky water wings."
"Not a hell of a lot you and I can do about it, my friend. The kid is determined to go and see her. If I tried to stop him, he'd be like Fitz. Do it anyway."
"This boy of yours may get himself chewed up in the process, though."
"They might find that he's a tough mouthful to swallow. Chocolate cake against a shotgun, you say?" Van Klomp laughed. "I'll put my money on my new lance corporal. That kid has brass balls, Mike-and don't forget he survived longer in the trenches than just about any front line soldier I can think of. And they want to get physical with him? Those drunken thugs in Special Branch? Fucking cretins."
"I hope you're right."
"You watch."
***
Once more in his BDUs, with the new stripes on his shoulders and hat-badge on his beret, Chip walked up to the security officers at the gate with two cameras trailing him.
The security officers looked like they came from a rent-a-thug company, and not one in the high-end part of the business. "What do you want, soldier?" asked the one with the nose suitable for following down broken and winding trails.
"My name is Connolly. I was one of the soldiers who rescued Ms. Shaw. She said she wanted us to visit her, when we got free." It was true enough. She had said that-to the others, along with a promise of better brandy and all the sauerkraut the bats could eat. "I called yesterday and someone said she would be informed."
The broken-nosed guard nodded. "We've been told that she will be expecting you at ten-thirty. You. Not them," he said, scowling at the news crew.
Ten-thirty. A neat two hour wait. And then he'd see her. The cameras had obviously been ready for confrontation at the gate, never mind their exclusion. You could read disappointment in their posture.
***
In an apartment near the middle of the City, Tana Gainor carefully put on her makeup, and then applied her mauve lipstick. The lipstick was her one deliberate conceit. She knew she had as little need of it as for the rest of her makeup, to attract the attention of men. But it was non-military. The very fact that she could get away with such scorn for the military pleased her. It gave her a little fillip of satisfaction. For some people, going into the army had been a question of duty to their fellow humans. For others, a question of conscription. For Tana Gainor it had been an opportunity, both for profit and power.
She had always loved both. She'd realized very quickly that the alien invaders made the army vastly important, and presented an unprecedented opportunity for acquiring her two favorite things. She continued to run her civilian empire. The trade in various recreational chemicals remained commercially successful, although she'd distanced herself from the actual selling these days. She'd never had the actual need to do so: other than for the profit, but there was the pleasure of entrapment. Knowing they'd be back. Knowing that you'd gulled yet another one. And knowing that it would bring both power and profit.
Tana examined herself in the mirror, then applied a dab of expensive perfume behind he
r ears and to her wrists. She was not overly fond of the smell herself, but it did appear to appeal to men.
Satisfied that appearance, scent and hair were all perfect, Tana left the vanity table, slipped her mobile into her purse and let herself out of the door. She left behind the snoring man sprawled on the bed, without as much as a backward glance. Lewis was wealthy and useful, as he had criminal associates in the "used car" trade, which had hitherto fallen outside of her usual net. He was both amazingly stupid and a clumsy and physically inadequate lover. Someday she would tell him so. It would be amusing.
She'd just seated herself in her expensive car-having a vehicle that spelled money was one of the reasons she'd spent her evening in the way she had-when the mobile rang.
It was Thom. "I've told you," she snapped. "Don't call me on this number. Call me at work. And call on the main line, not your mobile." She hung up.
Thom was an idiot. He was bound to be caught, sooner or later. She wanted no provable links to him. If calls were routed through the military switchboard, the best record the billing company would have of that call would be that her manufacturer had called military headquarters. A brief once-off call could be explained as a wrong number. It was a source of irritation that Talbot Cartup had provided Dr. Thom with her mobile number, but then he was almost certainly not aware of how careful Tana had been lately. For all his power Talbot Cartup remained an idiot. Another one.
A few minutes later, seated at her desk, checking stock values in the morning paper, Dr. Thom called and told her of Chip Connolly's impending arrest.
