Rats, Bats and Vats rbav-1

by Eric Flint

  "We'd better go and look for those rats," interrupted Chip, scrambling to his feet.

  The bats located the portly rat and Doll not seventy yards away, in a neat little hideaway that Fal had plainly organized. He and Doll were still lying on Chip's jacket, their tails entwined. Chip hadn't even noticed that the rat had stolen the jacket. The two were alive, and intact… it was just their wits that seemed to have gone begging.

  For once even the fat rat was at a loss for words. And the brassy Doll's voice quivered when she finally found it. Her first question was addressed to Fal. "Art thou not hurt i' the groin?"

  Fal just stared wide-eyed. Finally he shook himself. "I' faith that was bad timing!" The fat rat shook his head, untwisted his tail, stood up, and stared at the broken glass. " 'Tis a great waste," he mourned.

  Pistol poked him in the gut. "Your waist is very great-but just what did you do to those whoreson Maggots?"

  Fal paid the questioning Pistol no attention, and instead scrabbled among the rocks. "My lighter! It's got to be here somewhere."

  Chip leaned over and picked up a pseudo-antique zippo. The gadget was designed for rats: smaller, overall, than the human version, but with an oversized striker to suit the relatively clumsy "fingers" of a rat's forepaws. It was inscribed: Ours is not to do or die, ours is but to smoke and fly. In some ways, rats were sticklers for tradition.

  "That's mine!" cried Fal.

  "And that is my jacket you swiped for your little bit of private whoopee-nest," said Chip, grimly. "Now, let's have the story."

  "Gimme."

  "Story." Chip held the lighter up, out of reach, and then, when Fal bared his teeth, he tossed it to the fluttering Bronstein.

  "All right," muttered Fal. "Give it and I'll tell you. That's a genuine heirloom, that lighter."

  Chip jerked his jacket out from under Doll. "After he's told us, hey, Bronstein."

  "If ever," said the bat.

  The plump rat glowered at them. "All right. Well, we just slipped off for a bit of… privacy, and I was just lighting up, after, when this Maggot stuck his face in. Well, I thought we were dead… . Doll threw my bottle of 160 proof." Fal looked at her reproachfully. "She missed. It hit that rock over there, broke and showered over the Maggot. The falling liquor was slow enough to go through the thing's slowshield, obviously. Then I must have lost my grip on my lighter."

  "Panicked and threw it when he was trying to get up and run," interpolated Doll, obviously feeling more like her usual obstreperous self again.

  "WOOF… next thing the Maggot took off like…"

  "Like its tail was on fire."

  "Exactly. Now can I have my lighter back?"

  "I guess. So you're giving up drinking, Fal? Now that you've seen one run?" Bronstein asked.

  The rat's whiskers drooped. He looked mournfully at the broken glass. "For now I am."

  ***

  There were easily twice as many Maggots this time. They took one look at the quarry and, even with Chip playing bait, did not enter it but set off around. Chip and the rats and bats had to flee, the trap unsprung.

  "They knew," said Bronstein, clinging to Chip's shoulder again.

  Chip shook his head. "But how? We killed every single one, last time"

  "Comms," the bat said, quietly.

  "But they don't carry anything." It was true enough. By comparison the naked bats and rats were overdressed. They carried small packs and bandoliers. No Maggot lugged any hardware at all.

  Bronstein gave the bat equivalent of a grimace. If anything, it improved that face. "Not that we've seen, anyway."

  "Where could they hide them? I mean between you and the rats you've eaten whole Maggots. If there was anything there you'd have found it." Chip grinned wryly. "The rats would have shat it out by now. Like they do the slowshields."

  "Maybe they're built into the slowshields," she said pensively, rubbing her chest over the spot where her own slowshield was implanted. "Ours don't have anything like that, but…"

  Chip shrugged, nearly dislodging her. "Well, whatever it is, they communicate. Even when they're dying. And even if we win every fight, we're getting into a worse and worse situation, Bronstein."

  The bat looked around at the tunnel-mounds that walled in the half mile wide strip of wasteland they'd found refuge in. The mounds were higher, and the strip narrower. "We need to break out of here," she said.

  Chip voice reflected his tiredness. "We need to stop being chased."

  "They won't stop until we're dead," mused Bronstein. Her face folds wrinkled even further. Chip thought that if there was anything in the world uglier than a bat's face, it was the face of a thinking bat. Then she said slowly… "So maybe we should die for them, then. Let them tell their commanders we're dead."

  Chip snorted. "What do you suggest? We hold them over a fire and make them say: `The enemy are dead, Commander'?"

  "Something like that," muttered Bronstein. "I'll think of something…"

  ***

  The next ambush centered on a roll of barbed wire, either a relic of the war or a leftover from when this had been farmland. It was impossible to tell. What had once been fertile fields dotted by the occasional farmhouse had been completely ravaged-first by the fighting, and then by the typical Magh' methods of expanding their scorpiaries.

  The party of Maggots that were closest and had to be ambushed were foragers or scouts. Probably scouts, because there was nothing left to forage. This area had already seen intensive work from the foragers. Not so much as one blade of grass survived. The Magh' always removed any organic material and stowed it somewhere in their scorpiaries. Metal scraps, however, were usually ignored.

  Hence the roll of barbed wire that Chip had literally stumbled upon.

  He swore.

  "Not tonight," piped Melene immediately. "I've got a headache."

  Chip grinned. "You'd be so lucky."

  God help him, he was starting to enjoy his flirtation with Mel. If only she'd been a human female. Sigh…

  He examined the wire, as Doc with blessed silent efficiency cleaned and strapped the slash on his leg. The wire was tightly spooled. A memory of Chip's only attempt at fencing came back to him. He'd unrolled the pig wire carefully. As he'd been cutting the stuff, the brick he'd left on the other end, to keep it unrolled, must have got up and walked away.

  It was not a nostalgic moment. Still…

  "Hey, Eamon!" he called out. "What about this idea?" Chip explained how the newly unwound wire sprang back.

  "You cannot be using that stuff. It'll rip our wing membranes," said Behan, one of Eamon's pack-followers.

  "Indade, it's a fool you are, Behan. 'Twill tangle the Maggots up, not us." Eamon's head was a closed shop-except for taking in ideas for generating mayhem. There he was as sharp as… as batfangs.

  ***

  "Why should we wear them, when the bats don't?"

  "Because they can fly, Phylla." Chip knew he was going to lose it soon. The rats were being cranky about Bronstein's idea. The wire ambush had been a resounding success, but they'd been able to watch how the Maggots, dipping their long feelers to the broken ground, had been able to track them, step-by-step. They plainly followed a scent trace.

  The rat-girl looked at her feet, encased in strapped-on pieces of Magh' pseudo-chitin. "But they're so… ugly."

  "Look good on you, Phyl," Nym rumbled.

  That was enough. Nym's rare comments were valued. "Do you really think so?"

  "Yes. Give you a bit of extra height."

  "But they're not really my color."

  I'm going to lose it! Chip concentrated on making himself a pair of exoskeleton sandals, while the rats debated not the clumsiness or the slipperiness of the "shoes," but their sex appeal.

  ***

  They hid out on the hillside and waited and watched. A purposeful mob of Maggots arrived within twenty minutes.

  "They knew exactly where to come. I told you. Comms, built in," said Bronstein.

  "It does
seem the logical conclusion," concurred Doc. "Philosophically valid, too. All the great logicians agree on the supremacy of mind over matter. I suggest we are observing, in action, Immanuel Kant's famous noumenon, the thing-in-itself unknowable to the mere conscious intellect."

  Going to lose it…

  "Doc," grated Chip, "would you mind giving me a translation? Before I just tell you to shut up?"

  The rat reached up a stumpy forepaw and adjusted his pince-nez spectacles. "To put it crudely-inaccurately-we are seeing racial telepathy at work."

  Chip stared at the Maggots. The Magh' fighters stood and muddled around their dead, or what was left of them. Eventually the mob split into little search parties, wandering hither and thither, plainly searching scent traces.

  "See," said Bronstein. "They don't know where we've gone. I told you so."

  It wasn't a popular statement, because it never is, but it was true. "They'll still find us," muttered Chip. "There are just too many of them."

  He glanced down at G.W.F. Hegel, perched on his hip and peering over the boulder. "And if Doc's right…"

  "Any time we fight one, the rest of them know about it," concluded Bronstein. Oddly, however, the thought seemed to cheer her up.

  "But meanwhile"-she nodded toward the Maggots wandering aimlessly across the torn-up landscape below-"it gives us time."

  "Time for what?" snorted Chip. "Time to sleep?" He found himself yawning.

  "No," replied Bronstein firmly. "A time to die. Philosophically speaking, that is. Even-" She fluttered her wings. "Artistically!"

  "I'm going to lose it," muttered Chip. "Completely."

  Eric Flint

  Rats, Bats amp; Vats

  Chapter 6:

  Meanwhile, back at the chateau…

  LIEUTENANT-GENERAL BLUTIN'S family were second cousins to the Shaws. Even if he hadn't been overall commander of military operations he would have been an important man on Harmony And Reason. He was a short, fat, choleric man. His tailored uniform, despite the expensive material and the care and attention that his four Vat servants lavished on it, always looked as if should have been worn by a smaller, more upright sort of fellow.

  But no one could argue that the uniform itself, and the avalanche of medals and ribbons which poured down its expanse, were out of place in the general's headquarters. Once a Shareholder's mansion, the huge edifice had been redesigned to the general's own detailed specifications. Damn the cost and labor! A war needs a suitably martial headquarters from which to be waged.

  Major Fitzhugh thought the crenellations were a particularly nice touch, along with the portcullis. Completely useless, of course, against Magh's weaponry and tactics. But-certainly martial. Essential, no doubt, for maintaining the army's elan vital.

  The major's attention was drawn back to the moment. Judging from the general's puce complexion-just the other side of beetroot-Fitzhugh thought the martial fellow was on the verge of completing his peroration. He'd better be, for his own sake. If the general puffed himself up any more he'd burst those polished buttons. He looked uncommonly like an angry bullfrog, without the anatomical design to make the swelling survivable.

  But, fortunately, the major had gauged the affair correctly. At that very moment, the general finished his train of thought.

  "So, explain yourself, Fitzhugh!" he spittled and thundered. "What do you mean-`No'?!"

  Despite his appreciation of the superb spittling, Fitzhugh thought that the thunder was a bit spoiled by the rising squeak at the end. And while the halitosis undoubtedly added a certain charm, it fell far short of terrifying.

  But the major thrust aside these idle connoisseur's musings and pulled himself even more rigidly upright. A response seemed appropriate for the moment. So From his towering height, Fitzhugh gazed down at the general over a long, bony, aquiline nose. As always, he kept his head tilted back a bit, giving his stare that certain panache. It was a habit they'd tried to break him of in OCS, but Fitzhugh had simply taken advantage of the criticism to perfect the mannerism. Disrespect toward one's superiors, of course, was a court-martial offense. But how could it be proved that a man could sneer with his nose?

  "The word `no' implies the negative, sir. Actually, it defines the negative. In this instance, the word `no' actually means `no.' I cannot do it, sir."

  The fat general glared up at him. But, within seconds, his eyes moved away. Flinched away, really.

  Fitzhugh was accustomed to that also, and was quite willing to take advantage of it. His face wasn't a pretty sight, to say the least. A Magh' claw had done for that.

  Still, puff-guts had plenty of wind. He managed another little puff. "That's a direct order, Major!"

  If the general's snarl was intended to abash the major, it fell very wide of its mark. To the best of Fitzhugh's knowledge, he was the only high-stock Shareholder-officer to have actively led his men, from the front, into combat against Magh' scorps. By comparison this large, plush office in Southern Front Headquarters was a cakewalk.

  "Yes, sir. The order is also in direct contravention of the Military Code. Chapter 15, section 3.1, paragraph 4. `Military personnel shall at all times remain under command of military officers.' So if I disobey your direct order, I face court-martial. If I obey your direct order, I face court-martial. Shall I proceed to hand myself over to the MPs?" He hefted the bangstick. "Or should I make it worth my while?"

  The general scuttled back a few steps. He obviously didn't think the intelligence officer was joking. Which, since Major Conrad Fitzhugh had a certain reputation, was perhaps understandable.

  The general's scuttling took him behind his desk. Given that the desk was approximately the size of a battlefield, he apparently felt a bit safer on the other side.

  He plopped down into his chair. His face was as pale as it had been livid a few moments before. "Threatening a superior officer.. ." he mumbled. He started piling the reports spread across the huge desk into tall stacks, as if creating fieldworks to protect himself from assault.

  "Nonsense, sir!" boomed Fitzhugh. "If you'll forgive me saying so, the very idea is an affront to your valorous reputation. Which, as I'm sure you know, is a byword among the troops in the front lines."

  Fitzhugh lowered the bangstick. "Now, if I can explain." His next words were spoken in a very dry tone of voice. "The intelligence section is comprised of four members. Myself. Captain Dulache, who, alas, has been called away again on urgent personal business. Something to do with settling another inheritance dispute, I believe. That leaves me Corporal Simms and Private Ariel, both of whom, as you know, have been declared medically unfit for further front line service due to injuries sustained in combat."

  Fitzhugh decided there was no need to remind the general that Private Ariel was a rat. There was certainly no need to inform him that the private was in his magazine pocket right now. There was no rule, after all, that stated explicitly that headquarters staff could not wear combat fatigues, with capacious pockets.

  "Between us, we are responsible for intelligence gathering on the Magh' effort. I have put in, at last count, twenty-three motivations for more staff."

  "We'd all like more staff," snapped the general, beginning to recover his wind.

  Fitzhugh gave the general his patented double-bore gaze. Then, slowly, he swiveled the gaze to examine the office and its polished woodwork, brassware, and thick pile carpet. More manpower went into cleaning this office than Fitzhugh actually had in the two tiny rooms that were MI.

  "Yes sir. We would."

  He brought the stare back to the general. Blutin seemed to shrink a bit under that scrutiny. But it was difficult to be certain, given the disparity between the general's size and the luxuriant enormity of his chair…

  "If I may continue-sir. I have no spare staff to devote to searching for a missing civilian-sir. I have no people to give to the Chief of Police for foot patrols as you have ordered-sir."

  He cleared his throat forcefully. "Mind you, General, if one of the chief's staff h
olds a reserve commission I shall be glad to second Captain Dulache to him for that purpose as soon as the captain returns. Whenever that might be. I should be delighted to do so, in point of fact. The word `ecstatic,' actually, would not be inappropriate to the occasion. `Delirious from joy' also comes to mind."

  "Humph," humphed Blutin. Whatever his other failings as a commanding officer, the general had no superior at the ancient skill of spotting an escape clause. "Hmph! Why didn't you say so at once, then? Yes, that'll do splendidly. Captain Dulache it is, as soon as he returns. I shall so inform the civilian authorities."

  He wagged his plump little hand. "Go on, now. Get out of here. And don't let me see you with that uncouth spear again!"

  Fitzhugh ported the bangstick. "It is a regulation weapon-sir. I am obliged by terms of the Code to carry it-sir." Then, saluting crisply and turning even more crisply on his heel, he was out of the door in an instant. The general's sigh of relief sufficed to close the door.

  ***

  As soon as Fitzhugh had passed through the outer offices-a trek in itself-he entered the mansion-now-quasi-castle's dining room. The servants were already preparing the table for the upcoming "staff lunch." Four of them were spreading the linen tablecloth, like seamen struggling with a sail, while a small army of others stood waiting with the silver service in hand. Yet another host of servants clustered here and there bearing platters of food.

  Seeing Fitzhugh enter the room, the majordomo stiffened. The servant standing next to him, newly assigned to his duty here, failed to notice and was already hurrying to the major's side.

  "May I have your name, sir?" this worthy asked unctuously. "So that we might set the proper card at your place."

  The majordomo hissed. All the other servants in the room froze.

  Fitzhugh stared down at the fellow. Then, slowly, the shark grin spread across his ravaged face. The servant paled a bit, perhaps, but managed not to flinch outright.

  The bangstick was suddenly in the major's hand, pointing to the far end of the table. "I always sit directly across from the general himself," he murmured. "He finds it aids his digestion."