Rats, Bats and Vats rbav-1

by Eric Flint

  The bangstick flicked out and speared a honey-and-sesame-seed-glazed half-quail breast from one of the platters. Holding it upright, Fitzhugh turned on his heel and strode toward the far exit. "And the name's Banquo. Make sure you spell it properly."

  Once he'd left the dining room and had reached the unpopulated regions of the corridor beyond, a long and furry nose popped out of the large pocket of the major's fatigues. Black and beady eyes regarded him. "I thought for a moment you were going to skewer that fat blue-bottle Blutin."

  The eyes moved to the quail. The major lowered the bangstick. The juicy morsel was instantly plucked therefrom and began disappearing into Private Ariel's maw.

  "I can't say I wasn't tempted!" Fitzhugh heaved a small sigh. "But what's below him is worse. Blutin's a bumbling idiot whose rich relations put him here to get him out of the way, back when there was no reason for an army. But if he goes we should automatically get Carrot-up."

  The last term came with a ferocious scowl. General Cartup-Kreutzler was Conrad Fitzhugh's ultimate bete noire, in a menagerie of sooty beasts.

  Ariel belched and began scattering quail bones on the polished floor. "So why didn't you say we'd happily go looking for this What's-her-name, then? Virginia Shaw, was it? 'Tis a fact that Carrot-up bins your reports as soon they arrive on his desk anyway."

  Fitzhugh looked down at the rat. There was nothing of frigid hauteur in that glance. Ariel was the reason he had any face at all. And he was the reason she didn't have a tail.

  "Because we might find her, dimwit."

  They had reached the staircase leading to the basement where MI's offices were located. Fitzhugh took the stairs two at a time. As always, he found the confines of the former servants' quarters refreshing. Dank and dingy, true, but at least they allowed him the illusion that he was actually fighting a war.

  "Christ," he growled, now striding through the basement itself, "I'm delighted to have that stupid rich-man's-burden bastard Shaw out of the equation."

  There was no further need for concealment, so Fitzhugh plucked Ariel out of his pocket and perched her on his shoulder. Scowling fiercely, he continued. "You know that jackass was insisting on an `oversight' of all battle plans. Christ! Half of them would be date-expired before they were set in motion."

  They reached the door leading into the MI's offices. There was no need to unlock the door before pushing through. Nobody except the major and Ariel and Corporal Simms ever came here. Not since the unfortunate affair of Colonel d'Avide, which had done wonders for Fitzhugh's reputation. Captain Dulache, though he was officially assigned to MI, had set foot in the place exactly twice.

  Fitzhugh laid the bangstick across a corner of his desk. That piece of furniture was scarred and worn, and the weapon looked right at home. "Maybe now that Shaw's out of the equation we can fight some kind of real war. Maybe."

  As Fitzhugh lounged into his wooden chair, Ariel leapt nimbly onto the desk and began nibbling at the bowl of comestibles which the major always kept there for her.

  "You're getting fat," grumbled Fitzhugh. Ariel waggled her tailless rump in cheerful agreement. "The daughter-if found," continued the major, "would probably be more of the same as her father. Cronies for general staff, and war-materials-contracts for buddies."

  He sat up straight and reached for a pile of as-yet-unstudied intelligence reports from the front. "Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. I wouldn't be surprised if who ever did it was trying to do the war effort a favor. Ought to be decorated, if anybody wants my opinion."

  He started scrutinizing the first report. Sourly: "Which they don't."

  Eric Flint

  Rats, Bats amp; Vats

  Chapter 7:

  Even heroines need to eat.

  VIRGINIA HAD GOTTEN over feeling nauseated… eventually. Naturally enough, she hadn't gotten over being scared. But enough time in the unchanging darkness passed for her to start thinking, puzzling things out and piecing them together.

  "How did we get here, Fluff?"

  He nuzzled her neck. "I don't know, Virginia."

  "Last I saw you, you were clinging to the back of the car."

  "Um. You don't remember any more?" Fluff sounded distinctly embarrassed.

  "No." She tried, but it had just… vanished. "Tell me how we got here?"

  "I woke up here. Just like you," answered Fluff.

  Fluff was definitely being evasive. "I saw you outside the car, Fluff. Where did we go? How did we get captured? And is the Professor all right?"

  "I don't know, Virginia."

  "Then how did you get here, Fluff?"

  There was a silence. Then, in a small voice: "Inside your blouse."

  "What?!"

  "But I was unconscious! I swear it! On my mother's grave-I swear it, Senorita!"

  When Fluff was deeply disturbed he went all Spanish. That was a side effect of his Cervantes download.

  "Tell, Fluffy."

  The galago hated to be called Fluffy. But-it was a sign that all was forgiven. So:

  "The car stopped… the policemen came closer, and the Professor opened the door. I jumped in. I do not think he noticed. You were… asleep… I was a little, um, upset. I burrowed into your blouse. The door closed… and then I woke up with you. Here. I explored this cell and I found this hole. I looked out and there were Magh'. Then I heard you speak. That is all."

  "So, maybe they don't know you're here! The Magh' must have captured the Professor, too. Oh, I hope they aren't torturing him! We must escape, Fluff, and rescue him!"

  "How are we going to escape, Virginia?"

  "You can get out, Fluff. You must steal the key to my cell. We can unlock the door and go and rescue the Professor."

  He nuzzled her neck. "Um. There is no door, Virginia."

  "But…"

  "We are walled in. There is just the air hole. And I do not know if I can squeeze through it."

  "But we'll starve!" Already, just thinking about it, she felt hungry and thirsty. "Or will we die of thirst first?"

  "Never fear, Virginia. I-Fluff!-will go out and find food and drink for my beloved!" The little creature shivered on her shoulder.

  "Oh, Fluff! What's wrong, dearest?"

  The galago was silent for a moment. Then: "It is all very strange. I'm frightened."

  "Then stay."

  "No! A hidalgo must do what he must do. Honor demands it! I shall go."

  "Just be careful. Please. You're not really a hidalgo, you know. You're a galago who's way less than a foot tall and weighs hardly anything."

  Fluff bounced off her shoulder. "For you, I dare anything! I will prove to you I am a hidalgo." She heard him scrabbling at the air inlet.

  Then, seconds later, there was a muffled voice… Fluff's. "I'm stuck."

  "I can pull your tail," she offered.

  "No!" he squeaked. "Don't pull-push."

  "Breath out. I'll do my best."

  The little galago's feet thrust against her hand. She knew it had to be her imagination but already the air in the hole seemed stale. Would she die in here, the air inlet plugged by Fluff?

  Then suddenly he popped out like a champagne cork. She heard him land.

  "Are you all right?"

  "My dignity, she is bruised. Otherwise I am intact. And now-I go!"

  Silence followed; a long, long silence. Virginia understood now how Cathy Earnshaw must have felt, exiled from Heathcliff. Bleak desolation.

  Despite the downloaded Bronte, Virginia was basically a practical girl. She had made do for herself, largely, during the years after her accident. Later, after the Korozhet soft-cyber implant had returned her intelligence, she realized that the servants had neglected their brain-damaged charge in the knowledge that Virginia could not report their slackness to her mother. But even then she had not done so; nor had she requested new servants. Truth be told, Virginia preferred lazy servants. Less bothersome.

  So, after a few weepy moments she got to her feet, bumped her head again and began to make a s
ystematic examination of her prison, by feel. She had just concluded that Fluff was right about the lack of door or any other exit except the air hole, when he returned.

  "Virginia." Never had the sound of her own name been so sweet.

  Relief! "I was so worried, Fluff! Come and give me a hug."

  "I don't think I can." There was real misery in the galago's voice. "I might stick fast forever. There is no one to push me through on this side."

  "Oh no!" Virginia felt more deserted than ever. "What are we going to do?"

  "I am just glad to be back near you, Virginia," said the galago, sounding piteous. "I was so scared I would not find my way. These tunnels! There are so many of them, and they are all so alike."

  "Fluff! You must mark the way somehow."

  "With what, Virginia?" he asked.

  She was at a loss. "I suppose… I could tear pieces off my blouse."

  "The Maggots might spot that. I scratched little marks. I just found them hard to… find."

  "Did… did you find any food or any water?"

  "Indeed I did." There was pride in the galago's reply. "Great store bins of grain, and things all thrown into huge pits."

  "And a drink… I'm parched."

  The galago was silent for a few moments. "Yes. Although… short of bringing it in my cheeks… but I will make some kind of plan."

  Eric Flint

  Rats, Bats amp; Vats

  Chapter 8:

  We who are about to die give you the finger.

  NATURALLY, MAGGOT-MOUND construction played havoc with existing watercourses. And stripping the ground bare did not make for gentle runoff. Whatever the Maggot equivalents of civil engineers were, they had got it wrong in this space between their tunnel-mounds. Dry gullies turned to raging watercourses. True, thought Chip, it was probably a temporary situation. The tunnel-mounds were obviously still being built, and getting wider. Eventually the Maggot engineers would just use up the wasteland altogether and join one tunnel-mound to the next. Chip had once seen an orbital photograph of the Magh' scorpiaries. They looked like red cow patties with spiralling arms.

  Chip had been glad when the rain started. His water bottle had been nearly dry. For food he was down to an "energy bar," which took more energy to chew than it provided. But he supposed if the worst came to the worst he could eat Maggot too, like the rats and bats. He was sure that if he could have cooked it, he could have made it edible-even tasty. A little garlic, some spices and a fire and it would have probably fetched four hundred dollars a portion at Chez Henri-Pierre, especially if called Navarin de Magh' au poivre vert. At present, however, Raw Maggot was the only choice on the menu. And that did not appeal, no matter what Fal said about it. Not even calling it Magh' Sushi de elementare could have sold it.

  But it hadn't been a brief shower, and Chip was growing tired of being a one-man tent to a bunch of bickering rats and bats. His issue poncho had kept them all dry. Well, sort of dry. Like most raingear it had a seam around the neck ensuring a slow Chinese water-torture drip. For near on two hours they sat there, until the rain lifted in the late afternoon.

  The rain was not welcomed by the Maggots, either. The minute it stopped, Maggots appeared on the outside of the tunnel-mounds, doing repairs. Clinging as they did to the outside of the tunnels, the Maggots had a wonderful vantage point. The bats flew off to disable them… and flew back. "They're blind. They don't have eyes. We can press on."

  Unfortunately that wasn't true either. Between the hill slope of the wasteland and the scorpiary walls was a lovely new lake of muddy water.

  "We'd better get swimming," said Chip, not happy with the idea. He hadn't swum much. Trips to the coast were for Shareholders. Part of his Company-sponsored education had included "swimming." But it had stopped at the level of "drown-proofing." Chip couldn't even see the other side of this body of water. It was lost around the corner of the Maggot-mound spiral.

  "The water looks cold," said Melene. Gingerly, she touched it with her tail tip. "Freezing!"

  "One must be philosophical about this," said Doc, looking as if this he'd rather be anything but.

  "Water's not good for you," pronounced Fal, edging away. "Shrinks the skin. As pleasingly rotund as I am, I can't afford that."

  Fal eyed the bats. "Can't you give us a lift?"

  "You're far too heavy," said Eamon, sizing him up.

  "We could sit on Chip's head," said Phylla hopefully. "He could ferry us across, one by one."

  "I'm not sure I can swim that far," replied Chip. "Not even once, let alone six times." He sighed heavily. "But it's swim or die, I'm afraid."

  "We bats can fly," stated Eamon. "I do not really know why we've stuck together so long anyway."

  "Eamon," protested Siobhan, "we cannot just be leaving them!" She was plainly incensed, to dare to challenge the big bat directly. Normally, only Bronstein would do that.

  "Be easy, Siobhan," said Bronstein, perching on Chip's shoulder. She wrinkled her face in that exquisitely grotesque manner by which bats expressed a sneer. "Eamon can leave if he has not the stomach for this."

  The big bat rose to that fly beautifully. "I can fight with the best, and certainly long after you've decided to wing your way hence!"

  "To be sure, you can fight," said Bronstein, dismissively. "But can you die well?"

  "I can fight and die as well and as nobly as any son of the revolution! I can die with both courage and dignity." The bat spread his wings, assuming what he apparently considered a dramatic and heroic stance. To Chip, he looked like Dracula suffering from hemorrhoids.

  "It's eating too much Maggot," snickered Pistol, mimicking the stance. "It's made me constipated too. Got any laxatives for us, Doc?"

  Chip suddenly hooked on. "Die artistically." That's what she'd said. "Shut up, Pistol." He winked hastily at the one-eyed rat. Then he turned on the affronted-looking bat, and said "You can die with courage. But can you die with drama?"

  "What?!"

  "With great agonized howls and much flip-flopping before you are finally still," said Chip.

  Eamon was affronted. "I? Die like some coward slave! Have you lost your wits, primate?"

  "I knew he couldn't do it," Chip said to Bronstein in a stage whisper. Bronstein furled her wings with her own dramatic, dismissive flair. "Yes," she sniffed. "Clear enough, 'tis beyond him."

  "Yeah, we rats will show you how it's done. Leave it to us!" Pistol hadn't figured out what was going on. But he could play along as well as the next rat.

  "Bah!" hissed Eamon. "Anything you rats can do we bats can do better."

  "Anything?"

  "Anything!" Eamon paused. "Except drink and fornicate."

  "We always master the important things," pronounced Fal.

  ***

  It was, Chip decided, the finest dramatic production ever to grace the planet of Harmony And Reason. Perhaps it was the nature of the rats' downloads. Whatever the reason, the rodents were actors par excellence. The fight between Fal, Nym and Pistol was worthy of the Globe Theater itself. Chip was glad he managed to land himself a brief cameo appearance, "dying" quickly, so he could watch the rest, peeping as he lay still on the muddy shore.

  They had a captive audience. It was certainly the best show the two surviving Maggots of the patrol would see for the rest of their lives. At the rate the water around the barbed-wire bound Maggots was rising… "the rest of their lives" was about three minutes off. He hoped that Eamon had finished dying by then. Even the fat lady in that opera that the Company had bussed the Vats off to watch as part of their "cultural education" had died quicker, and with less histrionics. With less noise, even.

  Finally Eamon, with a last despairing shriek, flopped over backwards with Chip's knife apparently protruding from his chest. The water was rising steadily. Eamon should have chosen to die a bit higher up. If Bronstein and Doc were right, the audience was far larger than the two victims. It wouldn't do to have the late leading bat get to his feet, just because his ears were getting wet. B
ut Eamon lay and allowed the water to creep higher and higher. The Maggot eyes were lost in the muddy water. Only Eamon's nose protruded when the rest of the rest of the dramatic company got to their feet.

  "I' faith. Do you think he really did it?" whispered Doll in a hushed voice.

  Chip was one of the three who ran into the water's edge to see.

  Eamon sat up. Spat water. "Here's your knife, Connolly. I cut myself on the damned thing. Bah. I hate getting wet, indade. Well, could you rats have done better?"

  He got the standing ovation he deserved.

  Still wearing their chitin "shoes" they retreated from the scene, in case another Maggot patrol came to check on the previous one. The rats, nature's own looters, had carted away two of the Maggot patrol killed before the "command performance."

  Well…

  They carried them about thirty yards, before begging Chip to give them a hand. He did, simply because hungry rats are dangerous rats. The shrew genes gave them phenomenal metabolic rates. They hid out on the hillock, amid a slabby tumble of rocks. They chose a good high spot, but it proved unnecessary. At about midnight the Magh' engineers must have arranged some essential drainage, and the huge dam's level began going down.

  And not one Maggot came looking for them.

  ***

  "Now that we have shaken our pursuit," said Bronstein, "we can rest, recuperate and plan."

  One of the rats burped. "Got another bit of Maggot going spare there, anyone?" asked fat Fal.

  "Do you rats never think of anything but your stomachs?" snapped Bronstein.

  "Hur. Of course. Are you offering, sweetie?" Pistol gave her a lewd wink.

  "Nice legs," opined Nym. "Shame about the face." Bronstein swiveled her face and gave the huge rat a look that combined irritation with wariness. The trouble with Nym was that it was hard to tell when he was being serious.

  "Stop teasing Bronstein, you guys," said Chip. He was little low on humor with the guzzling rats himself. Half an energy bar had provided a challenge for his teeth, and precious little for his stomach.