by Eric Flint
Now the humans, on the other hand, could be relatively sharp and incorrigibly disobedient as individuals, and yet were as stupid-if not more stupid, than individual Magh' when they attempted to act together. What did they call it? Mob intelligence. An interesting datum. A contradiction in terms. A shame the humans were unreliable. They were better chelate-scrapers than this purpose-bred Magh'. But implants would fix that, if the Overphyle decided any were worth keeping.
Appetite stirred in the Expediter. Changing sex involved considerable energy expenditure. Well. Chemical exudates might have stopped the Magh' eating the Overphyle… darts leapt from her tubes and ripped into the joints-space of the scraper's chela. Nothing stopped the Overphyle eating Magh'.
The creature twitched briefly and was still. Overphyle toxins were singularly effective on Magh'. The onset of paralysis was rapid. That was good. The digested protein always tasted better when the animal wasn't entirely dead. The Expediter retracted the barbs, pulled the harpoons back, then humped out of the recliner, dripping. She clambered over the victim. The victim was too stupid to understand more than pain, but the group-mind would know that a tiny piece of itself was being ingested. Know, and feel, and remember just who the master was.
The seven-sided mouthparts spiraled open. The Expediter poured her inverted stomach out of her mouth… and in through the harpoon hole into the faintly twitching victim, oozing her stomach into the narrow gap. Then, in the delicious half-digested soup inside the Magh' shell she began to secrete more enzymes, and feed. The Expediter felt herself relaxing. So what if the Magh' made poor chelate-scrapers? It was good to be back among proper subjects. And there was nothing like the feeling of a good meal outside your stomach to make you feel truly at home.
Eric Flint
Rats, Bats amp; Vats
Chapter 13:
They also serve who only jump and wait.
THE TELEPHONE JANGLED Conrad Fitzhugh's concentration. Preparing this report and these analyses was a thankless, fruitless task. Conrad still tried to turn in something he could be proud of, even if that mindless jerk Carrot-up would probably refuse to read it. Conrad had had no formal training for this. Before the war he'd been nothing but a relatively spoiled son of a Shareholder, with a penchant for danger-sports. Yes, his parents were unusual, in that Conrad's father's fortune owed far more to business acumen than to the modest size of his shareholding. But otherwise Conrad had not been that atypical. Now he wished he knew more about data analysis. The phone rang again. He ignored it.
Dammit. There's something going on here. Sector Delta 355…
The phone rang again.
"Answer it, Simms."
There was no reply, except another ring of the telephone. Fitzhugh remembered that Corporal Simms was out at satellite tracking, collecting pictures. Sat-trac refused to send it electronically. He was alone in the dank office. Even Ariel was out foraging somewhere. She couldn't sit still for too long. Irritated, Fitz snatched the instrument from the cradle.
"Intelligence," he snapped.
A gargantuan laugh came down the line. "Were you on the job, my boykie, that you took such a long time to answer?" The voice could have done a fair double as a foghorn.
Fitz's frown slipped. A smile actually began to ease through. "Bobby, you dumb bastard. You haven't bounced yet?"
"So long as I don't let you pack my 'chute again, I'll be all right," rumbled Major Robert Van Klomp of the 1st HAR Airborne. "Listen, boeta, I've got a big favor to ask. If I have to do one more damn `display-jump' I'm going to go mad and bite somebody's balls off. I begged and kissed ass to get this unit formed. Sure, I've only got one-fifth of the men I was promised, but I've trained them into a halfway decent strike group. Maybe they've even got a bit more backbone than a bowl of herrings."
Fitz knew this translated as enormous pride. Bobby had pushed those men to the limit of his own gorilla-like endurance. The paratroopers were as tough as you could make soldiers without putting them under fire. The parachute major thought the world of them. But Van Klomp would never say that.
The parachute major sighed. "So what do we do, Fitzy? We jump out of airplanes or helicopters at parades. Five-way linkups with pretty colored smoke for the Korozhet observers. I'm fucking sick of it, and so are my boys."
Fitz snorted. "And what do you expect me to do about it, Bobby? Tell this bunch they can't have their parades? They'd shit themselves. That's the purpose of war! Anyway, the best I could do for you is to recommend you go on doing a parade a day and never see active service. That's how well General Cartup-Kreutzler listens to my recommendations."
"Ja. I wondered how well you'd fit in there. But I don't need your general, Boykie. Just a set of orders from someone you've managed to bully."
It was Fitz's turn to sigh. "I'll try, Bobby. But I've blotted my copybook here already. And after last time, Carrot-up has circulated a memo to all Headquarters staff. `In future any action recommended on the basis of intelligence reports is to be coordinated through his office and signed by his high-and-mighty self.'"
"So what are you still doing there, Boykie?" demanded Van Klomp.
"I don't know, old friend. I really don't know."
Eric Flint
Rats, Bats amp; Vats
Chapter 14:
There's got to be a morning after.
THE RADIO CRACKLED. "The getaway vehicle has been spotted on satellite photographs at the Shaw Plantation, which is now in enemy hands. In the opinion of the Chief of Police, Ben Hudrum, the kidnappers made a severe misjudgement in their choice of hideout. Now we cut to Doctor Victor T. Slade, an expert in Criminal Psychology at the Sydney and Beatrice Webb College for his comments on the choice of hiding place. Dr. Slade, in your opinion…"
"I'm damned if I know why you listen to that Company propaganda rubbish, Chip," said Bronstein. The bat had fluttered silently up to where Chip was sitting against the wall, toasting his balls in the morning sun, and thinking wishfully about coffee while listening to his cheap portable radio.
Chip snapped the droning hot-airhead off. "Dunno myself, Bronstein. For the music, I guess. And to remind me that there is a world and other people out there. Looking out from here you could forget that there was another life, where we could be huddled in trenches. Beautiful this. Tranquility in desolation." The farmhouse was on a hilltop. The morning mist, still hanging below them, was kind to the war-shattered and bare-foraged lands. The Maggot tunnel-mounds were red and sharp and clear above the mist-sea.
Bronstein looked. "You're a human of hidden depths, Connolly. Unexpected. I always thought you were little more than a two-legged rat… Anyway, now that you've eaten and slept, come and look at what we've found." Bronstein flew off.
Chip followed. The bat led him to a large shed some distance away from the smart facade of the tasting hall and the winery. The shed must have once been hidden behind the farmhouse. Obviously out of the public eye, it was as utilitarian and plain as the other buildings were ornate. The "Public-eye" buildings must have had wooden doors that the Maggots had taken away. This had ordinary corrugated iron ones, pop riveted onto a steel frame.
"You'll have to break the lock," said Bronstein
It was a sturdy, workmanlike padlock, attached to a chain that passed through the doors.
Chip looked at it and shook his head. "I could do it, if I had two trench knives." There wasn't a grunt alive who hadn't broken a padlock or two like that. People were forever losing their keys, aside from anything else. He rattled the doors. They were neatly made and fitted tightly.
"We got in through the eaves. But you're too big. Let me go and see what I can find." The bat flew up, wriggled through a narrow gap between the roof and the wall, and disappeared. In the meanwhile Chip looked around. There was a diesel tank up on a stand. A pile of bricks and piece of rusting tarpaulin-covered machinery beneath a lean-to. Chip shook the doors again, wondering if he could lift them off their hinges.
Bronstein reappeared, just as Melene came aro
und the corner. The rat-girl was plainly suffering from a hangover. "Will you stop rattling those things," she said, irritably.
"To be sure. Stop rattling and start sawing, Connolly." Bronstein had a hacksaw blade, a shiny new hacksaw blade, in her claws.
It was a substantial lock. Chip looked at the blade. Then at the thickness of the hasp. "Bronstein, this had better not be your idea of joke."
The bat showed her fangs. "Just get to work, Connolly!"
Chip started sawing. "Flying foxes are considered good eating," he said, dryly.
Melene took a seat and shook her head. "Bronstein would give anyone indigestion. She's guaranteed to disagree with you. Besides, they're only part flying fox. Can't you saw a bit more quietly? That squeak is making my ears curl."
"Why don't you just go away?" grumped Chip.
"What, and have to listen to this thumping in my head on my own?" The rat smiled cheekily at him. "Anyway, I'm curious."
Chip had a distinct weakness for Melene. "Curiosity killed the rat." He felt the blade and pulled his hand away hastily. "Shit! This thing is hot."
Melene chuckled. "As the actress said to the bishop…"
"What?
She winked. "Get on with it."
"Take the other side then." The rat shrugged her shoulders and did.
They sawed away. At least Chip sawed, with the rat steadying the blade. Rat-paws were lousy for any work that required dexterity. Still, the cut went faster. "We should be able to snap it now," said Chip, flexing aching fingers.
Of course they couldn't, but did it at the next try. The metal doors swung open.
Aladdin's cave could not have been more full of treasures.
It was the farm workshop, and included all the essentials of a good farm workshop. It had everything from the really important dark, oily tins of mysterious miscellaneous bolts and bits, to unused, shiny-new workshop manuals. There were several coils of the most essential of farm-mechanics' equipment, used to fix everything from wristwatches to combine harvesters: eight-gauge wire. There were two engines in various states of disrepair. There was a cutting torch, an arc welding unit and enough scrap metal to justify a slowship shipment back to Japan on Old Earth. The bits ranged from rusty sections of reinforcing rod to the inevitable pieces of expensive stainless steel mesh, cut-to-measure, just slightly wrong.
There was a whole wall devoted to tools, complete with hooks and spray-painted patterns. One or two of the tools were even still on the hooks. The rest, of course, were in their natural place… in a wide radius around a dinky little vineyard tractor. The teensy narrow tractor must have been someone's pride and joy. It was probably the main working tool of the farm and even had a little hydraulic blade. The left front wheel was off, but otherwise the tools seemed to have been engaged in putting it back together. Quite a lot of fresh eight-gauge wire had obviously just been judiciously applied.
"There. Next to that stack of fertilizer. There's a whole load of rope!"
Well. It was rope all right. Typical farm rope. Not exactly the right stuff for a budding mountaineer, and not particularly light or oil free. But there certainly was plenty of it. About a thousand feet, at a guess, in various untidy coils. "Well, gee, Bronstein. Now that's really worth the blister I got cutting my way in here. Now, if I just take that crop-sprayer tank off the trailer, I can carry it all."
There was an audible sound of clicking teeth from Bronstein. "Then it is without it you can damn well do! Useless, ungrateful human. If you don't want my help, don't ask me for it!"
Chip sighed. "Sorry. I was out of line. Look, I appreciate the rope. We'll even find some we can use. And we'll use some of the metal junk for anchors. It was just… well, I was working it out. We found a little food. We've got… oh, say enough for a week with the rats on rations. Did you see how many tunnel-mounds we've got to scale?"
The bat nodded. "To be sure. I counted them. Thirty-two."
Chip grimaced. Felt his bristly chin. "In a week?"
"Ha." Melene appeared from behind a pile of metal junk. "First you're going to have to persuade Fal and the others to move. They think they've died and gone to heaven. Except for the food, of course."
Chip couldn't help smiling. "What's wrong with the food, Mel?"
"Well, no insult, Chip. It can be eaten, yes. But it isn't a good plate of curried pigs' tripes."
Chip bowed his head, humbly. "Alas. It isn't. We'll have to go looking for pigs. Mind you, I thought you rats were doing a fine imitation."
Mel took him seriously. "Well, I was thinking we should at least go and scout for some ordinary provender. Use this place as a base. We're bound to find some stuff. Stock up, equip ourselves and be in a decent shape to make a long, fast bolt."
"To be sure, that was what I myself was going to suggest." Bronstein was plainly impressed.
"You bats aren't the only ones who can come up with a bit of elementary strategy," said Melene loftily, rat-nose in the air.
"Ah. But we are the only ones who do."
***
"What! Go out foraging? But we just found all this prog!" Pistol had a bottle in one hand; in the other, a three cracker Dagwood of anchovies, quail eggs, pickled onions and caviar with marmalade. Plain to see, he was not keen to move.
"I'd liefer put ratsbane in my mouth," agreed Fal. "Pass that salad dressing, when you've finished hogging it, Nym. I shall try some with fish-oil soaked buckshot. It might make it edible."
Chip had to resort to bribery. "Curried pigs' tripes."
The rats sighed in unison. "Now, I'd go foraging for that," said Fal.
"Well, the shop here is closed, you gluttons." Chip started gathering crackers, jars, cans and bottles. He realized just how big a dent in the supplies the rats had already made. "So you might as well go foraging for that."
"Says you and who?" demanded Pistol, his one eye gleaming dangerously, as he clung to a pickle jar.
Eamon had fluttered over. "Says me. Never mind anybody else. Just me. Want to make something of it?"
Red-tipped rat teeth flashed at him, but Pistol parted with his pickle jar. "Don't like gherkins much anyway."
Chip took the jar. "Sleep. We're all short of it. This afternoon I'll provide a frugal meal and we can go out scavenging in earnest."
"Not too frugal, I hope?" said the smallest rat-girl.
Chip grinned. "We've got to make it last, Melene."
Pistol eyed her and grinned toothily. "Eh, my pretty little rat-maid from school. We can't eat, but we can drink and do other things. We can make that last too."
"You should have hung onto one of those little cocktail gherkins, Pistol. You'd have been so much better equipped."
***
Chip spent a couple of hours in sleep, and a couple of hours fossicking about in the workshop. He was surprised to find Nym there too. "Got a liking for mechanical devices," the big rat admitted. "I know it is not very ratly, but they fascinate me."
It was he who clambered up on the tractor and, while fiddling around, gave the key a twitch. The engine actually burped and gave a bit of a grumble. The rat was already out of the door… The nose came back first, timidly whiffling around the door. Then Nym followed it back, doing his best imitation of casualness. "Gave me a slight start, that," he admitted.
"And how fast can you move when you get a real fright?"
"Methinks you should consider that I'm at about the right height to bite one of your balls off," growled Nym, walking a bit closer to where Chip sat. "So what happened?"
"You turned the key. The motor nearly started. The battery is probably flat, and that was the last bit of juice in it."
"So why don't we blow up the battery, pour some more juice into it and start it up?" The rat was bright-eyed at the prospect.
"You don't know one hell of a lot about these mechanical things that fascinate you, do you, Nym?"
"Give me a break, Connolly. Four months ago, I woke up with all sorts of things inside my head and boot camp to get through. I've been
in the trenches since then, and from before that I sort of remember a big cage with a lot of other rats."
Chip swallowed. It was a longer speech than he'd ever heard Nym make in the whole month they'd served together. He'd never really thought about where the rats came from. "Um. Didn't think. But it doesn't work quite like that."
"So how does it work?" Nym asked eagerly.
"Jeez. I dunno. I was a trainee sous-chef, Nym. Not a mechanic or a farmer. Big Dermott could have told you." That last just slipped out. He had been very carefully trying to avoid thinking about her since they'd arrived at this farm. She would have loved the workshop.
He turned away. The rat wouldn't understand and he didn't want him to see.
"She was a good kid, that," the big rat said quietly, which showed Chip how wrong he could be about rats too.
"Yeah." His voice was a bit thick. He fumbled blindly through one of the cupboards. Nym discovered other things to poke and pry at. Chip found himself staring blankly at a packet. "The Wonder flexible emery-wire saw." For no good reason he thrust it into his pocket. "I'm going out to get some air. Don't do anything dangerous, rat."
"Go and have a drink, Connolly."
"You think that's the answer to everything, don't you, rat?" Chip was suddenly bitterly angry.
Nym shrugged. "Nah. But 'tis the sort of answer a good rat would give. And I don't know what else to say."
Once again Chip was embarrassed at how wrong he had been. Considering that Nym's intelligence stemmed from a piece of plastic-like stuff the size of lentil, and that the rat had only that and few months of life experience, the rat was remarkably humane… and remarkably human.
***
In the gathering dusk the foragers went out, following their keen noses. Well, Chip blundered around. For what his effort was worth, he might as well have stayed back at the ruined farmhouse. By comparison to the natural equipment of the bats and rats, even his sensitive chef's nose and surgically enhanced eyes were feeble.