Eric Flint: The Rats, the Bats and the Ugly

The Korozhet seemed very displeased, if the clattering of spines was anything to judge by. "We must always be the first to examine this sort of material. It is entirely possible it is booby-trapped."

Van Klomp shrugged. "I'm sure the general can arrange something, sir… I mean ma'am. It's out of my hands, I'm afraid." Hopefully, it was already in Dr. Liepsich's hands. And heaven preserve anyone who tried to get the physicist to part with his new toys. He was renowned for his rudeness.

Plainly, General Fredricks had had a previous encounter with the infamous Liepsich. He tried hastily for a distraction. "What about that alien you told my friend Major General Visse you'd captured, Major? Perhaps our Korozhet friends would like to interrogate him."

"He wasn't exactly captured, General. He was liberated. He was also a Magh' prisoner, and apparently played quite a role in the final fight for the Magh' brood-heart. Unfortunately, he speaks no English. He's been sent back too, under escort."

"What sort of captive alien was this?" asked Advisor Tirritit. "This is the first we have heard of it."

The general blinked. "Oh. I am sorry, Tirritit. Visse mentioned it to me, and I hadn't brought it to your attention yet. We didn't think it was important enough to trouble you. It was just one alien."

"Describe the alien."

Van Klomp obliged. "Short. Blue furred. And it had four arms…"

"A Jampad!" fluted the advisor squeakily. "A Jampad here! Doubtless in league with the Magh'. It must be killed as soon as possible. Jampad are telepathic and can control lesser races! Fortunately we Korozhet are resistant, or they would have exterminated half the species in the galaxy."

"We'll see something gets done about it at once," said the general. "I'll get onto Visse immediately. Major Van Klomp. Get me a radio operator."

"Sir, these mobile units wouldn't have the range. There is a more powerful unit over at my temporary headquarters. Sergeant Daniels. Accompany the general."

"It is unnecessary," said the Korozhet. "The matter has already been communicated to our lander, and the news will be sent to the ship. I must however caution you to silence on this matter. We, in conjunction with your headquarters, will deal with it in the utmost secrecy."

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Eric Flint

The Rats, the Bats amp; the Ugly

Eric Flint

The Rats, the Bats amp; the Ugly

1st HAR Airborne base, just outside George Bernard Shaw City.

George Bernard Shaw City: various media offices, both rich and poor.

Major Conrad Fitzhugh, the intelligence officer who has been credited with the successful capture of the scorpiary adjacent to Sector Delta 355 has been placed under arrest. He has been accused of spying for the Magh'.

Nobody looking at Parachute-Major Van Klomp's impassive face could have guessed at just how pleased he was to see this news article. The idiots. The brass obviously had no idea how the psychology of someone like Fitzy worked. On squirmers like themselves, this would have been an effective stitch-up. They'd have rolled over and died. Tried plea-bargains. Given in.

Fitzy…

This would make Fitzy fight. Charging him with what he was prepared to accept he had done wrong would have been a lot wiser. It was a good thing they'd decided to draw, quarter, and crucify Conrad Fitzhugh instead. That, he assumed, was what this pack of nonsense was all about.

"It's not that I don't want to oblige you, Talbot. It's just that you're costing us. Both money and market leadership."

The rich mellow tones of John Carsey hid none of the fact that he was rich. He was not mellow.

"HBC used to dominate the news broadcasting market," he continued harshly. "We had about eighty-three percent of the viewership. Since we stopped live coverage of the captured scorpiary, and events on the front-at your brother-in-law's request, mind you-we've lost market-share. A lot of market-share. Our ratings are on a one-way skid to nowhere. INB has just taken up the slack. My company's shareholders have called for an emergency meeting tomorrow morning. If I don't go back to covering what the public wants to see-right now, today-I am out of a job tomorrow. And even if I was in a position to tell our shareholders to sod off, it wouldn't help you at all. Because soon HBC would disappear. Our viewers are pulling the plug, and so will our advertisers. Unless you leverage INB, you're wasting your time and our money. You already have. And if you leverage INB, no doubt viewers would turn to Interweb. You've obviously muzzled the Allied Press' papers. Interweb and the Sun Group must be ready to kiss you. The public wants to know what's happening. They like the story of our troops winning, for a change. They like it a lot."

Carsey sighed. "We're also being shredded over our reportage about Fitzhugh. We're getting a few hundred letters and calls a day. INB is giving them air-time. So are Interweb and the Sun Group. You've got protest growing out there."

"Tabloid trash," snapped Cartup.

"Tabloid trash, seeing their market-share increase, Talbot," said Carsey grimly. He hung up the phone.

So Talbot Cartup, one of the most powerful men on HAR, went around to see Lynne Stark, something he'd never imagined he'd ever be doing. Stark was one of those women whom Talbot Cartup truly detested. Lynne Stark was an upstart. She had, still, one solitary share in the HAR colony. She'd battered her way up from apartments on Clarges Street, one step above the Vat tenements, to owning her own company.

The INB offices were the sort of places he truly disliked also. They were too small, too crowded, with not one cent spent on decor or plushness. And, right now, they were frantic. Looking through the open door and into the next room, he could see an array of screens. Across one of those screens leapt live coverage of a bunch of Magh' warriors and three rats, playing tag with them. The rats were darting in and slashing at the deadly creatures in some vast red-walled cavern.

Another screen had an interviewer talking to a wounded soldier. "… yeah. I was with Major Fitzhugh when we went in. Not more than ten yards from the great man himself." There was naked hero-worship in the soldier's voice.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked a harried receptionist.

"Talbot Cartup," he said, irritably. "I've come to see Ms. Stark."

She shook her head at him. "Sorry. Lynne's not seeing anyone without appointments, Mr. Cartup. Things are too busy right now."

Cartup examined her coldly, for a moment. The receptionist was a young woman, obviously a Vat, and just the right age to be serving in the army.

"I said my name was Talbot Cartup, young lady. I'm the Security portfolio of the HAR Company. If you don't get her for me in ten seconds, I'll have the Special Branch track down your name and have your draft exemption canceled. Your name will be on the top of the conscription list by tomorrow morning. And I'll have this subversive dump raided."

The young woman looked considerately at him. Then she pushed her chair back from the desk. Belatedly, Cartup realized it was a wheelchair.

"Tell you what, Talbot Cartup, I'll save the Special Branch some trouble. My name is Janice Younna. You just get my name on that list. Please. Then I'll happily arrange you an interview, with Lynne or God in person, if you like. However, I will tell Lynne you are here. Let her decide whether she wants to talk to you or not."

Three minutes later, the girl in the wheelchair came back. "Follow me, please," she said coolly. He walked along behind the wheelchair, with his bodyguards trailing, to an office in the back.

The owner of INB sat at a tubular steel and glass desk, on a tubular steel chair. The steel was softer than the woman sitting on it. Talbot Cartup knew from her dossier that Lynne Stark was nearly his own age. But she was slim, unlined, and could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty. Her hair was undressed, merely long, thick and dark. She wore steel-rimmed glasses, too.