Eric Flint: Rats, Bats and Vats

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.