Eric Flint - Rats, Bats and Vats

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 holds 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."

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.