Eric Flint - Rats, Bats and Vats

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. But 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.

Suddenly Bronstein's face broke into a nasty, toothy smile. "I hope the gluttons are enjoying their Maggot-feast. It is their last one, to be sure. You do realize, rats, that we can't kill any more Maggots."

"Why not, Bronstein?" demanded Fal. "Do you have a conscience suddenly? I will not stop for that!" His nose twitched. "Maggot's not a patch on a fine grasshopper, mind you, but it is still better than that muck the Company fed us in the trenches. And there is plenty of it."

"You fool. The minute we kill one they'll be after us again. And there are a million Maggots to every one of us."

She had the satisfaction of knowing she'd silenced them. Then, Doc spoke up. "Indeed there is more."

"What!"