The Rats, the Bats & the Ugly

  "Wrong with it?" she wrinkled her forehead. "Why, nothing. It's what's right with it! You, soldier, are just what the doctor ordered—or my advertisers, rather. You've saved at least two lives tonight and caught one of the bastards in the bargain. According to Fuentes, you're an exclusive to dream of. Come into my office, so we can talk business." She glanced at the knife. "I've got some paper towels there, to clean that thing. The hell with the DNA."

  She put an arm around him and led him through the hall. "The police will eventually get around to talking to you. You just leave it to me."

  Chip found himself wondering, not for the first time, why someone always seemed to insist on changing the rules just when he had almost come to terms with the confusion that was the world as he knew it. "What's all this about?" he asked warily.

  He'd been escorted to a rather spartan office by now, and she'd let go of him to get some paper towels from a roll beside a basin. "Here. And sit down. Coffee? Something stronger?"

  Now Chip was so suspicious that he was positively bristling. He did not sit down. "Look, lady. What's all this about? Like you said, I'm a Vat and—"

  "And so are about seventy percent of our viewership. Or were before HBC handed us the bulk of their market share too. We've been getting good feedback on interviews with ordinary soldiers." She gave a wry smile. "But the officers tend to feel that it's them that we should be talking to. Now, if I'm following what Fuentes said correctly, you're the story our Vat-viewers want. Fortunately, it turns out that Fitzhugh volunteered to train with the Vats. He's possibly the most popular Shareholder on HAR. It appears Van Klomp's surprisingly popular, too."

  "He's my new C.O.," said Chip, "And one of the few Shareholders I've ever liked, anyway."

  Stark grinned. "Well, nobody really dislikes Van Klomp. We all just wish he had a volume control. But I need a Vat."

  "Why?" demanded Chip, his patience wearing thin and suspicion getting the better of him. "Is there some dirty work to do? Or do you just plan to screw someone? Because I'm not available."

  She laughed. "Even if I didn't owe you, and want you, I like you. I'm in the media. It's dirty work by the nature of its existence. And honey, I'm gay. You're safe. But I am electing myself your agent, because otherwise you would get screwed. Financially anyway. You do realize that an exclusive to that story of yours is worth big bucks?"

  He gaped at her. "What?"

  She sat down. "You might as well sit down too. I can see I've got a lot of explaining to do."

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later Chip was feeling downright stunned. He was swimming against a tide of concepts that hadn't ever crossed his mind: Firstly, that Vats, with twenty times the population of Shareholders, were an economic force at all. They were confined to the lower part of the job-market, true enough; underpaid and indebted—most likely for life—to the Company. But, as Lynne Stark pointed out, they still earned and spent. And when you added it up, they spent as much or more than the Shareholders. Ad spending on this market-sector had been low, but it was rising. INB was trying to build a greater Vat viewership without losing their share of the Shareholder market.

  "Then you're out of luck, lady," said Chip. "Most Vats—like me—worked with their hands and eyes. If I looked at a TV screen and not at my work, I'd have cut my fingers off. We listened to the radio, if anything. Besides, the bosses don't like TV at work, and for Vats there's not a lot of free time. We work long hours. " He pulled a wry face. "And what free time we do have tends to get spent on important stuff. Watching a game, if you watch TV, or getting drunk as cheaply as possible. There isn't a big interest in newscasts."

  "Wasn't," she corrected him. "But so many Vats are being absorbed into the army that suddenly news about the war is big news. I want your story. We'll sell it on to Interweb. And maybe one of the radio programs. That's a good point, that. Now. Let's get Editorial in here and hear this story."

  * * *

  Two hours, and a lot of coffee later . . .

  "My God. Trust the army! And then they arrested you!" the producer said. He shook his head. "I doubt know whether to laugh or cry."

  Lynne Stark sat up in her chair and reached for the telephone. Then she paused. "The stuff about the Korozhet needs to be confirmed. I need to talk to someone, privately. All of you out of here. And get someone to sew those stripes onto the lance corporal, before the camera shots. I think it's pretty poor recognition, but maybe Van Klomp has his reasons. He's been one of the good guys so far. Start working up the story—except for the Korozhet angle. And let's see if we can arrange a few rat and bat interviews. And we'll need pictures of that wine farm from before the war, and satellite shots. See if you can scare up the guys who were on satellite tracking that night. Might make a nice human interest angle."

  When she came into the studio, ten minutes later, she was looking very grim. "We're playing this close to our chests. Unless we've got Virginia Shaw's testimony too, the Korozhet stuff will blow the whole story out the water. So, for right now, we're going with the straight story without it. Tomorrow, Chip, the crew will go along with you to see Shaw. She hasn't been seen since she was taken from the media at Divisional headquarters. Part of the breakfast show will be dedicated to you saying you're worried."

  "You mean the Korozhet can just go ahead . . . go on with this . . . charade?" asked the producer, incredulously.

  Stark shook her head so hard that the straight dark hair flew out in a black halo. "Not a chance. But they're very popular. They've been lionized as the colony's saviors and our greatest friends. And they're very involved with the upper echelon of the New Fabians. Talbot Cartup has his own advisor, for example. And we have the word of one grunt against that?"

  She sighed, slumping back into her chair and giving Chip a brooding look. "I believe you, myself. It fits a pattern of evidence that has been developing already. But most people wouldn't. And the people in power, and the Korozhet themselves, have every reason to want you dead. On top of that, you must remember the soft-cyber chips in the heads of all those thousands of bats and rats. The Korozhet have their own army, potentially. I assume if a rat or a bat can kill a Magh' warrior, then humans are dead easy, right?"

  "Right," agreed Chip, "At least, if they don't know how to handle it. But . . ."

  Stark waved him to silence. "So, when the Korozhet story breaks, it's got to be fast and the colony has to be in a position to act against them. Right now, it isn't. Right now, their ship, probably well armed, is sitting less than five thousand yards from the core of our colony's technical and scientific support. Let's assume that they're not going to leave too much intact if they do get attacked by a mob. And right now the army is not going to take part in any attack."

  "So, are we just going to do nothing?" demanded the producer. From his very aggrieved tone of voice, Chip thought he might resign in a huff.

  Stark patted him reassuringly. "We'll start preparing the ground, Charlie. Let people begin to reach their own conclusions. We'll be collecting evidence. When this goes down, believe me, we'll be ready."

  By the icy glare when she said it, Chip concluded that she'd have made a really mean sergeant major. She turned to Chip. "The other bad news is that the man you captured has escaped. A captain from the Special Branch came and took him away, and he escaped in transit. Very convenient," she said dryly.

  The Specials were every Vat's nightmare. Even though he had been shot at, Connolly was glad the fellow got away. He'd been nothing more than a thief, anyway.

  "And you know what else?" continued Stark, grimly. "The cops found the thug that you cut. He'd gotten himself to a hospital. And then he'd had a visit from someone else. They cut his throat, while he lay in the ward. He had no ID, no papers of any sort. The bastards in Specials do a great job, don't they? Want any bet on the evidence 'getting lost' before the case ever goes anywhere?"

  The very mention of the Special Branch, the plainclothes arm of the HAR's police, had been enough to give Chip the creeps. Although t
hey were officially part of the government, in practice Special Branch was the instrument of the Shareholders Council—which meant Talbot Cartup, who held the Council's portfolio for Security.

  The Special Branch were specialists, all right: masters at torture and the disappearances of uppity Vats. Vat political organizations were banned, and a good thing to stay away from unless you wanted to go "missing." But Chip hadn't realized that they also turned their attention to Shareholders.

  It made him feel two things: Firstly, a surprising degree of solidarity with these odd Shareholders. Secondly, a strong desire to get the hell out of here. He was a Vat and a grunt, and both of those learned very quickly to avoid trouble. This stank of it. On the other hand, he had a feeling that he was neck-deep in smelly stuff already.

  He began to add things together. "So, you mean that those two who attacked the car-guard and Mr. Fuentes were Specials?" He knew the answer. He just wanted to hear someone else say it.

  "Not to mention also being stupid enough to attack you." Stark shrugged. "We may never prove it. But the gunman's picture was on the nine o' clock news. We'll see if we get any feedback from that. And now," she said with a singularly naughty smile, "to slightly more cheery matters. This is your agent speaking. I got you a nice deal, soldier. INB has bought your story for fifty thousand dollars. The first previews and teasers are going out in half an hour with the first feature around eleven P.M. And you can spare yourself from feeling sorry for that shark Lynne Stark being taken to the cleaners, because she just sold the print story and some in-depth interviews to Interweb for thirty-eight thousand dollars, and the radio rights for a further three thousand dollars. Even after the New Fabians take their cut, you can afford to take me to dinner. At the Chez Henri-Pierre. I've booked."

  Chapter 22

  Evening in Shaw House, Virginia's rooms.

  Dr. Thom smiled urbanely at her. "Ah, Miss Virginia. And how are you?"

  Virginia, who had been having a whispered conversation with Fluff on the subject of escape not two minutes before, managed to smile back. "Fine. Happy to be home. A bit tired still. I'm craving something. Maybe coffee?"

  She could almost see the cogs ticking over in his mind. "Well, we can't give you too much, you know. It interferes with your later sleep-quality. But a little more would do no harm."

  She knew perfectly well it wasn't coffee he was thinking about. She couldn't wait to get out of his nauseating company. "Was there anything else, Doctor?"

  "There was a call today from someone who called himself 'Chip.' Do you know anyone by that name?"

  There was a crash from the bathroom.

  "Wha—?" Thom snatched the door open. Ginny grabbed the chair and lifted it, ready to bring down on his head if he caught Fluff. In a way, she was grateful for the interruption he'd provided. If Dr. Thom hadn't been distracted at that moment . . . he'd have seen her face.

  Chip! Chip was trying to phone her! In her isolation she had begun to doubt, suffered the uncertainty of any young woman about her first love. She wanted to dance.

  "Weird. There's no sign of anyone, but this glass has smashed onto the floor." He looked up at her. "It's all right, Miss Virginia. There is no one here."

  Shakily, she lowered the chair. "I must have left it on the edge of the bath! I'm sorry. It's . . . it's the kidnapping, Doctor. I have nightmares about it. You brought it back, mentioning Chip."

  She put on her hauteur, copied from memories of her mother. "He was the little Vat soldier who rescued me. What did he want?"

  "To see you," said Dr. Thom. "Don't worry. We'll tell him you're not well enough."

  She yawned. She'd perfected that. It was a nice touch, she felt. Perhaps acting was not her metier, but then, she'd decided that Thom was so vain that he would fool himself that she was falling for his patter and that all his plots worked perfectly. "I suppose I'd better see him. I suppose he'll want money. Vats always do. I'll need some, Doctor."

  He looked thoughtful. "All right. I think it will be best if he sees you very briefly. We need to allow the public to see you, at least once."

  Ginny's fingernails dug into her palms. But she managed to answer lackadaisically. "If I must." Now she wished even more desperately that he'd go. Where had Fluff hidden? Or had he reached the window in time? And she still wanted to jump and scream and dance with happiness and relief.

  Chapter 23

  The Korozhet ship's waterbath chamber.

  "High-spine." The small Orange Third-instar clacked its spines respectfully.

  Yetteth kept his eyes averted from the two Korozhet in the chamber and went on cleaning up the revolting regurgitated undigestible remains of the High-spine's meal. The flaccid furry bag that had been the Korozhet's dinner lay discarded beside her pool. He would have to carry that to the incinerators later. Hopefully he would not pass any adult Nerba slaves on the way. They tended to go insane on seeing the remains of their offspring. They couldn't attack one of the Korozhet, but he had no such protection. And while baby Nerba were soft-furred, big-eyed and harmless, the Nerba adults' hide was as tough as hull-metal, and their horns were immense.

  "Approach, Kerit. What is it?"

  "High-spine, you recall that we found out the name and unit of the human soldier who interfered with the plans of Agent Srattit and played a role in her death. Our monitoring and surveillance group have picked up the details from their newscasts. He is repeating his story. It includes the fact that Agent Srattit was responsible for the kidnap of this prestigious human, Virginia Shaw."

  The High-spine rattled with irritation. "The human called General Fredricks said this human was dead. We had asked them that he be sent to us."

  "It appears they were mistaken, High-spine. An administrative error, it seems."

  "And the humans do not kill those who make mistakes. A foolish Underphyle, like most such. Pass the information onto General Cartup-Kreutzler . . . no. Bring me a communicator."

  "At once, High-spine."

  Yetteth continued to clean up the mess from the floor-plates. Some human had irritated the Overphyle badly. He wished he could understand human. Some of the human slaves had been mind-wiped before being implanted, but some had not. If the Overphyle wanted to question them, they left their memories intact. One of those in his bunk-room still had her memories. Perhaps it would be worth the risk.

  * * *

  Jampad and rats, on the loose in an alien city.

  Darleth had realized, very rapidly, that the new rat with the tail-stump was the kind who organized. Since Ariel had joined her band they had moved, rapidly, from being an idea in a Jampad mind, with two ratty followers, to being a band of some sixty rats. They had maps, bus routes, even some strange forms of arms. There were rules, "turf," and the human means of financial exchange. What they called "money." Darleth didn't understand it too well. You'd think anyone with a printing press could make it by the bucket. It seemed to have no value in energy terms either. It burned, but not well or very hotly. Nonetheless, Ariel was collecting the stuff, with which she traded, very successfully, with a human contact.

  It was this human contact that also had given them their name. "The Ratafia." Darleth liked it. It was the name of a beautiful mountain district at home. The rats liked it, too. And while the other rats regarded the Ratafia as organized banditry, in Darleth's talks with Ariel she came to realize that Ariel did not.

  The rat was preparing a loyal army, even if their loyalty was won with drink and loot.

  That suited Darleth perfectly. She needed an army—to defend her, and maybe, somehow, to strike at the Korozhet. If only she could get around the soft-cyber bias. If only she could organize the slave-revolt they feared so.

  In the meantime, the rats had proved invaluable in obtaining suitable food. There was little enough of it in the city, it seemed. She had only smelled out a few eating places, and one shop that stocked it. And those raids were getting tougher on all of them.

  Ariel said it was called "Fresh Seafood."

/>   It could be bought too, it seemed. But Darleth knew that the rats wouldn't enjoy that nearly as much.

  And happy skirmishers were good skirmishers.

  Chapter 24

  Military Police Central Pre-trial Confinement Facility.

  A place of grayness and bars, which do not a prison make.

  Not to Ariel, anyway.

  On thinking about it, Ariel was as pleased with the new situation as anything could have made her except having Fitz out of jail. She'd learned a lot during her time spent with Fitz among humans. She knew and understood far more about how human society worked than any other rat on HAR, although the other rats provided a great deal of information about being streetwise.

  Not that that was entirely relevant any more. She had a number of humans on her payroll, now. Meilin seemed to be involved in some form of Vat organization with a number of cells. They'd been useful contacts and sale points, once Meilin had set it up. And she had a very good human clerk doing the administration. The army hadn't prosecuted Johnny Simms for helping Fitz, because that would have meant admitting that half the charges against Fitz were garbage. They'd just left Simms be. So now she had a corporal inside Military HQ, and an expert forger to boot, if she needed one. Simms was as loyal to Fitz as she was, even if—hopefully—he wasn't in love with Fitz. Simms had a wife and a newborn child, so Ariel thought she probably didn't have any competition there.

  You never could tell, though. Humans were odd.

  And Ol' Bluefur-bigteeth was a wonderful stalking horse. No rat would cheerfully take orders from another rat, but Ol' Bluefur seemed different.

  She'd been in to see Fitz today. Really, human defenses were feeble to a rat of intellect, as well as a little litheness. Capra had been there to see him too, along with a frightening looking man called Ogata. Ariel kept her head down, out of sight in her usual hiding place, and listened. She felt she could bully Mike Capra, if need be. This other man might be a lot harder.