Eric Flint - Rats ,Bats and Vats

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Rats, Bats and Vats

by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this

book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely

coincidental.

thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31940-X

Cover art by Bob Eggleton

Interior maps by Randy Asplund

First printing, September 2000

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Freer, Dave.

Rats, bats & vats / by Dave Freer & Eric Flint.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-671-31940-X

1. Human-animal relationships -- Fiction. 2. Revolutionaries -- Fiction.

I. Title: Rats, bats, and vats. II. Flint, Eric. III. Title.

PS3556.R3935 R37 2000

813'.54 -- dc21 00-040370

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

To the world's grunts

Also by Dave Freer:

The Forlorn

Also by Eric Flint:

Mother of Demons

1632

The Belisarius series, with David Drake:

An Oblique Approach

In the Heart of Darkness

Destiny's Shield

Fortune's Stroke

The Federation of the Hub series,

by James H. Schmitz

edited by Eric Flint:

Telzey Amberdon

T'NT: Telzey & Trigger

Trigger & Friends

(forthcoming)

Acknowledgments

by Dave Freer

This book owes a great deal to the advice of several people: Conrad Chu, for

his tolerant explanations of technical aspects, our fellow author John Ringo

for his input on military matters, and Aubrey Rautenbach for his patient

advice on tractors and cropsprayers. I must also thank my longsuffering

biologist/scientist peers, Drs. Ware, Wolber, Baker, Collins and Hawkes, for

their help in solving the biological conundrums involved in building alien

biosystems. Any errors are ours, not theirs. In addition to this, many of the

great crowd at Baen's Bar (http://www.baen.com) helped with suggestions and

snippets of information.

Two other people need especial thanks: my wife Barbara, and Kathy Holton, my

proofreader. Between the two of them they turn my English into something

readable, before I turn my pages over to Eric. Barbs also exercises enormous

restraint and tolerance with a husband who lives in an alien world half the

time.

Finally, I'd like to thank my friend and writing mentor, Eric (the Bear)

Flint. Countless e-mail discussions, the chapters being passed to-and-fro, and

not a few international calls, made this book -- and also made it great fun to

write. The constant sparking off each other produced a book I could never have

written alone.

Dave Freer

Eshowe

KwaZulu-Natal

South Africa

November 11, 1999

Dramatis Personae

Hominidae

CHIP, A Vat-grown conscript. A thing of rags and tatters.

GINNY, A damsel of high degree; and a secret.

FITZHUGH, The very model of a modern major.

Rattae

FAL, Great of appetite. Small of martial rigor.

DOLL, A rattess of negotiable virtue.

PHYLLA, A rattess. Though cattish of tongue.

MELENE, A rat-damsel of acumen, and a very attractive tail.

PISTOL, A rat-at-arms. One-eyed.

NYM, A giant among rats; and mechanically bent.

"DOC," A ratly philosopher and medic.

ARIEL, A rattess of fell repute. Fond of model majors.

Battae

BRONSTEIN, She-bat who must be obeyed.

SIOBHAN, A fussy mother-bat.

O'NIEL, A plump bat; but a true soul.

BEHAN, A loyal batty.

EAMON, A large and dangerous bat. And disgruntled.

Et Alia

PROF, Tutor to Ginny; remarkably like a sea urchin.

FLUFF, A galago, confused with Don Quixote.

And a supporting cast of: one Jampad, various stalwarts, innumerable fools,

and several million villainous Magh'.

[[Insert 2 maps here]]

Prologue:

A successful experiment.

THE EXPEDITER LISTENED in silence. With difficulty, it managed to remain

motionless. The Expediter was in the middle of its sex-interphase and the

hormonal changes always made it irritable. That irritability interfered with

its logical thought processes. The Expediter did not want to act out of simple

aggravation.

Should it continue to prevaricate?

Lying was possible, of course, especially to such as these. Primitive

creatures, really, the female as much as the male. But the Expediter thought

that it would still be very difficult. Any explanation as to why the starship

had left so hastily would seem contrived -- even to the two stupid beings who

were bombarding the Expediter with their clamor.

The Expediter pondered the matter for some time before coming to its

conclusion.

No. Further prevarication would hardly be worth the effort. Besides, the

Expediter thought that it was time to discover how well the protease haemato-

toxin affected this species.

The dart-spines targeted, ocelli orientating them to center on the soft,

bulging midriff-masses. The two beings in the room made no attempt to escape.

They simply continued their babble. Apparently, they did not recognize the

purpose of the spines. An interesting datum.

Razor-tipped, barbed harpoon-darts streaked out, each trailing their

protoplasm hose. The skewering force of the darts cut into the gold head-

filamented female in mid-shrill. Her bleat became a scream as the Expediter's

internal myomeres pumped the massive dose of digestive-toxin into the soft-

bodies.

The creatures threshed. The Expediter studied the ensuing process with

interest.

Cell-lysis caused the circulatory fluids to pour out of the eating and scent-

detection orifices. The soft, pallid epidermis ulcerated and erupted, spraying

liquefied flesh. The bipedal beings were now twisting and writhing in bizarre

contortions.

Another interesting datum. The Expediter had not realized that their vertebral

columns could bend as far as that. Endoskeletons were strange biological

adaptations. It made a note of that flexibility.

The Expediter watched as lysis continued. A full two minutes passed before the

bodies finally lay still. Also worth noting. The digestive-toxin was not

rapid, but it was effective. That, of course, was to be expected. The

Overphyle had yet to discover a sentient species immune to it.

The Expediter disengaged the barbs of its harpoon darts, pulled them out and

winched them back into itself. Then, after a moment's hesitation, decided not

to feed. It was not particularly hungry, and there was always a slight risk

with ingesting untested alien protein.

Multiple ocelli checked the room. Other than the two sprawled, bloody, ruined

bodies there were no signs of the Expediter's passage.

Calmly, it left, locking the door behind it. In the silent and luxuriously

appointed room, the only trace that remained of the murderer's identity was a

faint camphor-naphthalene scent. That would dissipate within a few minutes.

The Expediter itself was quite oblivious to the smell, but it hardly mattered.

By the time the servants found the bodies, the odor would be indistinguishable

from the general reek.

Chapter 1:

Under Enemy Attack.

DOWN IN THE BUNKER the music issuing from Chip Connolly's small portable radio

stopped. "We interrupt this broadcast of Forces-Favorite Radio with a

newsflash. The bodies of the Chairman of the Board, Aloysius Shaw, and his

wife, Gina, were found by household staff in an advanced state of

decomposition. Despite this, servants claim that the Chief Executive

Shareholder had been alive five hours previously. Foul play is suspected.

Police are following definite leads and several suspects are being held for

questioning."

Chip sat up. "I'll be damned," he muttered. There was no noticeable chagrin in

his voice. "Somebody up and killed the rotten -- "

He broke off, feeling the ground shake. A moment later, the bunker rumbled

with thunder. Dust and dirt showered down from the roof. Chip sighed. Clearly,

the lull in the bombardment was over.

Another shake and rumble, and dirt showered down on them again. Some sifted

onto Chip's face. One of the other soldiers in the bunker sneezed in the

darkness. They were being softened up for an advance. For the three hours

prior to that brief lull, he hadn't heard anything much except for the endless

pounding thunder of Magh' artillery.

Silence.

Shit! That meant -- Chip flicked the infrared headlight on, just in time to

see the whole wall behind Lieutenant Rosetski, Dermott and Mack cave in on top

of them.

Out of the billowing dust stormed the stuff of nightmares: Magh'.

They were a variety of creatures designed to shred soft bodies. Their white

pseudo-chitin armor gleamed and their chelicerae snapped angrily. Then the air

was full of shouting and squeaking. In the wild, confused melee, headlight

beams danced in the dusty air, as more and more of the invaders piled in.

The Maggot arrowscorp nearly got him. Chip rolled frantically, barely getting

clear, thrusting his blade out sideways. The stupid scorp slid straight onto

the Solingen steel. It wasn't standard issue, that knife. It was a real

twenty-first-century chef's knife from Old Earth, which Chip had stolen from

his employer's kitchen the day before he had reported to boot camp.

Good thing he had, too. The official crap the soldiers were issued wouldn't

even have penetrated. The colony's steel plant would have been at home in

1870. With a standard-issue blade he'd have been dead already. Instead, Chip

was able to enjoy the experience of having an arrowscorp slowly pressing down

onto him, snapping its jaws eight inches from his face, about to kill him in,

oh, maybe ten seconds or so.

The spine-tail streaked forward, barely missing his twisting shoulder with its

venomous barb. Chip managed to grab it, just behind the stinger, and cling to

the slippery, leathery pseudo-chitin. Corrosive venom dripped, inches from his

arm. The Solingen steel slid slowly through some more Maggot, then stopped

against a joint ridge-thickening. The Maggot's ichor dribbled off his wrist

and into the dust as the creature pressed down onto him.

The back-edged jaws were only inches off his face now. The creature writhed,

jaws snapping air just in front of him. Chip couldn't let go, and he couldn't

win. In the clatter-clatter and effort-grunts of hand, claw and tooth combat,

somebody screamed in a terrible, tearing agony. A scorp sting had obviously

gone home.

"Help me!" another shrill voice shrieked above the tumult.

It sounded like a rat. Hell and buggery! He couldn't even help himself! Sweat

was lubricating the hand that clung to the scorp's tail. Any moment now and

he'd be screaming too . . .

Suddenly, his headlight silhouetted a batwing flutter, then highlighted a

clash of inch-long white-white fangs in an evil, black squashed-pigsnout face.

The scorp went limp, its ganglion-ladder severed.

Chip shoved it away, gasping. "Thanks, Michaela!"

"Moronic, useless, be-damned Primate!" Michaela Bronstein fluttered off,

dodging other reaching and snapping claws with ease.

"Get it offa me!" groaned a smothered voice from the dusty darkness. Chip's

searching headlight showed a long tail protruding from under a St. Bernard-

sized armored burrower. The stocky soldier heaved the dead Maggot aside by the

telson. A long-snouted plump rat-shape, as big as a small siamese cat,

scrambled hastily out from under, with its red-tipped fangs exposed in a

wicked, lean-jawed grin.

The rat leaped at Chip's throat, moving in a twisting maelstrom of teeth and

raking claws. Sudden shreds flew . . . from the joint of the saw-edged

pedipalp that had been about to take Chip's head off. The rat had disabled one

claw, but the other claw would soon snap the rat. Chip's Solingen steel proved

its quality again, slicing an exact "X" into the double ventral ganglion knot

of the attacking Maggot. A quick, neat, precise job, like carving tomato

roses.

"Shee . . . yit! That was nearly my head," panted Chip. He and the rat both

scrambled clear of the falling Maggot.

Long insectivore teeth gleamed. "You owe me a beer, Connolly. Make it two.

I've got a nice bit of tail I'd like to share it with."

"Bullshit! You owe me, Fal -- "

The air boomed and fragments ricocheted off Chip's slowshield. Great! thought

Chip, with relief. One of the bat-bombardiers must have blown the Maggot

access tunnel. Now at least they only had to deal with what was already inside

the bunker. Chip stumbled over something in the dust and darkness. Fell.

Landed hard.

"Get your sorry whoreson ass offa my tail," chittered a feminine voice in the

darkness. "You useless effing bread-chipper!" Chip scrambled to his feet. He'd

rather fight Maggots than Phylla. That was one mean rat-girl!

Then, with a slow creaking groan, the main roofbeam fell in. Either the

demolition charge or the Maggot tunnel must have undermined its support. Earth

and roofing material descended, in a tons-heavy avalanche. Chip grabbed the

rat-girl and dived for the far wall.

In the creaking darkness a rat voice griped, "Malmsey-nosed whoremasters. My

pack is somewhere under that lot."

The air was so full of dust, you could shovel the stuff. Chip coughed and felt

about for his dislodged headlight. Rats and bats could manage in the total

darkness. The bats had their sonar and the rats -- built from a mix of

elephant shrew, shrew and rat genes -- could just about read by scent, and had

keen hearing to boot. Humans still needed implanted infrared lenses and

headlights. Maggots might have keen hearing, feelers and scent sensors, but

were plainly blind to infrared. It was one small advantage.

"Anyone got a headlight there?" Chip asked softly. A Maggot could nail him so

fast now. He still had his knife . . . but it was no use poking blindly at

Maggots. He knew he had to cut precisely, and that he'd only have one chance.

He wouldn't have said "no thanks" to his standard issue bangstick, an assegai

with a cartridge set into the blade. It wasn't a great weapon, but it allowed

some margin of error. It was a lot better than the rest of the issue crap: a

stupid little ice axe thing and a trench knife you couldn't slice baloney

with.

The slowship which had settled the planet of Harmony And Reason had taken the

colonists out of the network of industries which twenty-second century

technology needed to support its complexity. So, except for the clone units on

the ship, the colonists were back at self-sustaining tech levels. From the

manufacturing point of view, that meant nineteenth to early twentieth century.

Which meant no mono-molecular edged knives.

Chip had once tried to tell an officer -- a Shareholder, naturally -- why the

thing was effing useless compared to his own. In typical officer fashion the

jerk had told him to shut up, and demanded to know where his regulation trench

knife was. After all, what could a veteran grunt know about fighting Maggots?

Much less than some still-wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant, of course.

Still, the bangsticks worked. When you pushed them into the right bit of

Maggot, that is. He really wouldn't have minded having his. It must be buried

back there somewhere. . . .

He tried again. "Anyone got a light?"

Nobody replied from the darkness. But at least there were no Maggot scritch-

scritch noises either.

"Who else is in here?" he asked, daring to speak slightly louder. He strained

to hear one particular voice, hoping . . .

He'd seen the wall come down on Dermott. The slowshield would have protected

her from the debris, but had she managed to get out before the roof came down?

"I' faith. I am, and so is someone who is lying on me."

"Sorry . . . Doll? Is that you?" It was the same rat voice which had been

bemoaning its missing pack.

"Yes 'tis I, you fat swasher. I should have known by the familiar weight that

it was you, Fal."

Chip cleared his throat, trying to clear away the constricting fear. "Let's

have a roll call, guys."

"Piss off. Who do you think you are?" said another male-rat voice. Chip could

tell, even in the dark. The male rats always had their vocal synthesizers

adjusted to a low pitch, in the attempt to sound like real he-rats.

"I'm Connolly, rat. I'm a human, see. That means you take my orders."

"You've got more chance of falling pregnant, Connolly," groused the same

voice. "You're not a whoreson officer, you're just a vatbrat."

Chip ground his teeth. There hadn't been a human reply yet. "Rat, I will pull

your tail off, and then shove it down your throat until it comes out of your

ass, if you give me any more lip. Now, who else is in here?"

There came a chorus of voices:

"BombardierBat Siobhan Illich-Hill."

"BombardierBat Longfang O'Niel."

"BombardierBat Cuchulain Behan."

As always, Chip thought the sound of an Irish accent coming out of their voice

synthesizers was ludicrous, but the bats insisted on it.

"It is delusions of grandeur I think the human has," said another bat-Irish

voice, leaden with resentment.

"Do you now, Eamon? Well, I think it is you who have the delusions. This is

Senior BombardierBat Michaela Bronstein, Connolly."

Chip was relieved to hear Bronstein's voice. In some ways, he thought Michaela

was even crazier than the other bats, but at least he'd always been able to

get along with her.

"And, seeing as you want to know, I'm Melene, gorgeous." A rat-girl voice.

"Phylla. You flung me here." That rat-girl didn't sound too charmed about it.

But Phylla was usually in a foul mood.

"Doll Tearsheet -- at your service."

"Not right now, Doll." Fat Falstaff sounded more cheerful already.

"Shut up, Fal. I know you're here. Anybody else?" Chip hoped for a human voice

. . .

"Nym."

"Pistol."

"Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel."

Despite the name, that was a rat too. "Doc," as everybody else called him, was

the platoon's medic.

Rats. Rats and bats. Chip felt for his torch again. Maybe he could see her.

Then a bat voice said, "Try the other side of you, indade."

The bat-Irish idiom, as always, grated on Chip's nerves. "Why can't you just

say 'indeed,' dammit?" he muttered, as he began feeling around. "Stupid

friggin' affectation . . ."

The voice, still as heavily accented as ever, clarified the location: "About a

foot from your knee."

He felt there. Encountered the hard roundness of his torch. Felt for the

switch. On. There was no light, but he'd done enough globe changes in total

darkness to manage to fix that, a lot faster than soldiers had once been able

to fieldstrip their rifles. The light stabbed out through the hanging dust.

No Maggots. In the narrow uncaved-in section of what had been their bunker, a

handful of rats and a cluster of bats pressed against the sandbag-wall. There

were no other human survivors with them. Already one plump rat was scrabbling

aside pieces of debris.

"Gotta find my pack. It's got my grog in it!" hissed fat Fal, digging

frantically. "Damn near a full bottle too."

Two of the other rats hastily got up to join him.

"Oh, aye, that's right," said a bat sarcastically. O'Niel, that was. "Bring

the rest of the roof down on all of us in your mad search for the daemon

drink."

Fal, the paunchy rat, simply grubbed harder. "It's dig or die sober," he said

with grim humor. "Besides, I might find someone. Maybe a grateful bit of

tail."

"Yep. Only one thing worse than dying sober. That would be to die a virgin,"

said his villainous one-eyed companion, Pistol, nimbly jumping clear of a

cascade of earth.

"Ha, Pistol, as if your puissant pike ever found a rat maiden that had

despaired of winning a rat's affection . . ."

"What we observe here is the moral quandary inherent in the empiricist

approach to -- "

"Oh, put a sock in it, Doc," Pistol said.

A flash of Chip's headlight showed him a rat with a daft pince-nez made of

scrap wire perched on his long nose, also digging. That was the weird Georg

Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel. That rat proved sanity was not necessary for

survival.

Georg Wilhelm Friedrich was a soft-cyber experiment who had been drafted in

when things got dire. Somebody had told Chip that Doc had been the product of

load-tolerance tests on the vocabulary unit ROM of the alien-built cybernetic

enhancement chips. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich had gotten a download of the whole

of Hegel's Phenomenology of Spirit and Science of Logic into his ratty brain,

along with a mass of other philosophical claptrap.

The result: the loony medic seemed to think he was a rat reincarnation of

Georg W. F. Hegel. A reincarnation, mind you, in the body of a genetically

engineered creature the size of a small cat, built on the genetic blueprint of

an elephant shrew, with add-ons from real shrews and rats. Yes. Crazy. Chip

thought it came of having alien hardware in their heads.

At least the rest of the rats in his unit had just gotten downloaded with

Shakespeare plays, Gilbert and Sullivan and, for no reason Chip could imagine,

a reading of Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday. Of course, ratty nature saw to it

that they identified with the lowlifes and not the heroes, even in blasted

Shakespeare. No Hamlets and King Lears here! But plenty of rogues and merry

wives. As Fal said: they had been at a great feast of languages and stolen the

scraps.

Fortunately the language units only picked out words from the material for the

speech synthesizers. But the occasional phrases popped up, too. Usually, the

rats being what they were, insults.

Chip shook his head. Musing about rat-language at a time like this? He knew,

deep inside, it was because he didn't want to think about something else.

Still, there was a chance, a desperately small chance. . . . He got up, and

started pulling fallen material aside himself. He worked as fast as he could.

There might still be survivors. Their personal slowshields would stop sudden

impact, but couldn't resist the slow, steady pressure.

But, for all the haste with which they worked, and the badinage, Chip and his

companions were alert. There was always a chance they'd dig up a live Maggot

too.

"What about sober and a virgin?" said Chip to the tail end of the burrowing

Fal, as he lifted a beam to allow Nym to get in to the next section. The only

human they'd seen so far -- the lieutenant -- hadn't been alive. But Chip

hadn't been looking for him anyway.

"You're as bad as these other useless rowdy, lecherous drunks," said Melene,

one of the three surviving rat-girls. She was also digging. It sounded as if

she approved of lecherous drunks.

Chip managed a decent grin. He wasn't really in the mood for this, but he'd

learned how to get along with the rats. "Just a lot more expensive to get

drunk so that you can have your wicked way with me, Mel."

This provoked a snort -- of amusement from the rats and disgust from the bats.

"I' faith, when it comes to drinking, Fat Fal will give you a run for your

money," said Doll, reputed to be the baddest rat-girl in the army. She would

know.

"Fal?" demanded Chip. "Run for my money? Run! Fal! Come on! Be reasonable. He

gets exhausted picking his teeth."

"Listen . . ." snapped one of the bats. "They're coming. Quiet!"

There was silence. Chip's less-than-cybershrew- or batborg-keen ears could

hear nothing. Yet obviously, the others could. After a few seconds it came, at

first a faint whisper, then growing and growing. Arthropod clicking. The sound

of myriad upon myriad Maggot clawfeet, passing right above them. If they made

any noise now, the Maggot-diggers would come through the roof. All they could

do was wait, knowing that their comrades might possibly still be alive under

the debris. Knowing too that, with each passing moment, the chances for any

buried friends diminished.

Chapter 2:

Really under enemy attack.

THE TRAMP-SCRITCH-TRAMP went on and on for hours. They were plainly right

underneath a big Magh' push.

Trapped.

Chip could do nothing but sit in the darkness, conserving his torch power

pack. He thought of sun and light and air. He couldn't help but think of the

dead. Friends. Comrades-in-arms. And . . .

Dermott. Damn!

Here he was, as far as he knew the last surviving human in this hole. If he

had to be honest with himself, Chip knew that they had no chance of getting

out of here. It was a thought you pushed aside or you cracked up. He'd had to

push aside the memory of death and the hope of survival so many times. After

all, he'd been a conscript for seven months now. It felt like seven years. In

this war he was a combat veteran. A conscript's lifespan in the front lines

was usually less than three weeks.

Buddies were close, and yet . . . you kept your distance. You didn't want to

get too close. Still, this time . . . he'd like to see another live human

face. Dermott's, especially, but any human would be better than none. If push

came to shove, Chip would even settle for a goddamn officer. Even if the alien

soft-cyber enhanced rats and bats, with all their goofy attitudes and ideas,

were still more his kind of folk than those sons-of-Shareholders were, he'd

still like to see a living human again. . . .

Hell, he might as well wish for one with an hourglass figure too. And a few

beers. A steak as thick as both his thumbs . . . Huh. He was getting more like

one of the damn rats by the day.

The air was hot and stale in this hole. But at least the noises from above had

begun to change.

"They're building." The low bat-whisper was the first thing besides Maggot

susurration and his own quiet breathing and heartbeat that Chip had heard for

hours now. He recognized Bronstein's voice easily enough. Despite the generic

similarity of all the voices produced by the synthesizers, each rat and bat

still managed to maintain a distinctive tone.

Chip ground his teeth. Maggot tunnels above them! Maggot tunnels could be

miles wide and five hundred yards high. "Look, we've got to get out of here.

We're gonna run out of air and suffocate soon anyway."

"We'd be foine if it wasn't for the primate using two-thirds of the oxygen,"

grumbled a bat. That was Behan, surly as usual. "Still, we should be able to

start diggin' out now. Those builder-digger Maggots are really stupid. When I

was in that mole in Operation Zemlya, we popped out right next to them. All

they did was stand around and get butchered."

"When who starts digging?" sneered Fal. "You damn flyboys can't dig." The rat

heaved his corpulent form upright. "Who does all the work around here, and why

do we, hey, flyboy glamour-puss?"

"Work! 'Tis ignorant of the concept you rats are!" snapped the big male bat.

He called himself Eamon Jugash . . . something or other. Chip couldn't

remember. Or see the point. Bats didn't really have decent jugs, after all.

But that was bats for you. Bats always chose mile-long pretentious names for

themselves, to replace their official Society-issued numbers. What Chip

principally remembered about this one was that Big Dermott had said that that

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Rats,BatsandVatsbyDaveFreerandEricFlintThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright(c)2000byDaveFreer&EricFlintAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABae...

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