Part 7 (2/2)

The general missed the part showing the interviews with the two ladies of the night, discussing his transvest.i.te brother-in-law's enjoyment of the rather bizarre perversion of semisuffocation. They did mention their prices for what was a very risky pastime. But General Cartup-Kreutzler was too busy trying to break into the very securely locked projection unit.

As it turned out, the DVD in the unit was amazingly bare of fingerprints.

And while the booking for the ballet trebled, it did rather change the way people regarded the art form.

”Captain?” said Fitz, looking at the bars being handed to him.

”We're out of officers,” said the colonel, grumpily. ”We lost seven including two captains and a major when we were pushed back to line three. Those troops of yours are heading for court-martial. They're not exactly refusing orders. They want you. We just lost another two officers and your NCOs pulled the men back into the trenches. And what is this story about troops fraternizing with the rats?”

For a moment Fitz thought that Ariel must have put her head out of his pocket. Then he realized what the man was getting at. ”Ah. It's a system we've evolved that works. Men have the stamina, rats the speed.”

”Well, like your crazy idea about paying them, I'm not having any of it,” said the colonel cholerically. ”Just see you that get them over the top and that you recapture line two. You've got two new second lieutenants fresh out of OCS. See what you can do, Captain Fitzhugh. Put some discipline into this lot.”

”Impossible, Talbot. He's back in combat. And Major Van Klomp is on a forced march with his men.” The general looked in disgust at the telephone. Waited for his brother-in-law to stop rabbiting on. ”There is nothing you, or even I, can do about it. Anything direct is almost certain to backfire on you now. I would certainly quietly withdraw those charges, because if the matter comes to court, you're going to end up being sued out of existence. You're a laughingstock and the best you can do is to go to that place of yours in the north and stay there. The town won't forget you in polka-dot panties for a long time.”

Candy Foster was sitting looking gloomily at the door. He hadn't been near here since it happened. Hadn't called. It was his fault, not hers. She did it because that was what he wanted. She had no real interest in s.e.x. Never had had. But it was a useful lever. So she'd panicked when he wouldn't come to after the plastic-bag thing. Her fingers had been stupid with fear and she hadn't been able to get it off. But at least she'd managed to tear the plastic, and hide that stupid leather outfit under a gown when the paramedics came. The story about Conrad had been born out of that panic. Talbot had decided to stick to it to save face. Had that ever blown up in his stupid face!

A brown envelope dropped through the letter slot in the door.

Candice opened it with trepidation. Talbot's brother-in-law's influence had stopped her getting call-up papers before. But this letter definitely began with . . .

”Greetings.”

With her academic marks she knew she'd wash out of OCS. Let it be catering or nursing services. That was where nice girls were posted. She could change her hair color and use some skin pigment. Maybe change her name too. No one would recognize her. Hopefully.

Infantry school.

8.

”They're pounding us, Captain. Going to push forward soon,” said the slight, bespectacled lance corporal.

”SmallMac! What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?”

”Transferred in. You're getting a reputation, Fitz. You keep your men alive. And you don't lose.”

It was a heavy weight to bear. ”I won't always manage to do either, Corporal McTavish,” he said quietly. He knew that in this man's case he was carrying a pregnant wife and two small children as well.

SmallMac shrugged. ”Ah, but you try to do both, Captain. That's a rarity in a Shareholder officer.”

Fitz found that, with the remnants of the rats (numerous) and the humans (few) from the collapse of the forward trenches, he had double his previous troop complement. There were only three other officers-a major who was keeping himself very busy with the troops who were furiously digging in behind them and two fresh-out-of-OCS lieutenants. He held a hasty staff meeting with them and his NCOs.

”Right, based on previous experience, we know when their artillery stops, the Maggots will come swarming.”

”You mean the Magh', Captain,” said one of the new lieutenants.

Fitz gave the snotty wet-behind-the-ears brat a look that would curdle milk. ”Lieutenant Pahad, you'd better learn to speak the language that your men speak, or you'll be a mortality statistic. While I'm on the subject-Sergeant Major, I want you to detail a veteran NCO to each of these new officers. You two-” he pointed at them in their new, crisp BDUs with their new, s.h.i.+ny pips- ”will listen to those men. Take advice from them before you give any orders, if you have time.”

Pahad drew himself up. ”How are we supposed to establish authority under those conditions, Captain?”

Fitz noticed that the other youngster had said nothing. For his sake, and the sake of the men this young idiot would command, he continued. ”Lieutenant Pahad. Does the term 'frag' mean anything to you?”

”No, Captain, it does not,” the man said stiffly.

”It's an old combat word. One my father told me about. From a long-ago war on old Earth. Unpopular officers who went into combat usually had a fragmentation grenade dropped into their pockets-a few seconds before it exploded. Our troops are combat veterans. They'll take orders or they wouldn't have survived. What they won't take is c.r.a.p from wet-behind-the-ears ignoramuses who know nothing about real fighting. The average life of a soldier on the front is about forty days. The average life of a second lieutenant is half that. If you're stupid enough to think that that is coincidental . . . then you're a dead man walking. Now, I don't personally give a s.h.i.+t if you get killed. But if the NCOs in your unit tell me you wasted a single troop's life through your arrogance . . . you'd better be dead. Because I'll kill you before my troops do. Is that clear?”

The lieutenant gaped at him. But Fitz noticed that the other one nodded.

”Ahem.” The sergeant major cleared his throat. ”What you may not know, sir, is that the captain here has the best Maggot-kill rate we know of. He's also known to be an absolute b.a.s.t.a.r.d-pardon my saying so, sir-” he nodded at Fitz- ”at weapons and fitness drill. He's also got the best troop survival rate on the front. Most of his men are veterans. And we get volunteers wanting to serve under him. That's a first for the hottest sector on the front. You're privileged to serve here, son.” Which, as the sergeant major was perhaps two years older than Pahad, was not unamusing.

Fitz stopped the incipient reply with a finger. ”Right. Enough of this. If you have any problems with me, Lieutenant, see me afterward. If we live through this, you can go and complain to the colonel. In the meanwhile, you will spend the next eight weeks on the front lines.”

”If you survive that long,” muttered SmallMac.

Fitz pretended he hadn't heard him. The white-lipped lieutenant certainly had. ”Now, I've told Ariel to get the rats to work as the rats in my old command did. Two rats per human. The rest will be split into three groups, Sergeant Major, two cover groups and a backup. For each cover group I want two strong, fit, experienced soldiers. They'll be carrying heavy loads of rations and sugar for the rats. I want fast packhorses with brains. For the third group I want light, fast troops, twenty of them. They're our backup and, if we get a chance, our spearhead group. I want troops who can run.”

”Sah! I'll confer with the platoon sergeants and have them a.s.sembled.”

”Do that. And tell the troops the first one to cause trouble or bad feeling with the rats is going to answer to me, personally. Now, medics . . .”

At three that afternoon, the Magh' guns fell silent. And the fighting began. They came in waves over the top. They came in columns out of tunnels. And they seemed to be only hitting Fitz's patch of the line. It was obvious that they intended to push the weakened front into a beachhead. The Magh', it appeared, did not know the meaning of ”retreat” or ”fear.”

They learned the meaning of ”die.”

Fitz nearly learned it himself. Lieutenant Pahad did. As Sergeant Anderson said, the Maggots had merely saved the captain trouble. But toward dusk the attack began to slow down. The last wave was more of a splash than a wave. As the Magh' artillery began to cut loose again, the rats and troops in Fitz's third group, with him at their head, went over the top. Moving as fast as a slows.h.i.+eld would allow, taking advantage of the Magh's weaker eyesight, they pushed into the human-abandoned old second line. The Magh' here were few and far between. Obviously the creatures had thrown everything at the human line. How fast they could move more troops up to fill the gap was an unknown. But the old line two was not under artillery bombardment. Fitz began to move men and rats forward. He rested them in the relative tranquillity of the comparatively easily recaptured line. The Magh' had moved their artillery forward in antic.i.p.ation of the human line falling. Now, rather like Drake and the Spanish Armada, Fitz realized his men were too close to be fired on. If he had reinforcements now, he could keep pus.h.i.+ng, maybe even to the Magh' force field edge. Only one ma.s.sive human a.s.sault had managed that in the past, at vast cost in lives and materiel.

Fitz got on the radio to sector headquarters.

”Colonel Brown.”

”Try and hold them a bit longer, Fitzhugh,” said the colonel. ”We've almost got the earthworks finished for the new trenches. And the attacks usually slack off at dusk.”

”Sir. We've held them off. In fact, we've retaken the old line two. I've got my troops working on repairs right now.”

”What? Impossible!” huffed the colonel, sounding less than grateful. ”It must have been less of an attack than we'd expected.”

<script>