IN HIS SMALL DINGY basement office, Major Conrad Fitzhugh sat staring gloomily at his desk. On one side was a tottering pile of book-disks, and on the other the pile of new grim paper reports from the front. As usual he was working late.
The military history and strategy book pile told him they were doomed to lose this war. Fitzhugh had known that from first-hand observation, even without the terrible confirmation hidden in the nondescript report language of the paper stack.
He hadn't really needed to read the books. What the book pile told him was that high command's strategy was outdated and ridiculous. Even twenty-five hundred years ago Sun Tzu had established more sensible premises. The other thing the book pile had shown him was that, historically, the military had made just these same mistakes time after time.
In particular, the descriptions of Earth's First World War were eerily familiar. But Harmony And Reason just didn't have the manpower, not even with rat and bat troops, to slug it out with the Magh' as the damn Korozhet advised.
And it seemed things weren't about to change. When Shaw had been killed, Fitzhugh had been sure things would get better at last. He'd thought that without Shaw and his cronyism they'd surely get a new General Staff.
Hah. How wrong could he have been? The next tier of major Shareholders was now bickering about sharing out the spoils. This war was just something to profit from. Didn't the stupid bastards see this was the road to perdition? As for the General Staff . . . Well, they might get a new overall commander, but Carrot-up had been doing his scurrying and brown-nosing too well. He looked set to rise.
God damn them all.
The little Vat corporal burst into his office as fast as the gammy leg that kept him out the front-lines could carry him. "Major Fitzhugh! Sir! This just came in! It's sector Delta 355 again—Look!" He thrust a printout of a satellite picture under the major's nose.
The major stared at it. The shark's grin spread across the ruined visage. "Yesss! Hey, Ariel! Come and have a look at this."
Ariel hopped across from her terminal in the ballet leap that rats were capable of.
The picture showed a blossom of flame in the dark Magh'-held landscape. After examining the pic, Ariel showed her teeth. "Something just went bang. Deep, deep inside Maggot turf."
The major turned to the Vat. "Johnny, I want daylight pics—close-ups—and if you can get an infrared scan . . ."
The corporal pulled a face. "I'll try, sir."
Major Fitzhugh knew what that meant. The satellite-monitoring staff wasn't going to accept those requests from a mere Vat-clerk. He stood up, plucked a bangstick from the corner, and held it like an old, old friend. "Come on, Ariel, Johnny. Let's go and persuade them a bit. Some of ours must be alive and fighting in there."
"Could just have been an accident, sir." The corporal's tone showed how much he hoped he was wrong.
"How much money do you want to put on it?" asked Fitz. His fearsome smile hadn't wavered an inch.
"Don't bet with him," said Ariel from her pocket perch. "He cheats."
The major snorted. "I thought you were on my side, Ariel."
Ariel looked up at him and fluttered her rat-eyelashes. "I am, darling, but Johnny Simms gives me chocolates too."
Fitz assumed a stern expression. "He's trying to usurp your affections. I'll have his stripes."
The corporal just grinned. The odd-looking trio moved through the corridors at a speed they hadn't mustered for six months.
"Where is Captain Dulache, by the way?" Fitzhugh's smile was now utterly sharklike.
"Off sick again, sir," said the corporal, his voice carefully bare of expression. "A strained leg muscle, I believe."
"Ah. Such a pity we'll miss his wise counsel." Fitzhugh clucked his tongue. "Brutal sport, polo."