"NEXT TIME YOU want to use glue, for the holy Mary's sake don't use it when we're going to double back. It was a foine idea, but messy." "Preparing" Molotovs was making O'Niel positively loquacious. But the bits of sticky Maggot flying off the wheels were obviously upsetting him.
Melene fastidiously wiped her fur. "Yes. My pelt doesn't look fit to be seen dead in."
The tractor started pushing its way back into the adobe debris. Chip shook himself. "Good thing they'll probably skin us when they catch us then, huh? Come on. All off! You lot clear some of this stuff."
"Methinks you can get off and clear stuff," said Nym. "I'll drive."
"Oh, come on!" said Chip impatiently.
"No. It makes good sense," said Bronstein. "You humans are bigger. Besides, I have heard that those who spend all their time sitting behind tables become constipated. We must do our bit for your digestion. Get to it."
"Huh?"
Ginny started to giggle. "Chip, you said `desk jockeys are full of shit.' Soft-cyber translation can be a bit literal. Come on. In first gear, the tractor won't run away from you. And Bronstein's right."
Chip sighed. "I suppose we are bigger."
At least four voices said, "No, we mean you're full of shit."
Chip hopped down, and started hauling adobe pieces. "It's just bits of sticky Maggot, honest."
The push through the area they'd blasted earlier had taken longer than Chip had anticipated. Maybe Doc was right and this was a very sophisticated trap. All he knew was it had taken a hot sweaty twenty minutes to dig their way out. And they were not more than a minute late, at that. Ten minutes earlier and they'd have had a clear run. As it was the Maggots were at least either ahead or behind. But not very far behind. It was obvious that Papa-Maggot was calling all his children home. Or maybe, by the way they were running, Mama-Maggot. All the children, back to the middle of the hive.
That was about all that had saved them. There were just so many Magh' that the warrior types couldn't get through. Tractors, while wonderful vehicles in many ways, were not known for rapid acceleration. And there were just too many Maggots to fight off. But they got in each other's way. Then Ginny had the bright idea of playing "roll-the-barrel" with a half-empty twenty-five-liter diesel drum. It was a great knock-on game.
Thus the few scorps who reached the tractor were possible to fend off as the tractor gathered speed. The creatures were determined, though. Fire used to cause pandemonium. Molotovs still fried them, of course, but it was just bug-popping now—noisier and more splattery than popcorn. They came on, as if driven. Barbed wire was simply trodden down, along with the unfortunate Maggots entangled in it.
Eamon looked regretfully back. "Indade, a pity we can't mist-and-burn this bedamned passage. Stop them catching up on us, now that they know where we are."
O'Niel dropped wire-loop Maggot caltrops. "Aye. If they do catch up we'll be the mayit in the sandwich."
"Methinks I've never tried it in a sandwich," said Doll, with a bit of regret.
"Open the tap on the trailer. The stuff will burn anyway, even if it isn't misted," said Chip.
Bronstein nodded. "True. Let's set a few more expedient mines, eh Chip?"
Chip shook his head. "I don't think we can stop. We'll have to drop the stuff, and you'll have to fly to catch up."
"Okay. We'll do just that. You—Fluff! Open the tap." The galago looked at Bronstein and went off to comply. A minute later, a sack of fertilizer and a drum of diesel narrowly missed the tiny hidalgo's delicate ears. He ducked—getting splashed by the brandy river—while avoiding a bundle of hinged cartridge planks.
"Fluff, I do like the aftershave," said Melene, when he reappeared. "But Bronstein said, `please close it now.' "
The galago shook his head, mournfully. "My best, she is done. Already I have tried with great effort. The tap, she leaks."
Ginny clung with one hand to the ropes of the wildly swaying trailer. Her feet were carefully tangled in the cargo netting that she and Chip had tied there . . . several lifetimes ago. The abrasive, bumpy Maggot-tunnel floor blurred past as she struggled to close the tap. The alcohol must have gotten to the seals . . . hardly surprising, really. It was close to rocket fuel, as she well remembered. A thin stream of seventy-four percent trailed behind them, despite her best efforts with the recalcitrant tap. If she fell now she'd be dragged to hamburger meat.
She managed to pull herself up. "It will not be stopped!"
"Oh . . ."
Bats came hurtling in, and of course the explosion followed.
Then the hot wind came rushing along the tunnel . . . the alcohol wasn't rapidly going woof as it had when atomized. Instead it was burning steadily. Looking back on their curving trail she saw that even if the Maggots weren't catching them . . . the flames were. A little firetrail was leaping and hopping down the path laid by the leaking tap.
"Flames are catching up with us!" yelled Nym.
Chip risked a glance backwards, nearly sending the tractor into the wall. "Stop the alcohol!" he shouted. "If those flames catch up with the trailer, it'll blow us to shit!"
Ginny resolutely stuck both feet into the cargo net again, and lowered herself over. Facing out, back the way they'd come. Then she let go with her first hand, and then the second. The ends of her long hair swept through the dust as she cupped both hands under the tap. She knew that all she had to do was to break that alcohol line, but hanging by her heels, seeing the flames leap closer, was terrifying. The trailer bounced and the libation in her cupped hands spilled. A small stick-up knob of Magh' adobe plucked violently at her hair. Her legs and feet screamed with the effort.
And then a huge force plucked her upright. Hauled her onto the top of the trailer. All he'd been able to reach was the front of her blouse, which would never be the same again.
"Are you fucking crazy?" Chip shouted into her face. "You could have killed yourself! You silly little idiot!" Then he dived forward to help Pistol, who was attempting to restrain Nym's driving efforts.
Well! Apparently he did care . . .
Bronstein flung herself into flight. "Come on, Siobhan. Let us see if we can get ahead of these speeding lunatics. See what joys lie in store for us."
Ginny peered at the GPS figures. Less than a half a mile to go! She looked at her spiky-haired, stubble-faced love, his face dirty and sweat streaked, his gaze intent on the tunnel-road.
He wasn't very tall, she had to admit, and his torn-sleeved shirt showed arms that were more sinew and scar tissue than beautifully sculpted muscle. Well, he might not be the cover picture from her favorite romance. Actually the thought of him in elegant Regency knee-smalls and a swallow-tailed coat . . . was enough to provide her with a welcome snort of laughter. She'd never again be able to imagine a romantic figure in quite the same way.
He glanced at her and she smiled. And he smiled back.
She was looking at him. He could feel it, and it made him feel guilty. He had had no call to shout at her like that. It had just come out. She really was a good kid for a Shareholder. In fact it was hard to believe that she was a Shareholder. More like a mixture between a crazy bat, and a pragmatic rat. With twice her share of plain old-fashioned guts. Pretty too. Yeah, okay. A bit skinny. And she'd torn a bit much off that blouse and skirt for a man's imagination. But she had the kind of face that grew on you . . . even those glasses. That cascade of thick dusty gold hair tied up with that ridiculous bandana. Shit. Just when you got to like someone—they were bound to die. Hell, they were all bound to die, and damn soon too. The barriers between Vat and Shareholder seemed very irrelevant right now. In the midst of this lot, the boundaries between bat, rats and humans seemed virtually imaginary. The only thing he couldn't identify with was that Korozhet. At least the alien had kept its mouth shut, although someone had said the damn things spoke through their asses anyway. Its voice wasn't very loud. Maybe it couldn't make itself heard above the tractor.
He looked at Ginny. And she smiled at him, that trusting, generous smile of hers. He found that his answering smile came very easily. He also found himself bitterly regretting some missed opportunities . . .
"Why don't you come and stand over here?" he said, looking at her uncomfortable position.
"I need something to hold onto."
"You could hold onto me."
The Korozhet addressed her repeatedly in the next little while and she didn't even notice. Chip, of course, had no trouble ignoring its demands to be set down.
Idylls never last.
Siobhan called from ahead. "Bronstein says next left. Maggots are coming."
They turned in. Blew the entrance down. It was a good strategy. Except . . .
Eamon and Siobhan came fluttering back frantically. "The back end of the tunnel is solid Maggots. It's a trap!"
Chip swung the wheel hard over. It was simply an instinctive act because the tunnel was far too narrow for them to turn. The blade gouged into the wall before the tractor stalled. Fal had fallen off in the crash. He stood up swearing. "You whoreson mother-shogging baconfaced . . . !"
And then he stopped. Darted forward through a hole. He stuck his head back. "You're driving's not worth a gooseberry, Connolly. But you found us a way out, if we can get through the wall."
Bronstein took charge. "Expedient mines. Diesel. Ginny, get down with that chainsaw. Chip, you'll have to hammer a few more shot holes.
"Let me out," demanded the Crotchet.
Chip thought Bronstein gave this more consideration than it deserved. She paused her work for a moment. Then she spoke decisively. "No. We don't have time. And we certainly don't have time to get you back up again. You'll be safer there."
"Move it up, Bronstein," said Chip impatiently. "Tell me where you want the next shot holes. You can chat to Smelly later, if we're alive." Chip noticed how the Crotchet flexed and pointed spines at him, but then he was too busy working to watch any further.
Down the tunnel came the sharp crack and boom of the first expedient mines. "Behind the tractor, everybody!" shouted Bronstein. "I've used small charges."
She was a master of demolitions. The gap would take the tractor. Eamon came fluttering up, rats running in his wake. "Let us begone. I've set the timer for forty seconds on the big one further back. We'll have the lead Maggots here in less than that!"
Chip scrambled up. Started the tractor. And it was good and stuck. "I'm going to have to move the trailer." He jumped down and started trying to drag it by main force.
"Bounce it!" shouted somebody. He heard the snarl of the chainsaw. As he bounced the trailer an inch, he saw Ginny cut into a big scorp. And then take on a second one. And rev the chainsaw one second too early. The blade hit the slowshield. About ninety percent of the chainsaw blade was inside the shield. The chain, totally stopped at twenty-two thousand rpm, snapped in half. The section inside the Maggot's slowshield played ricochet blender with the Maggot. The piece outside whizzed into the fibreglass of the trailer. Chip suddenly found he had the strength to lift and bounce that trailer a good eight inches.
"Drop it, Ginny, we can go now. RUN everybody!"
Head down, he drove the tractor through the gap . . . behind them another forty pounds of fertilizer blew. This wasn't an entryway, so it didn't fall to seal, but it certainly restricted access.
"Barbed wire!" Bronstein shouted.
"And a can of diesel and a Molotov!" yelled Eamon.
Chip had his first proper look at the place they'd broken into. It was a shock to realize that even parts of Maggotdom could be beautiful.
The whole place was one enormous alien hothouse. Or, by the looks of it, alien fungus-cellar. The basic color of the tunnels was mud, doubtless in many attractive Maggot-pleasing shades. Here the basic color was . . . bright. The tangle of spindly-stemmed nodding-capped plants came in every shade from pale chartreuse to deepest burgundy. And the air was sharp with a ferment of strange bouquets, some edging on the not-nice side of cumin-spicy, others lush with overripe esters.
Part of Chip's soul rose. This was a vision into a distant place, a place where a strange sun gleamed pale on an enchanted fungus-world.
Pistol fanned his nose. "Whoreson. This place doesn't half pong. Phew!"
"Come on, Chip!" yelled Bronstein. "Open her up! Maggots are coming along. We're probably driving through their sewage farm."
Chip had little choice but to plow on through the delicate stems, wreaking havoc. But when he saw a spiral downramp, he took it without a second thought. Rats might have no poetry in their souls, but this was too much like destroying a cathedral. The downramp took them out onto a cross passage . . . and that to a clear tunnel heading inwards.
"That place was so . . . so beautiful," said Ginny in a quiet voice. "Elfin. I don't know how something as horrible as the Magh' could come from a place like that."
Chip gave her a glowing look which she missed because she was looking at the Korozhet. "They don't," the Crotchet said. "Those are rare plants from a world previously visited."
The rest of this enlightenment was lost to them because they had arrived at the central well. In the middle of the well stood a Maggot tower. A Magh' adobe spike separated from the circles of incoming spiral tunnel arms by a gap sixty feet wide. Off to the right, two levels up, were the remains of a single bridge. The Magh' were busy destroying it, leaving a single spar to a doorway into the tower. Across the gap in the tower, workers were blocking the doorway, working with frantic haste.
Looking at the four circles above them Chip realized this must have been the finest entertainment in all Maggotdom. The circles were solid Maggot. Actually, Maggot on top of Maggot. Heh. It was a good thing the Crotchet had told them they needed to go down to the base of the tower, or they might have tried to hack their way through that lot. And that would have been impossible.