THE TECHNICIAN AT the slowship's satellite tracking unit looked sullen and unhappy about this invasion of his domain. Most of the colony's technical resources were still centered on the huge skeleton of the ship that had brought them here. The technician wasn't going to complain, however.
Not just yet, at least. For now he was going to be wondrously cooperative. His collar was still wet with his own blood. That had been the rat's teeth on his throat. Those teeth were that sharp. He was intensely grateful to the major for stopping it from going through with its threat.
He silently showed the pictures from the computer cache for the night. The terrifying looking major had had him focus on sector Delta 355.
"There. To the left." The tailless rat with the mismatched fur patches and the missing ear pointed imperiously. The Earth-built satellite cameras had been intended for precision surveying. The resolution was excellent. The rat's eyesight was marvelous too.
"Zoom in on that point," said the major.
The technician did. There was a pinpoint of light in the darkness of the screen. Conclusive proof that tractors need strong drink to give them the will to live, though the two men and the rat staring at the screen did not know it.
"A flare!" Fitz smiled. "That's when it started. Match those coordinates with a daytime pic of the area."
The technician obeyed, willingly enough. Curiosity was now driving him as much as the rat's threat. An aerial picture of the road from the ruined winefarm appeared on the screen. Unbidden, the tech followed the road to the buildings and gave them max zoom. He looked at the text scrolling onto the screen.
"Clos Verde. It was a wine farm before the war. I went there once."
"Methinks I'm right. 'Tis a bunch of rats," said Ariel.
Fitz snorted. "Goddamn likely considering the choice of hideout. But the explosion is more like bats. One of them could have survived by being aloft when an assault started." He sighed. "Looks like they blew themselves sky high a few minutes later. Okay. Let's go on with the time series."
The explosion came up on screen. Fitz could see that even the sullen technician's interest was caught by now. "Do you think they committed—what-do-you-callit—hari-kiri, sir?"
Ariel goggled. "Rats? Are you crazy?"
Corporal Simms looked at the explosion's print carefully. Prewar he'd been a clerk for a demolitions company. He was a bright man, and the company had ended up getting him to cross-check all the calculations. He'd made it his business to learn as much as possible about explosives. In the natural fashion of military organizations, after drafting him the army had put him as far from the sappers as humanly possible. "If they did," he said slowly, "I reckon they might have taken a lot of Magh' along. That was a huge explosion. In the five or six tons of TNT bracket."
Fitz nodded. "That flare beforehand—away from the explosion—makes the whole thing look planned to me. Let's continue with the time series. Just zoom out."
They did. And once again it was Ariel's eyes that picked up the light trace. "It's moving at . . . what would you say, Johnny?"
Corporal Simms studied it. "Too fast for too long and too steady for a running man. Besides, too much light. It must be a Magh' vehicle."
The technician's hands flickered across the keyboard. He squinted at the display. "It's moving between seventeen and thirty-two miles an hour. Averaging twenty-eight. It slowed right down and stopped here . . ."
"Steep hill?" Fitz asked.
The technician checked. "Yep."
"And they veer here and disappear. Let's just backtrack the time on that place where they disappeared." Fitz tapped the big screen with his bangstick.
The bats knew how to place their shots. It was a small flare, but now they were looking for it.
There was silence as they stared at the screen. Then the major whistled.
The technician could no longer restrain his curiosity. "What does this all mean, sir?"
"It means that those aren't Maggots," said Major Conrad Fitzhugh, slipping back into grunt slang. His voice approached reverence. "Maggots don't blow holes in their own damned nests. Those are some of our lads there. And they're heading straight into the nest."
Even the technician was caught up by it now. "You mean they're a sort of special services raid? Right inside the enemy's force shield?" His eyes shone. Clearly enough, he'd quite forgotten the cut on his neck.
Fitz blinked. "No. I wish like hell they were," he said quietly, regretfully. "Most likely they're just a bunch of grunts on the run. Not a clue what they're doing."
Corporal Simms looked at the second explosion. "A bunch of grunts heading straight into the Magh' spiral. Brave, whoever they are."
"Not rats," said Ariel quietly. "They're not that stupid." She also sounded regretful.
"But . . . what are they trying to do?" The technician pointed to the screen. "I mean, you said yourself it all looked planned. Look at the way that wall blew up just before they got there. That's really skilled timing! `Synchronize your watches' sort of stuff. Like in old DVDs!"
Ariel shook her ratty head. "That stuff always goes wrong."
"It looked like it worked to me," said Fitz, slowly.
"So what do you think they're trying to do?" the technician persisted.
Fitz shook his head. "That's anyone's guess. What they are doing is pulling tens of thousands of Maggots off the front. We'd already noticed that. What I wish they would do is destroy a force field generator. We could take the offensive then."
The technician, Henry M'Batha, turned out to be a decent sort of fellow. Ariel was even beginning to regret having chewed on his neck.
Like most skilled technicians, Henry was the holder of a solitary share. Boredom and frustration had made him a touch officious and petty. But this made him feel as if his work had real purpose at last. That can change attitudes dramatically, so he persisted some more. "So what do you think they're trying to do?"
Fitz looked at the screen. "At a coarse guess, die young. You're looking at the evidence of some very brave soldiers."
"Can't we do anything to help them?"
The major ground his teeth audibly. Then he shrugged. "We'd have to move fast. But unless the force field goes down . . . nothing. Except salute them." He did.
The technician noticed that the rat and the corporal did the same. He found himself imitating them. "You wanted max-res infrared tracking," he said.
"Yes. We might pick up something," said Simms quietly.
"I'm supposed to get signed authorization from the satellite monitoring manager." M'Batha waved a piece of paper at them. "But if you wake her up now . . ." He drew a finger across his throat. "The hell with her. Those guys in there are risking their lives. I'll risk a reprimand from a sarcastic old bitch who can't replace me anyway." Decisively: "I'll set it up for you."
Simms smiled slightly. "Good for you. But I'll give you a signed order if you've got a blank form." On the blotter, the corporal neatly produced the head of satellite monitoring's signature. "Would that do?"
The major and the technician stared at the corporal. Simms held up his hands defensively. "My boss had to countersign the demolition orders. But he was always drunk by ten. Um. So I learned to do it for him."
Fitz eyed him speculatively. "Let's see you do my signature, Johnny."
The corporal blushed, but signed a sprawling scrawl. "I only used it when you were too busy, sir."
"He used it to requisition me chocolates," said Ariel reprovingly. "Which proves you could have done it yourself." Sniffle. "If you still loved me."
The major put his face in his hands. "Argh. I'll be locked away for chocolate black marketeering. Give him your form, tech. And thank you."
He gazed reprovingly at the rat. "Sorry about that little nick she gave you. On a sugar high, she's practically a homicidal maniac. That's why I ration her chocolate."
Ariel sniffed. Henry smiled. "It's nothing, sir. Given myself worse cuts shaving. If there is anything else, you just have to ask. Shall I call you, or send the printouts to Military Headquarters?"
"You can get me on my beeper." Fitz scrawled the number hastily on the blotter. "Or Johnny back at HQ. I'm going to go and wake up a general."
"Do you think they might have a chance, sir?"
Fitz was silent for a moment before he spoke. Then, his voice a little husky, he said: "None."
He gathered himself. "But still, they've hurt the Magh'. They're doing a thoroughly professional job of it. We owe it to them to follow up as professionally as we can too. And I'm going to see it happens."
There was iron determination in that voice. The major left the satellite tracking station like a shark leaves a lagoon. Heading for deep waters, where bigger prey could be found.