Ogata and Belsen came out with one of the statements. “Take those two NCOs to the second room under guard,” said Ogata. “The medical personnel will be here to take blood samples in a few minutes. Then you can take them to the cells.” He looked down at the piece of paper he was carrying. “Fitzhugh, you’ve made a mistake with your serial number. This will have to be corrected, signed again and witnessed.” He held out the piece of paper.
Fitz looked at it. The number was a simple enough one: his own ID with an army prefix. “There is no mistake, sir. That is my number.”
Lieutenant Belsen lifted Fitz’s chin with his swagger stick. “You’re a fool, Private. The last four digits indicate Shareholder status. Making up a number was bound to trip you up.”
Ogata pursed his lips, shook his head and sighed. “You obviously wanted to derail the course of justice with something the court-martial tribunal was bound to pick up. Slick, Fitzhugh. But not slick enough.”
Fitz felt the blood drain from his face. “Major. I am a Shareholder,” he said angrily.
In reply, Ogata tore his statement up. “Very funny, Private,” he said grimly. He turned to the guard commander. “Put this one in the cells also. Not the same cell as the other two. I’m going to contact military police headquarters and have them moved there. No sense in keeping them here.”
Fitz found himself spending a cold night in a cell in the guardhouse. He’d been made to clean it and was then given breakfast, while the sounds of the first parade of the day went on outside. It was silent and monotonous in the cell. Fitz had never thought the day would arrive when he would have preferred to be on parade to any other possibility.
4
Dick Deadeye, the walleyed rat-coward, edged his way into the tent where Sergeant Marcowitz was reporting to Captain Witt. “Gamma 425 section lost most of their humans when we pulled back, sir. Forty-three casualties and seventeen shipped out the field hospital. Lieutenant Lowe was among the dead, sir. Several minor injuries that will be back, but at the moment there are only four privates and two NCOs still fit for duty.”
The captain steepled his fingers. “I have asked for reinforcements, but we’re stretched. Southwestern Sector command says the new intake are about to finish boot camp. We’ll get some of those. In the meanwhile those troops will just have to be integrated with other companies.” He sighed. “And the rats? What have we got left there?” His voice showed distaste.
The sergeant consulted the clipboard. “Two casualties, sir.”
The captain hauled himself to his feet. “The human troops get massacred—and those filthy little scavengers lose two out of five hundred! I’m sorry, Sergeant, but I smell a rat—”
“‘Tis only I, Dick Deadeye, Captain,” squeaked that hero, peering out from behind a canvas chair. “We don’t get to have a bath very often on the front.” He scratched his scraggly nose with a stubby pawhand. “Except when it doth rain. And then methinks ’tis more like a shower.”
“What the hell are you doing here, rat? Sergeant, get it out of here. Or rather let me get the MPs. We need to make an example of a few of these—”
“Er. Captain.” The sergeant interrupted. “This is one of the rats that Captain Shweto, um, bribed to be informers. Dick Deadeye isn’t it?”
“Shweto’s dead,” said Captain Witt, his tone indicating that he’d liked his predecessor as much as the sergeant liked this rat.
Dick Deadeye nodded. “Aye. Shog him for a debt-dodger. He still owed me for the last lot.”
“Owed you? I suppose you’ve come to collect, and you expect us to believe you,” said the sergeant, dangerously.
“Poor Dick Deadeye. My name and my looks are against me. A merest trifle. A matter of a hogshead of grog.”
“They’re habitual liars,” said the sergeant. “And cowards, too.”
Dick Deadeye did his best to look affronted. “In every doughty deed I always took the lead!”
“You give yourself airs!” said the sergeant, disdainfully.
“Nay. ‘Tis the food,” said Dick Deadeye. “But some more grog will fix that. I’ve come to give you warning, Captain.”