There was a silence. And then Ewen began clapping . . . It caught on.
Fitz waved it down after a minute. “Enough. We can see if you still want to clap in a week’s time. To your posts.”
* * *
Fitz leaned against the dugout wall. His father had given him two items on that last pass. “Take this tin of boiled candy. The candy is new. The tin isn’t. It’s been through four Earth wars with various Fitzhughs.” The tin was a thin, flat one. The paint had long since worn off. But there was a deep gouge right across it. “Tradition has it that you will keep it in your left breast pocket.”
The other thing he’d given him was a piece of advice: “Forget what they told you in OCS. When you get to your unit, talk to your NCOs. Let them lead you around quietly until you know enough not to make a fool of yourself.”
“So tell me about the rats, Sarge,” said Fitz to the rat-corps sergeant. “Before I make a fool of myself.”
The sergeant permitted himself a hint of a smile. “Bit different from our last lootie, sir. He knew it all when he got to us. They told him at OCS how to deal with them.”
Fitz raised one eyebrow. “Sergeant. They also told me how to deal with Vat-conscripts. Seeing as I’ve been one of those, and I know how they messed up there . . . I thought I might try asking one of the people who really run things.”
Now the sergeant was grinning openly. “Ewen said you were a ‘stute one. Well, sir, there is a whole set of different rules for dealing with them. They’ve got no morals at all, for starters. And they speak sort of English, but they don’t think like we do. They take things very literally, and they still think like rats—you know, food, sex and strong drink are the only important things in the world, and devil take tomorrow and the hindmost.”
“Ah!” said Fitz with a smile. “Like most of my boot-camp Vat-companions.”
“Bit like, sir. But the difference is they don’t seem to get concepts like respect for rank or a uniform. You earn respect personally. They don’t have much loyalty, not even to each other. You can force them to do things, but the minute your back’s turned they won’t do them. The honest truth is it is easier to buy ’em than to try and do it any other way.”
He looked warily at his new CO. “Er. I’ve heard, sir, all the human rat-corps NCOs who survive crook the mortality records so they’ve got some extra grog on hand.”
Fitz didn’t turn a hair. “Hmm. I trust you will continue to do so. And what else do they fancy?”
The sergeant was getting to like his new lieutenant. “Well, drink’s best, sir,” he said with a grin, “but you’ll find lads like Ewen run a good black market in chocolate, lighters, knickknacks, fancy goods. They find tails the sexiest part of the body so they like to ornament them.”
“And where do they get the money for all this?” asked Fitz. “I was under the impression they weren’t paid.”
“Ah,” said the sergeant, giving him the sort of look a proud teacher might give a star pupil. “There you have it, sir. The rats’ chief vice is looting. If the Maggots had loot, we wouldn’t be able to hold them back.”
* * *
The rats were lounging in the OP, discussing the curious behavior of the humans. “Methinks he is popular enough with them. They clapped.”
“You mean he is pronging yon Linda. Methinks I have heard of that. They call it Vat-shagging,” said Gobbo, knowledgeably.
Ariel stared at him in puzzlement. “Art mad? What sayest thou?”
“Well, he hath got the clap,” said Gobbo. “Ewen said he was sure he had it from her.”
“Not that sort of clap. The clapping you get for being popular.”
“‘Twas my thought you could not be my kind without being popular,” said Gobbo earnestly. His ears twitched. “Hist. He comes.”
The rats were earnestly doing what they were supposed to when Fitz arrived. None of them leapt to attention. “As you were,” said Fitz, dryly.