The young corporal came and stood in front of Fitz, and lifted his chin with one finger. He looked at the name stenciled on the overall. “This is a sty. And that makes the person living in it a pig, Private Fitzhugh. A filthy fucking pig. What are you?”
Silence.
“You’re a slow learner, Private. I’ll ask you one more time before your entire squad does two hours of bangstick drill in full kit. What are you?”
“I’m a pig, Corporal. A filthy fucking pig,” said Fitz. And you are two seconds from being dead, you snotty Vat-shit, he thought.
“Right,” said the Corporal with a nasty little smile. “Your squad mates can sort out the pig in their midst. There’ll be another inspection of this tent in one hour. I expect this pigsty to have become a decently starched bed by then. Otherwise, it’s full-pack drill for all of you.”
He walked out.
“You stupid bastard!” yelled Ewen, the self-elected squad tyrant. “Can’t you make a bed properly? Another fucking inspection. I’ve got a good mind to—”
SmallMac interrupted. “He saved us all a couple of hours’ full-kit drill, Marc. Come on, we’ve got an hour. We’d better all get stuck in.”
The stolid Vat-kid from the next bed, who had been scathing about Fitz’s ability to polish boots, nodded. “I reckon. Come on, Marc. You do the best hospital corners in the company. I’ve got some spray starch. We’re all for it otherwise. We can beat the Oink up later.”
Marc Ewen tugged his jaw. “I suppose so. Come on, Oink. Move it up. Drop us in it again, and you’re for it.”
The beating got delayed by a session of P.T. and a five-kilometer run. In the manner of these things, it kept being delayed until it was forgotten.
* * *
The slowshields had caused small arms to be dispensed with in this war. Both sides still used heavy artillery, however. It could destroy defenseworks, soften up or even bury the enemy. And the pounding could drive anyone mad.
The rats knew by now that when it stopped, the legion of varied creatures that made up Magh’ infantry would mount an assault. Sometimes they came surging over no-man’s-land like a tide. Sometimes they came pouring out of burrows like lava.
But they always came, if the pause in the bombardment was more than momentary. From the minute the heavy shells started to fall, the troops in the trenches knew the attack was coming. The sector had been quiet for some weeks and Lieutenant Lowe thought that he had at last begun to instill some discipline in these unruly rats.
The shells had fallen thick and fast for the last six hours. The HAR gunners tried to give as good as they got, but the humans simply couldn’t match the range, accuracy or sheer volume of fire that the insectlike Magh’ mounted. The colony had turned all their spare manufacturing capacity into producing food for the guns . . . but the Magh’ capacity appeared to grow, along with their scorpiaries. The original invaders had set up five of the vast, odd, flattened termite heaps, each one miles in diameter. One scorpiary for each of the vast ships. But the creatures were obviously reproducing a lot faster than their human opponents.
Then the guns had fallen silent.
“Where do you think you’re going? Come on, form up. A proper military formation, now. The Magh’ are coming,” said the lieutenant, his voice cracking.
Ariel leapt acrobatically onto his right shoulder. And Gobbo to the other. “If what, you shogging whoreson?” asked Gobbo, twitching his whiskers.
The lieutenant nearly fell over backwards. “Get off me! Get to your posts!” He pawed at the two rats. “Argh, let go!”
Gobbo’s long red-tipped fangs had closed through his thumb. Ariel was even more direct. She had her teeth at his throat.
Pooh-Bah looked up at the lieutenant, who was now standing very, very still. The rat said, pompously. “And secrets of state, I will sell for a very reasonable rate: This is one that never will be missed.”
Ariel pulled her fangs away from his throat. “Methinks you must choose, Bezonian. You can run and be shot for desertion. Or we’ll let the Maggots kill you. And if they fail, we shall deal with you. The Maggots will take the blame.”