The pager in Fitz’s pocket beebled insistently. The major calmly interrupted. “I must answer that, sir. It is either my office, or the satellite center.” From the dressing table came the clatter of a bottle being knocked over. As he pulled the pager from his pocket, Fitz saw the general’s tunic top being dowsed in expensive single malt.
It was the satellite center. M’Batha didn’t even wait for him to speak. He actually had to hold the pager away from his ear.
“They’ve done it again! We measured a tongue of flame in excess of a hundred feet less than four minutes after we’d tracked them leaving the spot. They’ve gone back in, sir! Our boys are pounding the SHIT out of them!”
Fitz smiled. There was more than one voice in the background. It sounded like M’Batha had half the tech-services on the slowship in there with him. Well. It wouldn’t do any harm at this stage. “Thanks, Henry.” He held his hand over the pager mike. “Satellite tracking, sir. Reporting another explosion.” There was no way the general couldn’t have heard anyway. Daisy, with her ear to the bathroom keyhole, could probably have heard. “Would you like to speak to them, sir? Confirm it for yourself?”
General Cartup-Kreutzler wasn’t buying it. “Pah. Do you think I don’t recognize a put-up job. You think you can fool me! Satellite tracking is there to monitor the damned weather. Crops and things. They do not do this sort of thing. I do not know what you hoped to achieve by this . . . ridiculous performance, but you’ve failed. Failed, d’you hear? NOW GET OUT!”
Fitz clicked the pager off. “Is that your last word, sir?”
“Yes. Now GET OUT!”
Fitz shrugged. He couldn’t bring himself to salute. “Enjoy the rest of your . . . entertainment, sir. Come on, Ariel. Let’s go.”
“We’ll meet again, Carrot-up,” said the rat cheerfully. She clambered up Fitz’s leg, clutching a chocolate she’d just looted from a heart-shaped box on the dresser.
As they walked out, Fitz carefully put his heel down on the phone and crushed it. Ariel scrambled out of his pocket again, pausing to wipe her chocolaty paws on the flap. “Methinks, I’ll deal with the wires just outside the house. There might be another phone. You check the other doors. And see that you pick up his trousers on the way. They’re at the foot of the stairs. You humans are as good as blind. Typical of that stupid bimbo to like—bleah—strawberry creams.”
Fitz smiled to himself. Rats, and Ariel in particular, were terrible rank-and-file soldiers. Nature’s own samurai had far too much initiative. “I’ll deal with the lights, too,” Ariel added. “See you at the car.”
* * *
“Fuse box is just outside the portico,” reported Ariel with satisfaction. “So that tradesmen don’t have to come inside, and lower the tone of the place.”
“I know. I used to live like this,” said Fitz grimly. “Convenient enough, of course. But it makes for easy sabotage.”
Ariel scrambled up into the fatigue pocket. Her pocket. Not two seconds later, her head popped out, beady eyes filled with baleful outrage. “What’s this?” she demanded, holding up the offending object.
Fitz smiled. “Called a distributor cap. Relax. We’ll pitch it once we get off the grounds.”
“Oh.” She studied the gadget. “Okay. As long as it makes Carrot-up’s life miserable, I’ll tolerate the encroachment.”
* * *
The guards at the gate saluted.
“Quite a party your general’s having back there,” said Fitz, dryly. “I wouldn’t disturb him if I were you. Or let anyone else in to disturb him. Or pay too much attention to the . . . shouting.”
“Can’t really hear anything from here anyway, sir,” said the corporal.
One of the privates sniggered and then realized that the major wasn’t laughing. “No, sir,” he said, absolutely rigid. “Anyway, we won’t see anyone until the household staff get in, sir. They always come on just after the general leaves.”
“Ah. And what time is that? I want to take up the length of your stint with your Major . . . diem Thien,” said Fitz.
“We only do four-hour stretches, sir. Whoever’s on the last stint just covers until the general leaves. Just before eight. We only have to do about two a week, sir. It’s not a bad billet,” added the soldier hastily. He knew perfectly well that when officers catch flak they pass it down.