Chip unlimbered the Solingen. It seemed an effort. Like bothering with perfectly scalloping that last potato of the hundreds . . . Like that, this had to be done. “Dig straight up, Pistol, or I’ll shove this up your ass and ruin your sex life.” He noticed that his outstretched arm was trembling.
It wasn’t a long dig. Moments later the rat broke through. The Maggot-tunnel air was cool, sweet and fresh by comparison to the stuff in their hole. The one eyed rat took long whiffling-nosed sniffs of it. “So okay, Connolly, you damned dunghill cur. My head already feels better. Maybe I won’t piss in your next beer. Even Maggot-air smells good compared to the stuff in here. But don’t ever threaten me with that poniard of yours again.”
That was one villainous old rat. There were times to back off, and this was one of them. “You can empty your bladder into the next beer I buy, if you like. It’ll be yours. I owe it to you, I reckon. Lack of air was making me silly.”
The one-eyed rat was mollified. In a manner of speaking. “I’m a whiskey drinker, you skinny blue-bottle rogue. And I like triples. And I never pee in my own drinks.”
“Give a rat an inch . . .” Chip smiled.
“And he’ll think you’re shafting him,” concluded Pistol, with a suitable gesture.
“Will you two be getting out of the way so that we can all have a breath of air?” Eamon grumbled.
Chapter 3: Behind enemy lines.
Slowly, they continued to dig a narrow passage, under the hardpan of what was plainly an ever-growing Maggotway. The rats were fine excavators, but the main problem was where to put the uncompacted material they were digging out. And a rat hole was going to be too small for Chip, although the bats could manage it.
A quiet council was held. “You guys had better dig out. We’d better block that air hole, too. Maggots will smell us out, otherwise. I’ll break out and take my chances when you’ve been gone a while.” Chip was nobody’s hero—by definition—since he was still a live grunt. Heroes got dead. And the first thing a grunt learned was “don’t volunteer.” But there didn’t seem much point in getting them all killed. They had a tiny chance. He didn’t.
“The Maggots up there are building faster than we can dig,” grumbled Fal. “My old claws are nearly worn out.”
He puffed out his chest. Well, his belly. “Anyway, we’d never leave a comrade in distress.” The plump rat even managed to get the words out without choking.
“Never?” asked Bronstein, her voice dry. Rats might be natural Maggot-killers, but they weren’t known for suicidal courage.
“Well, hardly ever!” chirped Melene.
“And certainly not one who owes us drinks,” added Pistol.
“We’ve still got a load of satchel-charges between us,” mused Bronstein. “We should all go up. We can move a damned sight faster through their tunnels than we can with a fat old rat like you grubbing. And if they try and stop us, we can blow down the very heavens on them.”
“The human’s right for once,” hissed Eamon. “What cause do we have to die for this Company-lackey primate? His kind wanted this war. Leave him.”
“Damn you, bat!” snarled Chip. “The effing Company grew me in a vat too. Just like you. I’m an indebted conscript. Also just like you. Get that straight, squashed pig-face. And nobody wants this war, not even the goddamn Company, but if we don’t fight, we’re all Maggot food. Call me a Company-lackey again and I’ll dice you into bat tartare.”
The big bat bared his long sharp fangs at Chip and then studiously ignored him.
“He’ll be killed on his own, to be sure, Eamon,” said Siobhan timidly. She was the smaller of the two female bats, and didn’t have Bronstein’s self-assurance.
“Indade.” Again, Eamon flashed his teeth. “And so will we all be, waiting for him. Is it not fair that one of these humans that put us all in bondage repay us with a distraction? I say, bat-comrades-in-arms, that we put it to the vote!”
“To Lucifer’s privy with you and your vote,” grunted Nym. “I’m going up.” Nym was a veritable giant among rats, fully sixteen inches high. He seldom spoke, but when he did the other rats paid attention. Even the bats—even the belligerent Eamon—were careful not to aggravate Nym.