By Dave Freer, Eric Flint
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Extra resources for Rats, Bats & Vats
Yes. Although . . short of bringing it in my cheeks . . ” Chapter 8: We who are about to die give you the finger. NATURALLY, MAGGOT-MOUND construction played havoc with existing watercourses. And stripping the ground bare did not make for gentle runoff. Whatever the Maggot equivalents of civil engineers were, they had got it wrong in this space between their tunnel-mounds. Dry gullies turned to raging watercourses. True, thought Chip, it was probably a temporary situation. The tunnel-mounds were obviously still being built, and getting wider.
Within five, even the sound of the shrieking sirens had faded away. The fear and excitement were making Virginia feel awfully strange. She was reminded suddenly of the nightmarish trips to the ship’s surgery, back in that horrible fuzzy time before her soft-cyber implant. She felt . . giddy. Very weak. Very confused. Had she been shot? She couldn’t feel any pain, but she had read that wounds could be unnoticed at the time they were received. Shock, or something. Her head lolled on the seat rest.
Chip stared at the Maggots. The Magh’ fighters stood and muddled around their dead, or what was left of them. Eventually the mob split into little search parties, wandering hither and thither, plainly searching scent traces. “See,” said Bronstein. “They don’t know where we’ve gone. ” It wasn’t a popular statement, because it never is, but it was true. “They’ll still find us,” muttered Chip. F. Hegel, perched on his hip and peering over the boulder. “And if Doc’s right . ” “Any time we fight one, the rest of them know about it,” concluded Bronstein.