The Dark Symphony

asked. "The sound-sedatives?"
    "Whistles can't have any effect on you unless you are within fifteen yards. You can swoop down before they can effectively use them," Guil said, talking chiefly to make it known that he was not completely a tool that they could lay back on the shelf any time they wished. Besides, he had not said he would do any of this. He was not yet sure. And the longer he was around these people, the more intimately he came to know his father, Strong, the less sure he became…
    The three pairs of eyes shifted to him, watched him a moment, then moved back to Redbat. It was impossible to read anything from those eyes, impossible to tell what they thought of him—how deep their hatred ran.
    "It's settled then?" Redbat asked.
    Three blinks.
    "How many can you provide?" Strong wanted to know. There was a keen edge of excitement to his voice, and his breath came faster and in shorter, more gasping inhalations.
    "Four thousand for Vivaldi," Redbat said. "Later, if it is decided to move against other city-states, we will . . to rely mainly on what is left of this primary force."
    "Four thousand is enough," Strong said. "With Gideon and whatever sound rifles and sonic knives we can capture, it will be more than enough."
    Guil listened to the battle plans with a part of his mind, while much of his consciousness still tried to deal with the choice he would soon have to make. Either he would continue the status quo, maintain the Musician society from sheer refusal to participate in a revolt against it, or he would have to lead that revolt, step with it out of the ruins and carry its vengeance through the neon stone gardens to the very corridors of the Congressional Tower. Once, he thought that he heard something behind him, movement of some sort He turned, could see nothing but darkness. Looking back to Redbat and the others, he tried to return to his contemplations. It was then that he felt hot breath on his neck and heard the rattle of claws scuttling across stones…
    Later, he would wonder which he had actually sensed first: the humid breath or the sound of the claws. It would seem logical that the scuttling noise should come before the breath, and it very likely had. But in those microseconds when his animal cunning innately knew something was wrong, his sensory impressions blasted into his cortex in such rapid succession that he had no time to sort them out.
    Screeching, shouting, rattling, flapping, the very darkness swam over him, punctuated with green discs, swallowed him, spat him up, wallowed him between its thick lips…
    For a moment, he thought he was smothering. Something fouled his nose and head and cut off the cool air from the cavern. He gagged repeatedly, felt the soft tissues of his throat beginning to burn, felt his chest swell and his lungs begin to ache. He flailed, struck something. He struck it again, feebly, before he thought to feel it and test for the source of his afflictions. The nerves on the tips of his fingers relayed the message to his fogging brains there was a leathery wing about his head.
    He struck out again, viciously this time, managed to free his face for a moment, just long enough to expel a short burst of stale air and suck in something more palatable. Then the wing was back, tighter now, the little hand on the end of it hooked into his cloak. He struck out twice again before he understood that flailing like a windmill was doing absolutely no good. His blows bounced off the rubbery wing flesh without inflicting any damage—and probably damned little pain. And his lungs were tired again, surging up in his chest cavity as if they would take the initiative in gaining air for themselves. Shifting his tactics, he bit into the wing that covered his face, tore a chunk of the membrane loose and spat it out. It tasted like bad cheese, but he had gained the desired effect. The manbat screamed, fluttered, and released him,
    "The boy! The boy!" Strong was shouting. But what he was really thinking, Guil knew, was: the plan, the plan!
    "Nasty!" Redbat shouted. His reedy voice slithered and fizzed off the rocks. "Let him go, Nasty!"
    Nasty
, Guil thought. And what an appropriate name it was. This must be the bat, he reasoned, that had turned away from him earlier. But he had been busy while the rest of them had talked. He had turned his back and had quietly left his perch, had sneaked around the room and had come in from behind. Maybe "Nasty" wasn't the best name for him, Guil