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eBook Category: Science Fiction
eBook Description: When Boston sanitation workers go on strike, it makes a real problem for Boston. But what's a major supposed to do when those workers happen to be rats with a hidden agenda?

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Analog, 2001
Fictionwise Release Date: April 2003

35 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [136 KB], eReader (PDB) [51 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [39 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [36 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [81 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [109 KB], hiebook (KML) [114 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [69 KB], iSilo (PDB) [33 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [41 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [69 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [57 KB]
Words: 10996
Reading time: 31-43 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

"Meanwhile, over at the giggle factory, we have "Standing Firm on the Pipette Line" by Rajnar Vajra. In a way, it's almost a shame this story came out so soon after the Steven Popkes story "Tom Kelley's Ghost" appeared in the July F&SF. Vajra's story and Popkes' story have no direct connection except for fantastic, deep exquisitions into the semimythical underworld far below the Boston streets. But they both do that so well that they will be forever paired in my mind. Vajra's tale is just pure silliness from start to finish, of a (mostly) subtle sort rather than being a punful howler. I greatly enjoyed the venal mayor of Boston, the superintelligent, overarmed body guard, the electrician-inventory who moved like greased lightning, but most of all I enjoyed the rats. Great, giant rats, the size of dogs and horses, everywhere, crawling on me! For all the silliness, this story is about a hero's journey with implications far beyond the usual Olympian manipulations of hubris and family pride. And, of course, rats."--Jay Lake, Tangent Online (Learn more about Tangent Online, the Internet's leading SF&F short fiction review website)

I'll tell you what lurks in the shallows of my memory. Fearful Friday. I'm talking about October 29, 2021, the eeriest day of my life. And my God, the way it ended! Let's put it this way: a hungry shark in my Jacuzzi would be easier for me to forget about than Fearful Friday. Two years and two months have slipped by since that horribly premature Halloween, but I can still remember every grotesque detail. Hell, if I close my eyes and let my mind drift, I can practically taste that morning's coffee....

My breakfast nook, gilded by sunrise, was glowing cheerfully. Friday had always been my favorite day of the week and this one promised to be clear and crisp. But instead of savoring my beloved Jamaican Blue Mountain as usual, I was feeling it etch away at my stomach lining like concentrated sulfuric acid. I sipped and winced, dreading the upcoming afternoon press conference. The only bright spot, I decided in my vast innocence, was that I'd surely reached the penthouse level in my personal tower of stress.

But even the press conference exceeded my worst expectations. By 2:05 pm, despite fifteen minutes of my smoothest dodging and sidestepping, the truculent sea of reporters had sucked me into a maelstrom of awkward questions. Under my Armani jacket I was sweating like a cold pipe in a steam bath.

Don't get me wrong. Like most politicians I adore media attention, but not when I'm in a jam. Especially such thick jam and such extravagant attention. Enough microphones were stuck in front of my chubby little face to record the Boston Symphony twenty times over. And, worse, no less than fifty live-feed video cameras were aimed my way, poised to capture every little slip-up, stray drop of spit, and facial twitch. If I appeared even fractionally confident, I deserved a damned Academy Award.

So many extra reporters had showed up, we'd had to set up outdoors. And out in the open, standing on New City Hall's concrete steps, the smell of rotting garbage kept adding insult to insult.

"Why are the Minuscules striking, Mr. Mayor?"

"As I already stated, we're looking into that."

"Why is this only happening in Boston, Mr. Mayor? Why not New York or Seattle?"

"We haven't yet come to a definite conclusion on that subject."

"Is your ship sinking, sir? Maybe this is more a desertion than a strike." The witticism drew a good laugh, but not from me.

"Mr. Mayor! Mr. Mayor! What are you planning on doing about...?"

My press secretary, Dr. Lisa Stockton, knew I'd had enough and smoothly pulled me out of the line of fire to take my place. Lisa is wonderful. She knows exactly when and how to be a squid. I stared up at the attractive back of her head wondering what color ink she was going to squirt out this time...

"Thank you for your solicitude, ladies and gentlemen," she announced in her crispest professional voice. "But now Mayor Gould needs to return to work so that he can continue the fine job he's doing of managing this unique crisis."

If she noticed the sound of a thousand simultaneous grumbles, she didn't show it. "I believe our Mayor has already addressed most of your concerns. We will certainly have more to tell you later but I'm sure we all agree that the time has come for deeds, not words."

I couldn't detect any signs of such agreement, but I nodded and smiled as if every soul who caught my eye was the one exception to a universal rule.

Then it took my entire security staff, fifteen burly weight lifters, to get me through the crowd that rushed the steps, lenses and hand-held mikes held out like thrusting swords, and the whole time I kept thinking, deeds? What in hell am I supposed to do? For three weeks now I'd been waiting by the red telephone--the so-called "Pipette Line"--bracing myself for some tough negotiations. But how do you negotiate with striking workers who never bother presenting any demands?

I was nearly within smudging distance of the door to New City Hall when an unfamiliar reporter snatched me from a fog of worry by somehow reaching past my guardians and grabbing my sleeve. He was shouldered back by at least three security people.

Let's get one thing straight: you can't believe everything you may have read or heard about me; the media loves caricature far more than character. And yes, I know about those jokes that keep percolating throughout New England: What's the fastest way to commit suicide? Answer: stand between Tully Gould and political office. What's the tallest mountain in Massachusetts? Answer: Mayor Gould's ego.