I knew there was something I liked about that girl, Grego thought. He also considered pumping Morgan for a possible wedding date, then decided to play fair. It wasn’t like he needed the pool money, after all. “Would you like me to suggest she take the time off to work for Jack? I can make it sound like it was all my idea.”
Morgan looked sheepish, a rare thing for the Freyan. “I…well… would you?”
“Absolutely. But it will cost you a case of Freyan ale.”
Morgan smiled and shook Grego’s hand. “Done and done.”
* * * * * * * * *
The Two Moons Tavern was the preferred watering hole for the Mallorysport police. Unlike most bars, the Two Moons was a single level establishment with a huge skylight in the ceiling that could be adjusted for desired opacity. During the day, it was typically kept dark, but at night it was set for the clearest setting so as to catch the light of Zarathustra’s moons, Darius and Xerxes. As a well-known cop bar, one where people not in uniform were required to check their guns and knives at the door, it was also the safest place for Ben to meet people for cocktails outside of Government House or Company House.
Even though Ben Rainsford was a popular governor with high approval ratings, mostly due to his working a deal with the Charterless Zarathustra Company that floated the government and planetary services without resorting to taxation, there was always the possibility of an assassination attempt. In fact, during the last election a Juan Takagashi supporter tried to shoot Ben after a public debate. Fortunately, for Ben, the would-be assassin made his attempt at the Two Moons Tavern, with the predictable outcome.
Jack floated in ahead of Morgan and Gus and met up with Ben at his usual table. The governor already had a drink, so Gus bought a round for the rest. Ben never accepted a drink that somebody else paid for to avoid the appearance of accepting special favors. He also declined buying others a drink to avoid the appearance of currying favor. Gus privately thought that Ben needed to relax a bit.
Jack noticed that Gus had a water glass filled to the brim with bourbon. “I thought you were cutting down.”
“I am,” Gus said. “I only have two of these a day. Except on Sunday. Then I have a third.”
Morgan cringed inwardly. How Brannhard was able to consume that much hard liquor defied imagination. Even by Freyan standards that was an impressive amount to consume on a daily basis. “I’ll have a Freyan ale for me and an Earl Grey Green with honey for Jack.”
Gus stifled a laugh and downed half his glass. He considered lighting his cigar, then remembered Jack’s forbearance when he was on the mend. But one doesn’t suggest cocktails in a bar unless one expects people to drink them in his presence, so he downed the rest of his drink and ordered a refill. “I feel your pain, Jack. Allan and Natty rode herd on me for two months after that liver transplant. I still have to do my drinking on the sly or I get a lecture in pidgin Fuzzy about liver damage. They seem to think it’s a lifetime deal.”
“Good luck explaining the benefits of Federation medicine to them. At least Morgan here understands that this is a temporary situation.” Jack glanced meaningfully at his son. “At least he’d better.”
“Once the doctors and Little Fuzzy are satisfied that you are in the clear, I will be happy to buy the first round, father.”
Gus snorted. “A little formal, aren’t you? I always called my old man ‘dad’.”
“Actually,” Jack said, “on Freya he would be required to address me as ‘sire,’ Gus. Little though I’d deserve it.”
“No blame is attached to you, father,” Morgan said as he received his ale. “Uncle Orphtheor carries that burden, and he is much too dead to be held accountable.”
“So, once Jack is all better, are you planning on sticking around or heading back to Freya?” Ben asked.
Morgan drained his stein and signaled for a refill. “Actually, I am not as welcome back on my home planet as I would like. Were I not a wealthy land-owning nobleman I wouldn’t be able to set foot there.”
Gus, having followed Morgan’s example, contemplated another refill, then thought better of it. Natty and Allan might smell it on him. “With your family name established won’t you be considered legitimate?”
“Absolutely. Unfortunately, I burned a few other bridges there. I’ll explain some other time.”
“Sounds like your son, all right,” Gus quipped. “How many planets have you worn out your welcome on, Jack?”
“A few, but none I would care to return to.” Jack turned to Morgan. “Are you exiled? Oh, maybe you would rather not discuss it…”
“It’s nothing like that. Let’s just say I managed to embarrass some very important people. It’s tied into my reason for wanting to buy Epsilon.”
Ben took notice of that and became confused but said nothing. How Magni and Freya were connected should make an interesting story. “Just remember, Jack, that I have to push the sale through the legislature, if I decide to approve it. Tell you what, though, I’ll have to tell them you offered half of what you told me so that they’ll think they buffaloed me into jacking up the price. They would never accept your first offer, no matter what it was.”
Gus snorted. “Damned straight. You’ve been doing a good job of keeping those idiots in line, Ben. I’m especially impressed that you kept them from mangling the constitution.”
Ben laughed and lit a cigarette, then remembered that Jack was on the wagon and snubbed it out. “My veto stamp is on its last legs. Last week I had to nix the no taxation amendment. If something happens to the sunstone deal, we’ll need to shift to taxation in a hurry. Strangely, I had to nix another amendment to start taxation the next day.” Ben shook his head. “What the hell are these people using for brains, anyway? It’s a good thing this crowd can’t vote on their own pay raises the way they do on some other planets. Say, Morgan, how is the government laid out on Freya?”
“Hmm…much like old Terra’s feudal societies. My equivalent title would be a baron, I think. Barons used to be landowners who managed their territories for the prince. Each realm is a princedom which is under the authority of a regional king, of which there are five on Freya. These kings answer to a, um, higher ruler, a great king or, um emperor. There is only one emperor. His heir is an arch-prince.”
“How do these kings support themselves?” prodded Gus.
“Well, each nobleman is a landowner of greater or lesser degree. He typically develops the land one way or another. In our pre-Federation days the barons would pay tribute to the princes, who in turn paid the kings who paid the high king. Nowadays most nobles make their money from industry and trade. The underclass can own land of their own and everybody pays taxes. The high king has a council, not unlike Parliament in England before space travel, which oversees the day-to-day administration of planetary affairs.”
“There you go, Ben,” Jack said with a smile. “Declare yourself Great King and run the planet like a feudal society.”
“Off with their heads!” yelled Gus. “I can think of a few people I’d like to see one foot shorter from the top. Too bad the Federation frowns on Madame Guillotine.” Gus relayed what he had learned of Freyan executions, assisted by Jack and Morgan. Ben shared what he had learned earlier about the Khooghra justice system.
“Speaking of public executions, what did you decide on the Fuzzy slavers,” asked Jack.
“I’m going with Max’s idea. We’re holding a lottery, one sol per ticket per firing line. There will be six men per firing line; each will be issued one bullet apiece. Commodore Napier agreed to supply the rifles and some men for security. It seems that the military still uses firing squads and has old-style single-shot carbines for the job. He also said he will buy a round of lottery tickets for his officers and NCOs who were working with the police when the Fuzzy slavers were found.”
“That’ll boost morale,” Jack chuckled. “I’ll bet Pancho Ybarra suggested it.”
Gus asked about the Marine security task force. “Don’t you think the Mar
shal’s men can handle it?”
“Of course they can, but with everybody either attending the execution or watching it on the screen, there’s bound to be an increase in criminal activity. I want every cop I can muster patrolling Mallorysport and the surrounding areas. I’m even borrowing some bodies from the CZC security force that Victor offered.”
“Mr. Grego has been very generous with Company assistance,” Morgan noted. Before anybody could jump to Grego’s defense, Morgan added, “That’s good public relations.”
Jack checked the time and noted it was getting late. “I’ll have to collect Little Fuzzy from the Fuzzy bar and hit the sky. It’ll be close to midnight on Beta by the time we get home.”
“Why not just stay overnight with me. Flora and Fauna would love to see you and Little Fuzzy?” Ben suggested.
“I appreciate the offer, Ben, but I’ve been away too long as it is. And to tell the truth, I miss my own bed. It will be good to sleep in my own place again after all this time in the hospital.”
“I second that,” Gus said. “I went through the same thing after my liver transplant. Those hospital beds are designed for easy access to the patient, not patient comfort.”
Jack said his good-byes and paid his tab and floated out in his hover-chair followed by Morgan. Outside the bar Morgan offered to drive and Jack accepted. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was feeling his age. And then some.
III
It was morning and everybody was hungry. Little Fuzzy noticed that Pappy Jack was still snoring and made sure nobody woke him. “Pappy Jack still need much sleep after sur-ger-y to fix heart and lung.” He also reminded everybody that Pappy Jack and Unka Morgan didn’t get in until after big moon highest time; midnight.
The Fuzzies went out, fed and watered the dogs, inspected them for vermin and injuries, and then groomed them. While Zarathustra was unique in the fact that it had no bloodsucking parasites such as mosquitoes, fleas or ticks, it did have tunnel worms, which would enter the body, travel under the skin, and eventually lay eggs within the host. An afflicted animal, left untreated, could die in weeks from such an infestation. There was also a particularly nasty variety of insect that fed on living skin. It did relatively little damage, but the wounds could quickly become septic.
Satisfied that the dogs were worm and insect free, the Fuzzies took them out for some exercise. Pappy Jack said the dogs needed to run every day to stay strong. They were just returning from their run when Jack walked out of the cabin.
Back when the dogs were first introduced as mounts for the Fuzzies, Jack expressed concern that the Curtys might confuse their masters for prey. Larry Wolvin explained that the dogs were raised from birth being cared for by Fuzzies and trained never to attack one. Any dog that lacked the proper temperament was removed from the program and either used in security work, human pets or, in extreme cases, put down. Fortunately, the Curtys were known for their even temperament and high intelligence.
Jack saw the Fuzzies running toward him with the dogs and thought, Uh-oh, here comes the warden. Now I’m gonna get it.
“Pappy Jack!” yelled Little Fuzzy. “Where’s floating chair? Dok’tor say you not walk, yet.”
Jack let out a sigh. “Just getting a little exercise. I’ll use the chair if I have to go further than this, hokay?”
Little Fuzzy discussed it with the others. “Hokay, Pappy Jack. But not go far. Dok’tor say so.”
Jack agreed and walked back into the cabin. He didn’t want to admit it, but his legs were feeling weak, so he planned on getting into the chair right away. It didn’t seem fair for his legs to be so dodgy when he’d been shot in the chest. Maybe it was time to consider getting some physical therapy.
Little Fuzzy, satisfied that Pappy Jack was behaving, led the others away from the cabin to hunt for goofers—land-prawns were becoming scarce on the reservation—but asked Baby Fuzzy to stay behind and keep an eye on Pappy Jack. The Fuzzies were beginning to see that their Pappy Jack was old by Big One standards, and wanted to make sure he didn’t hurt himself.
Later, when Jack took the hover-chair out for an inspection of the area, he noticed Baby peeking out from behind the trunk of a featherleaf tree watching him. Jack smiled and pretended he didn’t spot his little hirsute watchman.
Jack couldn’t help thinking about his current infirmity as he glided around in his chair. Next thing you know, I’ll get fat from lack of exercise, Jack thought.
Then Jack noticed the Fuzzy called Jackie Gleason, named for a long-dead overweight comedian. The Fuzzy was so called because he had put on about five pounds after he came to the res. That was a lot of weight for a Fuzzy.
How long before all the Fuzzies became like that, Jack thought. He had seen it on other planets like Yggdrasil. The natives would start getting things handed to them in the name of diplomatic relations, and before long the natives discovered they didn’t have to work as hard to get by. Next thing you know, you had a lot of fat natives lying around.
That was not going to happen to the Fuzzies, decided the Native Affairs Commissioner.
* * * * * * * * *
Joseph Aaron Quigley had been and done many things in his lifetime; a college student on Mars, a Terran Federation Marine, a scout on Yggdrasil and, most recently, an illegal sunstone prospector. At the moment he was a very frightened man. Worse, he was afraid of a bunch of Fuzzies.
To be fair, there were hundreds of the diminutive hirsute Zarathustran natives, each armed with a weapon of one type or another. That wasn’t the problem in and of itself, though. Back in college Joe had taken a few classes in anthropology. What he was seeing now flew in the face of everything he had ever learned.
While the study of Fuzzy sapiens zarathustra was a very new discipline, since their existence only became known in the last few years, certain things were pretty much standard for any sapient race. Technological advancement went through certain stages at a more or less consistent pace. Even the Yggdrasil Khooghra, according to archeological evidence, advanced at a steady pace. Their advancement stages were the furthest apart of any known sapient species, but still steady.
In the wild Fuzzies were typically a nomadic species operating in family units of four to eight, according to current studies. They did not specialize; everybody did the same things to survive. Fuzzies did not create camps where some of the members would stay to care for the young while the rest went hunting and foraging. And they never, ever gathered together by the hundreds to prepare for war.
Until now.
These Fuzzies had instituted specialization. Hunting parties went out to gather food for the rest. Groups of “makers” from different tribal units gathered together to exchange ideas and develop new things. Lots of new things. Those too old or injured to engage in hunting cared for the young and guarded the prisoner; namely one Joseph Aaron Quigley. The Wise Ones of each tribe gathered to discuss things and compare ideas. But even that didn’t scare Joe as much as what he saw in the social and technological development of the Fuzzies in the last two months.
Joe was the only survivor of an illegal prospecting operation. Somehow, the mass-energy converter exploded, killing everybody. Joe had only survived because he was outside of the camp collecting the surveillance cameras, and even that was a close call. The nearby Fuzzy encampment had found him and cared for him, though it was quite clear he was their prisoner. That was when things started getting scary.
The leader of the clan that captured him, Bal-f ’ke, or Red Fur, had sent out emissaries to other clans and called them together. Within weeks several dozen clans had come in answer to that call. Bal-f ’ke then created a council of chiefs. To give everybody a turn speaking without fighting to be heard, Bal-f ’ke had found a sunstone, no doubt kicked up during the explosion, and stuck it on the end of a stick with tree sap. The scepter was passed from Fuzzy to Fuzzy, each speaking in turn.
The makers were also very busy. In two months Joe watched them go from chopper-diggers to atlatls. Another Fuzzy adapt
ed the spear-thrower idea to rocks instead of spears with a design not unlike a lacrosse stick. One Fuzzy innovator had been showing the others some catgut he had taken from a zarabuck; a new accomplishment in itself as zarabucks had proven almost impossible for a Fuzzy to bring down previously. Another Fuzzy instantly recognized the advantage of the thin, strong wire for attaching a stone axe-head to a handle.
Two weeks earlier another family unit came in and shared another interesting piece of technology—the sling. A Fuzzy with a sling could launch a small rock at least three times further than a Fuzzy with the Lacrosse stick, and five times as far as a barehanded Fuzzy. Joe couldn’t help wondering if bow and arrow tech was far behind.
Joe Quigley broke out in a cold sweat. In two months the Fuzzies had advanced millennia socially and technologically. They were still about ten thousand odd years behind Terran civilization, but they had an advantage nobody but Joe Quigley knew about; the Fuzzies weren’t as harmless as everybody thought.
* * * * * * * * *
It was another day and Native Affairs Commissioner Jack Holloway signed his name at the bottom of a report before placing the document on top of the ever-growing pile in his outboxes. It was bad enough that he had the backlog that piled up while he was stuck in the hospital, nevertheless the workload almost tripled since the so-called ‘Fuzzy Rocket’ up in the northeast of the res was discovered. Jack made a mental note to shoot the owners of B.I.N. the next time he was over in Mallorysport. Thanks to that irresponsible newscast two months ago claiming that a ‘Fuzzy rocket ship’ had been found on Beta, every amateur scientist and lookiloo on the planet had been caught trespassing on the Fuzzy Reservation trying to get a look at the excavation site. Before long they might even start coming in from off-world. Enough was enough. Jack finally had to authorize the relocation of the rocket to a secure warehouse on Alpha. Let it be Victor Grego and the Marines’ headache for a while.
Jack grabbed the next paper off the stack from the inbox. Another trespasser report from Major George Lunt. Poor bastard has to be cranking these things out by the ream. George had it worse than Jack; he and his crew on the Native Protection Force were out nabbing the violators and writing the reports. Maybe with all the fines they were collecting that assistant he asked Ben about could get written into the budget on a permanent basis.
Caveat Fuzzy Page 3