Caveat Fuzzy

by Wolfgang Diehr

  This is one very solicitous cabbie, Affanita thought. “You always go to so much trouble for a fare?”

  “Not always,” the cabbie admitted. “But when a guy tips me a C-sol to get somebody home safe, I make good and damned sure they get home safe. Ah…well, I do tend to be extra careful with the ladies when they’ve had too much to drink. So, anyway, where to?”

  Affanita considered what the cabbie said. Richard paid him a hundred sols to get her home and didn’t try to take advantage of the situation? She wondered if she should feel a little insulted. Well, maybe he wasn’t into older women. “To the nearest CZC gem buyer’s outlet. Wait for me and there’s another fifty-sol tip in it for you. Assuming my transaction goes smoothly.”

  The cab lurched into the air like it was shot from a cannon. Affanita swore in a very unlady-like fashion as she struggled into the safety harness, something she normally didn’t bother with. This is one motivated cabbie, she thought. She said as much.

  “Bubbette, for that kind of money I’d take you to Beta and back. The wife has been on my backside to take her out and coat the town crimson for the last three weeks. Maybe tonight we’ll hit The Bitter End. She’s always wanted to go there, but I heard it was too pricey.”

  “It is, but the food is excellent. Avoid the house brews, though. Try the Freyan ale. Hell, I might even see you there. I may feel like doing a little celebrating, myself.”

  Affanita patted the damnthing-hide purse she carried the sunstones in. Yes, some celebration would definitely be in order tonight.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Ricardo La Rue pressed the call button and a taxi floated down. Once inside, he extracted a silk handkerchief from inside his jacket and mopped his brow. The interview room had been ridiculously hot, he reflected.

  “Where to, sir?” the cabbie asked.

  “Take me to The Bitter End on the eastside of Junktown.”

  The cabbie rolled his eyes. “I’m familiar with it, sir,” he said as he flipped on the meter. Stupid tourists, he thought.

  La Rue nodded. Of course the driver knew where The Bitter End was located. Everybody knew that The Bitter End was the hottest lounge on Zarathustra. This was why he gave the directions. It made him seem new to the planet, and that fit in with his plans.

  * * * * * * * * *

  The forensic tech carefully swabbed the table as Marshal Fane watched. Once he was finished, a second tech went over the chair and surrounding carpet with a mini-vacuum designed to collect skin flakes and hair follicles. A third tech used a handheld device that scanned for prints. After a quick sweep, he checked the display and turned to the Marshal. He shrugged, “Nothing.”

  “I didn’t think so, but it was worth a shot. You boys let me know if you find anything else. I want anything and everything we can get on this guy.”

  On his way out Max called maintenance and had the room temperature lowered back to its standard setting.

  * * * * * * * * *

  “I wish I could go, Morgan.”

  Jack took a pill and washed it down with the decaffeinated Darjeeling tea, grimacing at the aftertaste.

  “Surely Akira has helped you catch up on enough of the paperwork to allow you a break…?”

  Jack smiled at that. “Akira could run this place without me. Not only is the backlog cleaned out, she rearranged the files, updated the computer logs and adjusted the delivery schedules for food and supplies to be more efficient. That isn’t the problem.”

  “No?”

  “I can’t go into space for at least two more weeks.” Jack tapped his chest where the new lung was installed. “The docs say I’m still too sensitive to pressure changes. We don’t want my new organs trying to make a break for it.”

  “Schattakk!” Morgan swore in Freyan. “My apologies. I neglected to consider your health. You appear to be so well recovered….”

  “Relax. Personally, I think I’m good to go. Damned doctors are all overly cautious. It’s my fault for staying alive for so long, I guess. Still, can’t take any chances with that Blood Oath you swore.” Jack made a note to pick up some decaffeinated Earl Grey in town. The Darjeeling decaf was not agreeing with him. “When are you going to tell me what this whole continent business is all about, anyway?”

  “As soon as I get the governor to okay the sale. I have other promises to honor, too.”

  Jack decided not to push the issue. When Morgan could tell him, he would. “I need to stretch my legs a bit. Fancy a walk with your old man?”

  “Certainly.” Morgan put on his gun belt and hat while Jack just grabbed his headgear. Once they cleared the door, Morgan asked, “So what is this I hear about you and Betty Kanazawa? Should I plan for a new stepmother?”

  “Gawd, don’t start that!” Jack wondered how much Morgan had heard. Probably everything, he decided. “Betty is a sweet kid and I certainly don’t object to having her around, but she’s a third my age. If that.”

  “So?” Morgan explained that elder Freyan men often took much younger wives, especially if they lacked for any male heirs and sought to correct that. “Besides, I’ve certainly seen enough examples in the Federation to know that it is a common enough practice in Terran culture as well.”

  Jack snorted in derision. “Trophy wives. Most of those women are gold diggers looking for a payday. Or the husband decides he can afford to ‘trade up’ so he divorces the woman who stood by him when they had nothing and gets a young pretty one that likely has no brains or loyalty.”

  Morgan looked concerned. “Do you think Betty is like that? Somebody looking for a payday?”

  “Oh, Nifflheim, no. She seems like a nice girl. Make that ‘woman.’ I just don’t see why she would be interested in me. At least not for the long haul. She seems to be smart, certainly attractive, and she could land a good man her own age easily. Juan Jimenez would be a good catch for her, for example.”

  “Juan has a girlfriend. He just doesn’t discuss his personal life at work.”

  “Now how did you find that out? Wait, don’t tell me. It’s none of my business.”

  The two men came upon Lolita sitting on the grass with a squad of young Fuzzies surrounding her. She waved at the two men, then resumed singing to the Fuzzy youths.

  Great green gobs of greasy grimy goofer guts

  Mutilated meeteek meat

  Little dirty harpy feet

  All wrapped up in all-purpose pluirrel pus

  And me without a spoon.

  The Fuzzies yeeked excitedly as one produced a straw. Morgan looked confused and Jack explained that it was an ancient folk song for children back on old Terra. Only the animals were changed to reflect the local zoology.

  “I know what goofers and harpies are, but what are a meeteek and a pluirrel?”

  Jack explained that a meeteek was a sort of feathered lizard found on Gamma Continent that was named by a surveyor’s six year old son.

  The pluirrel, another fine example of colonial taxonomy, was Zarathustra’s equivalent to the platypus and roughly the size of a Terran Bonobo chimpanzee. Like its Terran equivalent, the pluirrel possessed a reptilian skeletal structure, or rather the Zarathustran equivalent of one, a furry hide and a bird-like beak. It also laid eggs, produced milk and carried its young in a pouch. Unlike the platypus, the pluirrel was arboreal, living in the trees of Epsilon Continent. It had a hairless prehensile tail, the beak was designed for tearing and shredding, and could glide from tree to tree in the same manner as the Terran flying squirrel. It was also a carnivorous omnivore and considered dangerous. Since it looked like a combination of multiple species with a giant squirrel as the base, the name ‘pluirrel’ was deemed to fit.

  “I just love the zoology of this world,” Morgan said. “We need to get a zoo set up near Mallorysport.”

  Jack nodded and the men continued walking.

  “I could arrange for the meeting to take place here, or over in Mallorysport,” Morgan suggested. “That way you could be in attendance with the rest.”


  “I don’t know what you are doing, but it sounds big. Would you have to move a lot of equipment or personnel to make the meeting?”

  Morgan thought about it, then nodded.

  “Look,” Jack said, “if it’s that important, and it sounds like it is, then don’t worry about me. Worry about the project or whatever it is you are pitching. Ben is the one you need to impress, not me.”

  Jack and Morgan came upon another group of Fuzzies who appeared to be fighting. Morgan stepped forward to break it up only to be restrained by Jack’s arm blocking his progress. “It’s not what it looks like.”

  The two men observed for a moment as two Fuzzies darted back and forth with their chopper-diggers swinging wildly. The blades clashed and the Fuzzies almost seemed to dance as they fought. After a minute a third Fuzzy blew a whistle and the combatants stepped away from each other.

  A light went on in Morgan’s head. “This is like a fencing class.”

  “Correct,” nodded Jack. “One of Commodore Napier’s men is an instructor in fencing and pugil stick and adapted the two disciplines into something usable for the Fuzzies.”

  Morgan took in the scene. The Fuzzies were using the metal chopper-diggers that Jack had designed when he first met Little Fuzzy. “Isn’t it dangerous for them to battle like that?”

  “Now don’t you start!” Jack walked over and asked one of the Fuzzies for his weapon, then showed it to Morgan. “I had this duraplas strip put over the edge to keep the Fuzzies from doing serious harm to each other. I drew the line at padding the counterbalancing knob, though. A Fuzzy can take a helluva pounding for their size and shake it off. Coddling them will make them soft like those pencil pushers on Terra. I refuse to allow that to happen.” Jack returned the weapon to the Fuzzy and ruffled his fur.

  “Are all the Fuzzies getting this kind of training?”

  Jack shrugged. “All who want it, which is most of them. Some prefer the newer weapons we Big Ones have given them: bow and arrow, rifle, crossbow. I am trying to encourage the chopper-digger training to keep them in touch with their roots. However, when you get an archer like Maid Marian who can put an arrow in the eye of a bird fifty feet over her head, well—what can you do?”

  Morgan grunted in agreement. “Sure, dropping dinner from far away is better than chasing it first, then hacking away at it with a hand weapon. How were you able to get them interested in this fencing in the first place?”

  “Oh, Fuzzies have always had a fencing style.”

  “Wait, they fight among themselves?” Morgan was surprised. Like many, he had assumed that the Zarathustran natives tended to get along better than the variety from Terra or Freya.

  “Sure they do. It just doesn’t go to the death, as a rule. They fight over things like ‘who saw the berry bush first’ and ‘who is the best wise one’ and occasionally come to blows over it. In the end, everybody either makes friends or the opposing sides split off and start their own tribes. It is a rare thing for a Fuzzy to fight to the death, and I have never seen it happen personally.”

  “That just shows how much smarter they are than us Big Ones, I guess.” Morgan grew thoughtful.

  “Oh, don’t start agonizing over that duel, again,” Jack chided. “Every culture has its rules of conduct, and they usually make sense within the cultural framework. You acted properly within the rules of Freyan society. I could have just refused the challenge, you know.”

  “And you would have suffered the repercussions of your own societal framework,” Morgan countered. “Okay, I’ll let it go. In a few weeks you’ll be back to your old self and it will be like it never happened.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Jack said. “It happened, and for a good reason as far as you knew at the time. If getting shot is the price of learning I have a son, then I got off light. I missed all the things that made you the man you are today. There’s nothing I can do about that, so I plan on sticking around long enough to spoil my grandchildren rotten…when you get around to making some for me.”

  Morgan felt like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but kept his face neutral. “Oh, I’ll get to that when the time is right and I meet the right woman….”

  “You saying you haven’t met her already? What about Akira? Please tell me she isn’t just a fling!”

  “Oh, you like her?”

  “Don’t play coy with me, boy. I’ve been around the block too many times on too many planets. I’ve seen how you two look at each other. Why haven’t you traded bracelets, yet?”

  Morgan suppressed a smile. “You don’t want me to rush into anything, do you? Besides, Akira isn’t Freyan; she would expect a ring.”

  A thought hit Jack. “Yes, a ring. Like the one I gave your mother. We traded bracelets, too. I still have mine in the safe back at the cabin.”

  Morgan decided it was time to change the topic of conversation. “Since you can’t make the meeting personally, maybe I could set up a video feed from the yacht to the cabin.”

  Jack caught what Morgan was doing and decided to let it slide. “No need. You might do better without daddy looking over your shoulder. Besides, since I don’t know what you are up to, there is always the possibility that I won’t approve. Better I stay out of it and let Ben make the decision without my two centi-sols worth. Now, let’s get back to the office so you can spend some time with your girl before you take off again.”

  XIV

  Murdock raged like a damnthing while Dane sat back in his office chair and waited him out. The thug didn’t like what Lundgren had just told him and had no difficulty in expressing his displeasure. Richard Lundgren sat quietly in a chair next to the desk, following Dane’s example, and waited for the storm to pass.

  “Why the Nifflheim did ya give over five hundred thousand sols worth of real stones ta a bunch of prospectors?” Murdock finished.

  Actually, he had demanded that same thing several times in his oration, but didn’t allow anybody to get in a word edgewise to explain. Now that he had wound down, mostly to catch his breath, Dane was able to cut in. “Credibility,” Dane said.

  “What?” Murdock stared at Dane, then selected a chair and plopped down into it. “Whaddya mean by that?”

  Dane let out a breath before continuing. “We need to establish our credibility with the sunstone miners before we pull anything cute. The prospectors in turn also need to be credible to the Company gem buyers. Slipping in the ersatz gems too soon is dangerous, both to our plans and us personally. Prospectors have been known to exact their own brand of justice when cheated or played for saps. We also still need to get an idea of the faux sunstones shelf-life. Having a few gems go dud in the middle of a transaction wrecks the whole scam.”

  “But ya just had nerd boy there give away a fortune in real stones!” Murdock yelled, pointing his large hairy finger at Lundgren.

  Dane found himself getting annoyed with Murdock’s short-sightedness. He thought for a moment, then came up with a way to explain things. “Think of this as a counterfeiting ring, only instead of sols we are using sunstones. Tell me, have you ever worked a counterfeit scam?”

  Murdock shook his head. “Naw. Knew some guys that did. They ended up doin’ time.”

  Dane smiled. Murdock had just underlined the point he was going to make. “Ah, good. How were they caught?”

  Murdock’s face went blank as he thought for a moment. “They got too greedy too quick. An’ were sloppy with the distribution of the bogus bucks. They mixed in too much of the phonies with the real stuff at one time.”

  “And there it is,” Dane said with a smile. “Right now we have an easy fifty million sols worth of real sunstones, and maybe a third that in the potential counterfeits for the moment. We can get duds by the ton once we decide we can use them. That’s not counting the revenues we are currently bringing in from the late Mr. Bowlby’s estate or our other quasi-legal activities. We have money to burn, Mr. Murdock.”

  “Then why mess with fakes at all? I like money as much as the next
guy, but why risk getting caught with the bogus rocks for such a small return? An’ how does giving away the real stones do us any good?”

  Dane shook his head. Seventeen million sols a small return? And that was just the tip of the iceberg. “The real sunstones that Lundgren passed around will eventually be sold to the CZC, the largest gem buyer on the planet. Oh, a few will go to the new independents that have popped up since the Company lost its charter, but they won’t be able to handle anything like the bulk we just put on the street. That means the CZC will be the only game in town for buying any serious quantities of gems. With me so far?”

  Murdock nodded.

  “Good. Now, the CZC gem buyers are not stupid. Victor Grego does not typically employ stupid people. They will wonder where all these new stones are coming from, and they will look very closely at their potential purchases. While Dr. Quigley has assured me that the fakes are completely indistinguishable from the real gems, we have to be damned sure that the CZC doesn’t have some clever devices we never heard of that could prove our own bright scientist wrong. That means we have to make them blasé about large amounts of stones coming in. So, we flood the streets with real stones, then after a while, we slip in a few ersatz gems with each load. We pay the prospectors a percentage, of say five to ten percent to act as front men, and the counterfeit stones find their way into the CZC stock.”

  “It still sounds like we lose money, ta me,” Murdock growled.

  “This isn’t about making money,” Dane said with a smile. “It is about bringing down the CZC, and with it the colonial government.”

  That caught Murdock’s attention but good. “What? How do a few fake gems do that?”

  Lundgren spoke up as Dane rolled his eyes. “When the fakes start fizzing out, hopefully in some rich dowager’s jewelry box, there will be a lot of accusations of fraud directed at the CZC. The Federation will start an investigation and all of their holdings will be frozen or seized. At the minimum their stock will fall faster than a hammer on Magni. Any or all of those are good. No more sunstones coming out of Yellowsand. No more money for the colonial government. No money for planetary services or government employees. People will be out to lynch Grego and Rainsford. At the very least there will be a recall vote. That’s when we set up our own candidate for colonial governor.”