Caveat Fuzzy

by Wolfgang Diehr

  Grego lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair to relax for a moment. The last few months had been more than a little crazy. Morgan entering the scene, Gus Brannhard’s abduction and recovery, the explosion in Northern Beta, the advent of hostilities between Fuzzies and Terrans, that damned duel between Jack and Morgan…Grego was almost nostalgic for the weeks following the Pendarvis Decision when his only worry was keeping the company afloat.

  “Mr. Grego,” said Myra’s voice from the intercom. “Governor Rainsford on screen selection one, sir.”

  “Thank you, Myra.” Grego turned his chair and tapped on the screen. “Ben, I hope this is a social call.”

  “I wish it was,” Rainsford said. “I just wanted to give you heads up. B.I.N. is hanging me in effigy over the sale of Zeta Continent. They are also going after you for selling the mining concern there.”

  Grego snorted. “Let me guess, the unseated lands issue, right?”

  “What else? B.I.N. is harping on the lack of land to entice further colonization. They don’t seem to understand that we can’t maintain the tax-free status if the population grows too quickly.”

  “Not to mention the problems involved in expanding planetary services,” Grego said. “Even the Company doesn’t have unlimited resources.”

  “Then there’s the Federation dues we would have to pay if the population exceeds twenty million human citizens,” Rainsford added.

  Grego sat straighter. “Wait. What is this?”

  “You didn’t know?” Grego admitted he didn’t so Rainsford explained. “It takes a lot of money to maintain the Federation and its military. Normally, each planet kicks in a bit of its gross planetary revenues, about five to ten percent, back to the Federation to maintain it. That TFN base on Xerxes isn’t cheap, you know. Well, low-population colony planets are exempt until they reach a certain population density. For Zarathustra that is twenty million people.”

  Grego was stunned. “How did I not know this?”

  “When you owned the planet outright it didn’t apply. The TFN was posted here to keep an eye on you as much as protect the planet.”

  “True. And when I…the Company lost the planet we weren’t on the hook for the dues.” Grego nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, if the population does get to that point, which of us is on the hook: you or me?”

  “That would be me, Victor,” Rainsford said. “Leslie made sure of that in the contract we signed. It would come out of the interest payments on the Yellowstone revenues. I am fairly certain that we would be exempted from any consideration for the planetary services since they are privatized.”

  How in Nifflheim did I miss that? Grego thought back and remembered that he was involved in making extee-three for the Fuzzies, developing the Fuzzy Phone with Henry Stensen, and whip-cracking Science Division to find out why the Fuzzies had such a low viable reproduction rate. His mind had been very full of Fuzzy thinking. Fortunately, Leslie Coombes watched out for the company and its CEO. Grego had left the contract work to him and just signed it when done. Of course, he trusted Leslie implicitly; still it was an unforgivable lapse on Grego’s part.

  “Victor? Are you all right? You spaced-out on me for a second there.”

  “Just thinking it was time to give Leslie a raise, Ben. Tell you what; I’ll talk with Miguel Kourland and have him set something up to get that information out. We would all like to see Zarathustra grow and thrive, now we just need to get the message across that slow and steady wins the race.” Grego considered letting Ben know about the possibility of counterfeit sunstones, then decided the governor had enough on his plate.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Rainsford agreed. “Now we need to schedule another play-date for Flora, Fauna and Diamond….”

  After some more pleasantries the two men screened off, allowing Grego a moment with his thoughts. He had been wearing two hats since the CFO died in an aircar crash ten years earlier. Grego enjoyed the freedom it gave him to run the company his way without a bean counter to argue with, but maybe it was getting time to get a new chief financial officer; somebody young and sharp with a good eye for profit and a strong moral fiber. That was a rare combination. At one time Grego considered grooming his daughter back on Terra for the job, but she married her college sweetheart and took a position with the Home Office. She had never even come to Zarathustra for a visit after college. Grego didn’t blame her for that; a year out of her married life and job was a high price to pay for a not-so-quick trip to a backwater colony planet to visit her father.

  A good CFO would watch out for the Company’s bottom line like it was his own while keeping his hands out of the till. That meant somebody honest or at least with enough of their own money that they wouldn’t be tempted. One name instantly came to mind.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Officers Gilbert and Sullivan, off from surveillance duty and looking for some overtime, volunteered to escort Anderson and Rippolone to Prison House. For security reasons, the collapsium-plated squad car parked inside the shielded bay at Police House remained on contra-gravity. While the reinforced flooring could easily support the tremendous weight of the vehicle, procedure required it be ready to make a quick departure should something go wrong with the prisoner transfer.

  Sullivan remained at the controls while Gilbert stood outside the aircar with one hand on his weapon. The prisoners, wearing the usual shackles, also had the explosive collars used on work details. Instead of a pole, the damping signal was produced by a device in the squad car. If the prisoners were to escape, an extremely unlikely event, they would lose their heads when they moved ten meters from the vehicle. The card that would disable the collars was in the possession of Warden Redford at Prison House. Once in the prison infirmary, the two men would be scanned and X-rayed, their DNA taken and a microchip implanted into their skulls.

  Anderson and Rippolone were escorted into the bay by Leslie Coombes, Douglas Toyoshi, Police Chief Frank Carr and four officers. The prisoners were assisted into the back of the squad car behind the transparent dura-plas partition used to hold suspects while in flight.

  “This squad car is completely armored and proof against anything short of a high-powered laser,” Chief Carr said. “A laser big enough to do the job would be about the size of a monorail car and weigh around seven tons. Not a subtle weapon and the only one on Zarathustra is over on Zeta Continent where it is used to bore into the planet’s crust for mining purposes.”

  “What about poisonous gas? High-ranged sonics? Atomic explosions?” Rippolone asked.

  “The squad car was checked top to bottom. It has its own air supply, which has been tested. Sonics can’t penetrate collapsium shielding. An atomic bomb would destroy the entire city, including the hitman. All air traffic is being diverted away from your route and nothing on the ground can get through to you. Hell, you’re safer than I am.”

  Rippolone laughed. “I’ll bet my pizza maker against your badge we never make it to Prison House.”

  Carr chuckled. “How would you collect? Relax, you’ll be fine.”

  Carr gave the signal and Gilbert sealed the hatch. Sullivan lifted the vehicle and floated out the bay door. Once outside they were joined by two more squad cars. Chief Carr was taking no chances.

  “Still alive back there?” Sullivan yelled. Rippolone glared through the dura-plas while Anderson ignored him.

  “So far so good, guys,” Gilbert said conversationally. “We’ll be at Prison House in about thirty seconds. There, we’ll enter a secure enclosure erected just for you. Once we sign you over to the warden you can relax in your nice new cells.”

  Rippolone grinned ruefully. “Ya know what, Gilbert? I like you. When they find me dead I want you to have my pizza maker. Have a thick crust double cheese with extra pepperoni on me. Really.”

  Anderson, who had been steadfastly silent throughout the transfer added, “You can have my vidscreen, too. No point in it going to waste.”

  Chief Carr’s voice came over the radio. “I’ll make a
note of that. Now cut the chatter and let the men concentrate on their jobs.”

  “I can drive and listen at the same time, Chief,” Sullivan replied. “These two are nervous and blowing off steam. They won’t distract me for the fifteen seconds left of the trip.”

  “They—not or I’ll—on foot—Ghu comes to Zara—”

  “Chief? You’re breaking up something terrible—”

  “Kill the connection!” Gilbert cried out, as he scrambled for the radio controls.

  He was a second too late. There was a screeching sound from the radio followed by a near-deafening explosion from the rear of the squad car. Sullivan glanced back and saw the mess through the cracked and bloody dura-plas.

  “Damnit!” Sullivan added more colorful curses as he turned the radio back on.

  “What just happened?” demanded Carr’s voice through the speaker. Sullivan looked over at Gilbert, then back to the front. “My partner just inherited a pizza maker, Chief.”

  XXV

  Terrence Vlosopolos stepped out of his aircar carrying a duffle bag and three human-sized chopper-diggers. Some of the Fuzzies recognized him from the Fuzzycons and clambered about yeeking excitedly. With him were two Fuzzies he had adopted shortly after the first convention. Jack Holloway and Akira O’Barre walked out to rescue Terrence from his Fuzzy fans.

  “Heyo, Pappy Jack,” Terrence said in a high-pitched voice. “Hi, Akira.”

  “Gah! Don’t you start that, now,” Jack said. “Next you’ll have all the humans calling me Pappy Jack. It took me forever to get them to stop calling me Fuzzy Fuzzy Holloway. I actually threatened to shoot the next person who did.”

  “My apologies, Commissioner,” Terrence said in his normal voice, a low tenor. “I tend to get into character when surrounded by the Fuzzies. You won’t need to shoot me to make your point.”

  “Jack will do. Relax, I was just pulling your leg.” Jack looked down at the two Fuzzies with Terrence, a male and a female. “What name you?”

  The male answered Flash Gordon and the female Dale Arden. Jack chuckled. “Those have got to be among the best Fuzzy names yet.”

  “There’s a couple over in Mallorysport named John Carter and Dejah Thoris,” Terrence said. “Their adoptive parents run a bookstore.”

  Jack nodded and pointed at the duffle bag. “Is that your costume?”

  Terrence patted his bag. “You bet, Jack. I made the lining out of fibroid weave remnants I cadged from a military surplus outlet, then perma-bonded tanned goofer hides to it.”

  “Damn. I’m guessing it isn’t ‘one size fits all,’ then?”

  “I am afraid not. This suit will only fit me…or somebody of my height and build.”

  “Nifflheim! I was hoping either I or one of the NPF cops could wear it, but you’re a good four inches shorter than any of them.” Jack eyed Terrence up and down for a moment. “Can you fit protective armor under your suit?”

  Terrence thought for a second before answering. “Only the really lightweight stuff, and then only if I strip down to my skivvies first.”

  “Hmm…lightweight would stop a Fuzzy-sized spear or arrow, I think. How do you feel about being taken into a hostile situation in that getup?”

  Terrence was excited and nervous at the possibility. He was by no means the heroic athletic type, yet the prospect of going into a dangerous situation with Jack Holloway would do wonders for his reputation. It might also allow him a better chance with a young woman of his acquaintance.

  Terrence tried to affect an attitude of nonchalance. “Sure thing, Jack. What’s the gig?”

  “Believe it or not, we have a small war going on up in Northern Beta between humans and Fuzzies. I am hoping you will be able to keep them from shooting at me while I get close enough to parlay with their leaders…if they have any.”

  Terrence considered the situation. “So I am to be your human… make that Fuzzy shield?”

  The boy is smart, Jack thought. “Pretty much. I don’t expect you to block any arrows, but maybe with you along the Fuzzies will be too curious or surprised to shoot any.”

  “And they have arrows and spears, unlike the local Fuzzies?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Ah, what the hell. I’ll just have to hope that they will think I’m too cute to make dead.”

  The kid’s got stones, too, thought Jack, I hope to Ghu I don’t get him killed. “Look, your only function will be to walk out with me with your chopper-digger held up high…what’s it made from, anyway?”

  Terrence held one up for Jack to inspect. “This one is made of hardened aluminum. It was the prototype. The other two are poly-steel. I had to save up for a while to get them made.”

  “Hmm. Good job. Makes me wish I got the patent on the design. I could be making royalties. When we see the Fuzzies, put your chopperdigger down on the ground and place a foot on it. That will signal that we want to make friends.”

  Terrence nodded, then performed the action. “Does it matter which foot I use?”

  “Not at all,” Jack said. “Fuzzies are ambidextrous so they don’t attach any significance to one side over the other. Good question, though. Any others?”

  “Yes. Once the Fuzzies come over to talk, what do you want me to do? I am fluent in the Fuzzy language….”

  “Thanks, but this crowd speaks a different language or dialect. As soon as it is safe to do so, you just get your furry backside out of there. I don’t want you getting hurt. If I had a cop who could fit into your outfit, you’d be staying behind.”

  Terrence nodded. Getting hurt was high on his list of things to avoid. “If you don’t mind my asking, why don’t you just take a real Fuzzy?” Terrence made a sweeping gesture with his right hand indicating the mob running around them. “I’ll bet you’d get lots of volunteers.”

  “First of all, I don’t want any of my gang getting involved. This is an issue of human/Fuzzy relations that doesn’t concern them. Next, I am trying to send the message that we are more alike than not alike. A giant Fuzzy might impress them more. Your costume was good enough to fool real Fuzzies, or at least they were too polite to say otherwise, so I am hoping it will work on the wild Fuzzies up north.”

  “And if it doesn’t,” Terrence said, “you want me to wear as much armor under the suit as I can get away with. I’m starting to wish I skipped that second veldbeest burger at lunch. Well, I brought along one other little surprise on the off-chance it would come in handy.”

  Terrence pulled a small device from a pocket and tapped a few buttons. Something that looked like a giant land-prawn floated out of his aircar. “I didn’t fill it with meat like I did at the conventions. Still, I thought you might like to have it since I didn’t know what you needed me for.”

  Not for the first time Jack was impressed with Terrence’s ingenuity. “It might come in handy at that.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  Ducking out on a surveillance team made for a feeling of nostalgia in Leo Thaxter. It was almost too easy. Cops were creatures of habit. Stakeout teams worked in eight hour shifts and changed shifts on a regular schedule. Thaxter waited for the usual change-over time the next morning, then slipped out in his aircar while the old team briefed the new team.

  Thaxter came to a decision the night before after learning his hideout had been discovered. The odds that he would be able to make it off-world alive were about the same as learning to breathe in a vacuum. As an escaped felon odds were that there was a shoot on sight order out on him. It was standard procedure. As an escapee with a death sentence hanging over his head he would be assumed to be desperate, so no chances would be taken.

  Facial reconstruction would do no good; DNA swabs would be taken of anybody buying an off-planet ticket. The synthmask would never make it past the thermal imaging scans, either. No, he would have to turn himself in and finish his time at Prison House then hope he could beat the fagany wrap when he was retried. He still had eighteen years to go on his twenty-year sentence, but death lasted a lot longe
r.

  Fine. I’m going to have to go back in stir, but I’m going to get Dane and Murdock first. Thaxter briefly considered just handing over the vid feed files to the cops. Brannhard could certainly run with that. Still, it stuck in his craw to let the law do his work for him, and he wanted to put the bullet in the sons-of-Khooghras personally. Since there was always the possibility he might get killed first, he took a few precautions.

  Once Thaxter was sure he’d lost any tail, he dropped down to a public parking zone and parked the aircar. He then peeled off the synthmask and wig, putting on dark glasses and a hat instead. The cops would be looking for the man who arrived at the cabin the night before. Some tunnel vision on their part might keep them from noticing him with his real face. The shades and hat couldn’t hurt.

  One good thing about a colony planet formally owned by a chartered company was the mass transit systems. The CZC liked workers to get to work on time and knew not everybody could afford an aircar, so numerous monorail systems above and below the ground allowed people to get anywhere in Mallorysport for a quarter-sol.

  While possessing the same Abbot lift and drive capability that was the staple for extra-planetary transport throughout the Federation, though scaled down to the minimum possible size, the rail attachment removed any possibility of an accident through human error or any chance of theft, as well as providing the power for the craft from the city grid for its propulsion. The entire rail system was computer-operated with emergency robot support on board in the control room. It always ran on time and never missed a stop point.

  Thaxter selected the aboveground transport since crime was less common there and therefore they were less likely to carry on duty cops. There were security cameras, of course, but they were easy to spot and avoid as long as one wasn’t trying to accost the other passengers.