“For you. Big Ones kill Sun Fur. Kill other Jin-f ’ke. Hurt more. No Big Ones come here.” Red Fur was adamant.
Little Fuzzy understood. When the female called Goldilocks was killed by a Big One, he was angry, too. So was Pappy Jack. Pappy Jack almost killed the bad Big One with his bare hands. Little Fuzzy understood then that there were good Big Ones, like Pappy Jack and Pappy Gus and Pappy Vic, and bad Big Ones like the one who had done the killing. Red Fur had only seen the bad Big Ones. It would take time to teach him the difference.
“Hokay. I tell Pappy Jack no Big Ones come here. He and Pappy George will make it so. Pappy Jack say he make house near big boom place where police stay. Police make bad Big Ones stay away.”
Red Fur didn’t like any Big Ones so close. Little Fuzzy took great pains to explain that it was necessary. Red Fur didn’t like it, Big Ones to protect his people from Big Ones, but eventually understood it was the only way to keep his people safe.
“Red Fur, come with me to the Wonderful Place and see good Big Ones,” Little Fuzzy suggested.
Red Fur was hesitant. Big Ones were dangerous. Yet, many-many of the people from the sun’s right hand had come to save the Big One called Pappy Jack. He was afraid of the Big Ones and their incredible made-things, yet he was the Wise One of his people. A Wise One should not be afraid to do anything that other people do. A Wise One could not lead through fear. Red Fur came to a decision.
“Hokay, Little Fuhzzee,” Red Fur said. “I come to see good Big Ones.”
* * * * * * * * *
Gerd was packing up and preparing to go back to Beta. The rocket’s origins had been determined and he was no longer needed at Science Division. At least not on Alpha Continent. With Jack’s blessing and Grego’s offer to set up Science Division Beta, Gerd was once again an employee of the Charterless Zarathustra Company. Ruth also agreed to come back and head up her own psycho-sciences department, also on Beta. The idea was to learn everything there was about Fuzzies.
Three Galactic Standard months earlier, Gerd thought he had the Fuzzies figured out. Then that gang in Northern Beta turned everything they understood on its ear. Fuzzies were capable of war, mass organization and even specialization. They were not the furry children everybody thought they were. At least, not the Jin-f ’ke.
“Already packed?”
Gerd spun around to find Victor Grego, his old/new boss, standing in the doorway. “Almost, Mr. Grego.”
“You’re a division head, Gerd. You get to call me Victor.” Grego looked around at the room. “Did you collect the things you left behind last time? I can have it all shipped to your cabin on Beta.”
“I would appreciate that, Victor.”
Grego remembered how Juan Jimenez stumbled when using his boss’s first name. Gerd, on the other hand, was used to it from his time as Deputy Commissioner.
“Gerd, in the spirit of honesty, I want to show you something.” Grego walked out and Gerd followed. They took an elevator down to the Science Division Special Projects level. “Ben and I had cooked up this little project shortly after the rocket was discovered on Beta. We were concerned about the future of the planet if the Fuzzies were deemed space refugees.”
Gerd followed Grego to a security door where he placed a palm on the glowing panel and the heavy doors retracted into the wall. They entered only to be faced by a second set of metal doors. Grego placed his hand on a second glowing plate. The doors behind them closed before the one in front of them opened.
Gerd had never been on the Special Projects level before and rubbernecked at everything around him, until he turned a corner and his eyes landed on something huge that was covered with a tarp. The shape was unmistakable.
“This is the ersatz rocket Commodore Napier commissioned, isn’t it?”
“It is now.” Grego lifted a section of tarp and the two men went under it. Sure enough, it was a duplicate of the Martian Rocket over in the warehouse. Some men were spraying the inside of the hull with a corrosive agent that would duplicate the rust and metal fatigue found on the real artifact.
“Your guys work fast in here…wait, you said you and Ben cooked this up two months ago?”
“Yes. We had the same idea Napier had. We’re making as perfect a duplicate of the real artifact as we can. It will be almost impossible to distinguish the two.”
“What? I thought the idea was to make an obvious fake?”
Grego shook his head. “An obvious fake would invite even more scrutiny. This has to look like a genuine attempt to defraud the public. Not to worry, no matter how good we do, there will be somebody out there good enough to spot inaccuracies. Especially as we will be adding one sure to make people sit up and take notice.”
“What’s that?”
“A real Martian skeleton. I have one in my private collection of Martian artifacts.”
“A real…I don’t get it.” Gerd was confused. “Won’t that make it seem even more realistic?”
“Absolutely! That’s the point. Scientists will tear this thing apart atom by atom to prove it is either real or not. Sooner or later, somebody will put it together that the skeleton is twenty-thousand years older than the rocket is supposed to be.”
Gerd looked over the rocket and let out a low whistle. “I can’t believe Ben would go along with something like this.”
“He wasn’t until that Ivan Dane, excuse me, Hugo Ingermann, started using the ‘Fuzzy Rocket’ to declare the local government illegal. Ben doesn’t want the Fuzzies to fall prey to somebody like that.”
Gerd admitted he might have done the same thing in that case. “I noticed you didn’t mention any of this to Commodore Napier.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he already knows. I very much doubt that Ruth was the only spy in the Company. However, even if he does, he can’t admit to it; that would give away the fact that he has other spies rooting around the Company. So, I just handed him the bill for this little enterprise and he has no other choice than to pay it.”
Gerd nodded. Thank Ghu, Victor is on our side, he thought. Another thought struck him. “You think he’ll try to get Ruth to spy on you again?”
“I would be very surprised if he didn’t,” Grego said. “He’ll think that I’ll think that as a known agent she would be ineffective as a spy. And then he’ll figure that makes her the perfect agent for the job. In any case, he can’t waste the opportunity.”
“What makes you think I’m not a spy?”
“What makes you think I think that?” Grego countered. “Okay, there’s too much ‘think’ going on here. Look, I can count on you to do whatever is best for the Fuzzies and your friends. I respect that and I count on it. I want the Fuzzies protected, too. Even from me, if necessary.”
Gerd processed that last bit. “Victor, this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
XXXVIII
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am to do this, Piet.”
Colonial Marshal Max Fane was the kind of leader who gave the bad news in person when at all possible. In this case, it was that Inspector Piet Dumont was being forced into medical retirement from the police force. Piet took the news far more calmly than the Marshal would have expected.
“Are you sure, Marshal? The wound wasn’t that bad. I didn’t even need a new heart.”
Max shook his head sadly. “There was significant damage near the heart and in the lung. Not bad enough to warrant new organs, but enough to make police work too dangerous for you. I know,”—Max put up a hand to forestall any protest from Piet— “you are in much better shape than I am, and as an inspector you are not expected to exert yourself physically as much as patrolmen. It doesn’t matter. The regulations don’t give any leeway in this.”
“I see.” Piet slumped in his hover-chair. “So, retirement?”
“Full pension,” Max said. “We can also bring you in as a consultant from time to time.”
Piet sighed. “I guess I can do private investigations like my old man did when he was f
orced to retire from the force back on Terra.”
“You could,” the Marshal agreed. An idea hit him. “You know, there is a rumor going around that Gerd van Riebeek will be leaving his post as the Deputy Commissioner of Native Affairs and taking back his old job at the CZC. If you apply for the job, I can give you a good, no, great recommendation….”
Piet took a moment before he realized what he was being offered. “Wait. What? Deputy commissioner? Do you think Jack Holloway would go for it?”
Max shrugged. “I don’t see why not. You’ve never crossed him personally, and your record is mostly exemplary. Give it a shot. What do you have to lose?”
Piet thought about it. It would mean moving to Beta. That wasn’t really a problem since he could swing back on off-days to visit with friends. He liked Fuzzies as much as the next man and his time as the former chief of police in Mallorysport had taught him to handle paperwork well enough. And he wouldn’t always be stuck in a chair behind a desk. He could go out and investigate things with George Lunt. From a financial point of view it would be great. He would have his police pension plus the income from the new job.
“Okay, Max.” Since he was about to become a civilian, he didn’t see the need to stand on formality. “I’ll go dust off my resume and take a little ride over to Beta Continent.”
“That’s the spirit. When will the doctors let you out?”
“Ten minutes ago.” Piet threw off his blanket and stood up. Though a bit unsteady, he collected his things from the cabinet and dressed himself. “Whether they like it or not.”
* * * * * * * * *
Hugo Ingermann, also known as Ivan Dane, awoke in his hospital bed. He felt like his head was stuffed with cotton and there was a bad taste in his mouth; the result of the sedatives the doctors had given him. He was still in pain from the gunshot wound though it had subsided to a dull ache.
As his mind cleared he recalled that he had been shot by somebody who looked a lot like Leo Thaxter. He also recalled that Thaxter, if it was him, was killed by somebody else.
He didn’t get a good look at Thaxter’s killer, but when he discovered who it was he planned on giving him a good sized reward.
Ingermann sat up in his bed and pushed the blanket aside. He had an itch on his ankle that he wanted to scratch. The itch was forgotten when he saw the explosive shackle. He had seen shackles like that on many of his past clients. He had been arrested: Now the question was on what charge? Ingermann knew the list was a long one, but that didn’t mean that the police knew everything. There was still a good possibility that he could get off. He was good at that.
Ingermann buzzed for the nurse. When she entered the room she was accompanied by two policemen. “How can we help you, Mr. Ingermann?”
“I need another…” Ingermann’s words froze in his throat. The nurse called him ‘Ingermann.’
“Something wrong, Mr. Ingermann?” Officer Chang asked.
“I think ol’ Hugo here just realized he is completely and totally screwed,” York added.
Ingermann flopped back onto his pillow. He was done and he knew it.
“Would you care for some headache pills, Mr. Ingermann?” the nurse asked.
“Very much so.”
XXXIX
The party was in full swing outside Jack’s newly expanded cabin. All of the big names on Zarathustra were in attendance: Ben Rainsford, Victor Grego, Gus Brannhard, Leslie Coombes, Commodore Napier and Lt. Commander Pancho Ybarra, Gerd and Ruth van Riebeek and Max Fane as well as George Lunt, Ahmed and Sandra Khadra, Betty Kanazawa, Thor Folkvar, Larry Wolvin and his wife Ellaree, Peter Davis, Marcus Szymanski, Henry Stensen…the list went on and on.
Terrence Vlosopolos in his Fuzzy costume danced about and entertained the Fuzzies. He also had a following of young ladies who had heard a slightly exaggerated story of his heroism while assisting the famous Jack Holloway. Terrence was innocent of the braggadocio; Jack Holloway played up the young man’s part to Akira who in turn shared it with Betty and her friends at the Company.
Amazingly, Dr. Hoenveld attended the soirée with, even more amazingly, Darla Cross. And of course, everybody brought their Fuzzies.
Ernst Mallin was enjoying an iced tea with Chris Hoenveld near the Fuzzies’ playground. “It must be wonderful to be able to play like children without being judged.”
Hoenveld snorted. “I never played like that. I preferred the molecule sets. Why do you suppose we were invited to this…shindig? I do not typically associate with any of these people outside of work.”
Ernst Mallin took a second to adjust to the sudden topic shift, then shrugged. “Maybe it has something to do with the work we did on the so-called Fuzzy Bones.”
Hoenveld snorted again. It was becoming a habit with him. “Fuzzy Bones my gluteus maximus. Those were an offshoot of the same species, no doubt, but I would bet any three of my degrees that they were not direct ancestors to the modern Fuzzy sapiens zarathustra. And that last femur we received from the dig site came from a Martian or I’m a Khooghras’ uncle. The carbon dating matched that of the rocket almost exactly.”
And there was the crux of Hoenveld’s ire; proof of Martian space travel and he was forbidden to publish a paper on it because of Commodore Napier and Victor Grego.
“Chris, you can still document your discoveries. Oh, it won’t be seen in our time, but future generations will know of your work. Your immortality is assured. And let me suggest that you lower your voice if you plan on discussing the matter further. The walls have ears, you know.”
Hoenveld was quiet for a moment, then said, “What do you think this party is really about? It’s not to showoff Holloway’s new additions to his cabin. I’ve never even met the man in person.”
Mallin looked about at the other attendees and spotted Morgan and Akira sitting on a bench away from the crowd. The looks they were giving each other were very telling for the psycho-scientist. “I believe we are here for an important announcement.”
“Humph! Important to whom?” Hoenveld shifted his gaze to the mass of Fuzzies crowding around. “I would love to get some blood samples from the Northern Fuzzies.”
Hoenveld was switching topics every other second, it seemed. “Oh? Do you think they might be a separate branch of the Fuzzy family tree?”
“Not at all. The size difference is likely due to better nutrition. The change in their culture is most likely due to the reduction of harpies in that area. The more game in one area, the fewer reasons to move about to hunt. That allowed them to develop villages and specialization. I suspect that we will see similar growth patterns in the young of the Fuzzies we associate with.”
Mallin nodded. He had come to many of the same conclusions himself. “I wonder how big they will get?”
“No way of telling. Especially with the relatively new mutation that I observed in Zorro.”
“Ah, yes,” Mallin nodded. “Many of the Northern Fuzzies have demonstrated the same mutation. About half of them disdain landprawn and extee-three, yet have healthy offspring.”
“What? Why didn’t anybody tell me this?” Hoenveld was furious. He hated being left out of new discoveries. He spotted Juan Jimenez and stomped off in his direction only to be intercepted by Darla Cross. His ire momentarily forgotten, Hoenveld escorted Darla to the buffet table.
Mallin chuckled as he watched the normally taciturn Hoenveld led around by the actress. Maybe she would add to his education in an area he had previously neglected, thought the psycho-scientist.
* * * * * * * * *
Fuzzies were practically a living carpet across the grounds surrounding the cabin. Little Fuzzy had talked Red Fur into visiting Pappy Jack’s home to observe the Big Ones in their own environment. Like most Fuzzies seeing the wonders of the Big Ones for the first time, Red Fur tried to see everything at once.
“Pappy Jack lives in big made-thing?” Red Fur asked. Little Fuzzy said it was so, and that he and his clan also lived there. “Does it fly like melon-seed shaped made-thi
ngs?”
Little Fuzzy laughed, then stopped himself. He remembered how amazed he had been at many of the wonders the Big Ones possessed. And if Pappy Jack wanted to, Little Fuzzy had no doubt the cabin could be made to fly.
Red Fur hefted his new shoppo-diggo. It was slightly larger than the one Little Fuzzy carried to accommodate his greater height.
“This good weapon, an’ want many-many for the Jin-f ’ke, but not want Big Ones around my people.”
Little Fuzzy understood. “Pappy George say only one guard station near big hole place. This is so bad Big Ones not come an’ make trouble. You want something, you tell Big One at guard place.”
Red Fur was dubious but willing to give it a try. He had to admit that the chopper-diggers made of the—what did little Fuzzy call it? Metal. The metal chopper-diggers were truly wondrous weapons. All things the Big Ones made were better, stronger. His people could learn much from the Big Ones, as Little Fuzzy’s people had. It was so tempting to just accept what the Big Ones had to offer.
Red Fur looked out at the Fuzzies all around him. Some were playing with the made-things given to them by the Big Ones. A few were bringing things to the Big Ones. To his eyes they were like children and the Big Ones their parents. The Pappy Jacks and Pappy Georges and Unka Morgans would look after them and care for them and teach them things. Red Fur had to think hard about what that all meant.
* * * * * * * * *
The official reason for the party was to celebrate the new additions to the cabin. It wasn’t until things were in full swing that the real reasons were announced. Morgan had a stage constructed outside near the barbeque pit and decorated in Freyan festival style. An hour into the celebration, Thor Folkvar tapped a hammer on a metal item that looked like a cross between a bell and a scrap-metal wind chime. The sound it made, a bell-toned clang with prolonged reverberation, quickly caught everybody’s attention. Once everyone was looking at the stage, Morgan and Akira entered from opposite sides and came together at stage center.
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