Fuzzy Bones (v1.1)

by William Tuning (v1. 1) (html)

  “Federated Sunstone Cooperative, indeed!” Rainsford jerked his pipe out of his pocket and began to tamp tobacco into the bowl. “Isn’t a real prospector in the whole shebang!”

  “The best he could have hoped for might be an injunction against the CZC and the colonial government entering into or pursuing any kind of joint ventures or leasing agreements.” Brannhard rumbled, like a volcano preparing to erupt. He was chuckling. “Then, young Throckmorton had to ‘beef up’ the case by trying to sue the government for conspiracy. I bet Ingermann roasted him alive over that one.”

  “In the meantime,” Rainsford grumped, “the press is roasting me alive—especially the news analysts. I could throttle that young squirt at ZNS. Do you know he infiltrated my own staff? My own staff, by Ghu! They didn’t have any useful information for him, though. They don’t know any more about what’s really going on over on North Beta than I do, which is precisely zero.”

  Brannhard chuckled, again. “Why, Ben, all you have to do is take a run over there and ask Jack. He’d tell you what’s going on. I’m sure he would.”

  “Well, isn’t that just fine!” Rainsford exploded. “Take a run over to North Beta, the man says!” Rainsford took his pipe out of his mouth and ticked off his points on the fingers of his other hand. “The Constitutional Convention is coming to a fast boil. There are crazy rumors all over town. I’ve been going on screen every night to try and pacify people. ‘There, there—nothing to worry about, folks; just digging up a little old spaceship wreck over there. Everything’s gonna be just fine.’ For every yard of wool I get knit together, Ingermann and his gang come along behind me and unravel it before I can get home to watch myself on the screen. People are going nuts in the streets. Junktown is like a combat zone: the only thing that’s holding it together is that priest fella down there with his soup kitchen. That reminds me, I want to talk to him.” Rainsford made a quick note into his stenomemophone. “Haven’t had a good night’s sleep in Ghu knows how long. And you want me to drop everything and take a little junket over to North Beta. Don’t you go losing your marbles on me, too, Gus. Do you have any idea how foolish a man feels, standing up there shooting his mouth off just like he knew what he was talking about?”

  Brannhard shrugged and refurbished his drink. “It was only a suggestion, Ben.”

  “Sure,” Rainsford said. “Easy for you to say. I’m the one that has to stand in front of that pickup and try to sound like I know what’s what, when I have no idea how it’s going to come out. You try that, some time and see how ridiculous it makes you feel.”

  “I do,” Brannhard said quietly.

  “When ?” Rainsford demanded.

  “Every time I take a case to trial,” Brannhard replied.

  “Hmmmph!” Rainsford grunted as he re-lighted his pipe. “And the CZC,” Rainsford said, jabbing the air with his pipestem. “That’s another thing. They’re about as much help as a zebralope in heat, lately.”

  Brannhard looked genuinely alarmed for the first time in the conversation. “They’re not holding back on the support Grego promised the government, are they?”

  “No, no; nothing like that,” Rainsford said. “Victor just doesn’t seem to have his mind on what he’s doing some of the time. It’s that Fuzzy-sitter of his; that’s what it is.”

  “Christiana Stone?” Brannhard asked.

  “That’s the one,” Rainsford said. He leaned forward in his chair. “Do you know,” he whispered, “I was over there the other evening, and I saw them holding hands in the kitchen.”

  Brannhard grinned, showing white teeth through his gray-brown beard. “Why, you old snoop,” he said.

  “I was not snooping!” Rainsford declared. “I just happened to see it. That’s all.”

  The midnight to 0400 shift had just gone on guard at the tunnel mouth as Helton left the cavern after thoroughly taping its contents. The tape would stay on his person until he had transmitted it to Commodore Napier—then it would be erased.

  “Remember, guys,” Helton said to the two Marines, “nobody goes in there except Commissioner Holloway or myself. Got that clear?”

  They nodded. “Right, Gunnie,” one of them said.

  As soon as Helton was out of sight, one of the sentries whispered to his buddy. “Jim?”

  “Whattaya want, Ev?” the other one said.

  “Why would they leave the lights on in there?” Everett Diehl asked.

  “How do you know the lights are on?” Jim Spelvin said. “There’s a tarp over the far end of the tunnel.”

  Diehl smirked. “I sneaked a peek when the Gunnie came out. He had his back to me while he pulled the tarp—and he left the lights on.”

  “Aw, don’t worry about it,” Spelvin said.

  “Well, it seems damned funny; that’s all,” Diehl said.

  “Maybe he’s drying fruit in there!” Spelvin said exasperatedly. “How should I know why he left the lights on? Bad enough we should get the mid-watch. We’re the rankers in the guard mount. How come the privates draw the easy hours?”

  “Akor said he wanted NCOs on the mid-watch,” Diehl said.

  “Malarkey!” Spelvin said. “He put us on the mid-watch because he doesn’t like us. He never has liked us. We’re the rankers and he gives us the dirty jobs.”

  Perhaps a half-hour passed with neither of them saying anything.

  “Jim?”

  Spelvin started. “Now whattaya want? Do you know how hard it is to sleep standing up?”

  “I’m going in and take a look,” Diehl said.

  “That’s crazy,” Spelvin said. “Why bother? We won’t have to turn this drill again. I heard they’re going to set a security hatch in the tunnel tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Diehl said. “If we don’t look now, we’ll never get another chance.”

  Spelvin was silent for a moment. “What if we get caught?”

  “Aw, there won’t be anybody around to check on us for at least another hour,” Diehl said. “Besides, if you see anybody coming, you can throw a pebble down the tunnel. I can beat it back out here before they’re close enough to see I’m gone.”

  Spelvin was thinking, a feat which required every ounce of his attention. Presently, he said, “Okay. You go first, but then I get to go look, too.”

  “That’s fair,” Diehl said.

  Only a few meters inside the tunnel, there was no light at all. Diehl turned around and looked back the way he had come, as though reassuring himself that the tunnel mouth was still there. Then he proceeded slowly, with his arms outstretched to the sides to keep himself in the middle of the tunnel. Periodically, he would sweep one hand in front of himself, but soon he began to see a dim corona of light seeping around the edges of the tarp.

  He took a deep breath, then slipped between the tarp and the rocks at the lip of the tunnel entrance.

  Corporal Diehl’s mouth fell open. He tried to voice some profane expression of astonishment, but discovered that he couldn’t make a sound. He blinked in the comparatively bright light. He staggered forward to the center of the cavern. His rifle sling slipped off his shoulder and the weapon fell to the cave floor, but he didn’t notice. He stopped and turned around and around, looking at the polychromatic glow above him.

  Finally, he realized that he couldn’t remember how long he had been there, except that he felt slightly dizzy. He took out his pocket knife and went over to one of the side walls, intent on prying loose a couple of sunstones to take with him.

  He didn’t notice the bloodstains on the wall, but was happy to put away his knife when he saw a handful of sunstones scattered loose on the floor. He scooped up a half dozen or so, retrieved his rifle, and hurried back the way he had come.

  “Jeez!” hissed Spelvin. “What took you so long? I was beginning to get worried.”

  “G—g—go see for yourself,” Diehl stammered. He still couldn’t talk straight.

  It Mr. Justice Pendarvis was harried by the chaos that reigned in both the l
egal system and the proceedings of the Constitutional Convention, he showed no outward signs of it.

  The Chairman, a chubby Ph.D. with a beard, had called the convention to order at 1000 hours, and announced that he had requested Judge Pendarvis to make a few remarks of an advisory nature.

  The delegates immediately began to whisper and mutter comments between themselves.

  A hush fell over the convention as Pendarvis walked across the platform. He was tall, slender, and walked with a slow and measured step. It was rumored that he could turn an attorney to stone with a single baleful gaze.

  “Esteemed delegates,” he began. “It is with both pleasure and humility that I have accepted Dr. Pine’s invitation to address this convention. I have devoted most of my life to the law, and so it comes about that my sincerest hope in this situation is to be of help to this body in framing and adopting a constitution for the planet of Zarathustra.” He paused, looking over the delegates, and was pleased to notice that he had them hanging on his every word. It had been a couple of decades since he had pleaded a case. It was satisfying to see that he had not lost his touch. “It is with interest that I have noted your proceedings, ladies and gentlemen. While it is not without weight that there are a multitude of issues to be settled before such a document can be properly drawn, it is, I’m sure you must agree, also true that many of these issues are somewhat extraneous to the task at hand. This in no way diminishes their importance; it just makes for tough going. As some of you must know,” he continued, “the court dockets are bulging. However, I will entertain some suits in equity, affidavits, and veridicated depositions designed to clarify those issues that do not directly bear on adopting a constitution and set aside matters that are clouding the points of law which this Constitution must soon decide. The law is the rock upon which any government must be built. Such has been the case for as long as I have been on Zarathustra, and so long as I am alive, it will continue to be the case.”

  “Now, then, who has some questions for me?”

  At mid-morning in Fuzzy Valley, Sergeant Beltrán heard a familiar voice at the back hatch of his kitchen scow.

  “What make do?” Little Fuzzy asked.

  “Yeh, Sahdge,” Starwatcher echoed. “What make do?”

  The Upland Fuzzies had picked up the ability to speak within Terran hearing range in record time. They had caught on to the habit of mid-morning coffee-break even more quickly—except that for them it was estee-fee break.

  “Hi, kids,” Beltrán said, chewing on his eternal cigar.

  “You like estee-fee?”

  Loud noises of approval from Little Fuzzy, Starwatcher, and the four Upland Fuzzies who accompanied them. It had become a ritual between them, much like the Terran habit of shaking hands in greeting.

  Beltrán pulled one of the blue-labeled tins off the stowage shelf and blew the dust off of it. The supply of Extee-Three was beginning to run a bit low. Have to do something about that. He’d never be able to convince ration supply that someone was actually eating the stuff. Well, a little trading around could get that straightened out. That’s how NCOs make a living, isn’t it—trading stuff around among themselves?

  After the Fuzzies had finished off their treat, they made solemn introductions between Beltrán and the four new Fuzzies, with Beltrán squatting on his haunches and seriously shaking each one’s tiny hand in turn.

  The Fuzzies crowded around him. “What make do, Unka Vida’ ?”

  “Yeh, Sahge; what make do?”

  Beltrán pulled down a bag from above his desk. “Ahem,” he said. “Inasmuch as Starwatcher, here, is the leader of the Upland Fuzzies, and inasmuch as he has graciously allowed us to camp within his territory, the men of the First Battalion would like to present this badge of office to him.”

  He drew out the tiny barracks cover, expertly cut down to fit a Fuzzy, with a handmade twelve-pointed star for an insignia badge, and ceremoniously placed it on Starwatcher’s head.

  The Fuzzies were delighted. They whooped and howled, and some of them lapsed into loud yeeks within their own speech range.

  “Lemme think,” Beltrán said absently. “Mirror. Mirror. Where’s a mirror?” Ah, there was a mirror over the lavatory where the cooks washed their hands. But, it was screwed to the bulkhead. Well, no matter.

  He picked up Starwatcher and held him up in front of the mirror. Let’s see, that was too high, and standing him on the edge of the lavatory was too low. He hoisted the Fuzzy up on his shoulder and steadied him with one hand. Starwatcher sat back and regarded his own reflection very seriously. Then he looked sidewise at Beltrán. Then he reached up with tiny hands and cocked the barracks cover over to one side and snugged the little visor down above his right eye. He contemplated this for a moment before nodding approval. Then he threw his arms around Beltrán’s neck and hugged it vigorously.

  Beltrán’s cigar fell into the sink, but he didn’t care. He had made a Fuzzy very happy.

  Hugo Ingermann’s eyes lighted up with unconcealed glee. “An inside man at the CZC you say? One with a direct pipeline to Grego, himself?”

  Ivan Bowlby preened himself, like the proud little bird he was. “Yes, Mr. Ingermann, and I don’t think the information we’ll be getting will be too outrageously expensive— considering.”

  “Well, who, man,” Ingermann asked eagerly, “who?”

  Bowlby wagged a finger. “Now, now, “he said. “It’s my contact. You’ll have to be content to work through me on this matter.”

  Ingermann’s neck began to swell. The expression of joy on his face was replaced with one of rising anger. “Why, you son of a Khooghra! You’re trying to put the squeeze on me, aren’t you?”

  Bowlby took the hankie from his jacket pocket and sniffed at it. “Sticks and stones, Mr. Ingermann,” he said. “Sticks and stones. If I’m forced to put this information out to the highest bidder, you’ll see how utterly reasonable I’m being in my offer of it to you exclusively.”

  Ingermann’s face began to redden.

  “And no rough stuff, either,” Bowlby cautioned. “There is another go-between below my level. If something happens to me, then you’ll be forced to deal with him, and he may not feel the generosity toward you that I have come to know during our long and profitable association together.”

  “All right!” Ingermann said suddenly. “I’ll give your ‘inside man’ a try for two weeks. Two weeks—no more. If I’m not satisfied, then you can both go to Nifflheim!”

  “Done,” Bowlby said quietly and extended his hand.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Helton!” O’Bannon roared from inside his tent. “Is that yourself?” Actually, it wasn’t a roar, but the tone of voice was pretty tense for the unflappable Lieutenant Colonel James O’Bannon.

  Helton raised his eyebrows. An observance of the niceties of protocol seemed indicated. “Yes, sir!” Helton barked. “Permission to enter—sir!”

  “Come in!” O’Bannon barked back at him.

  Helton stepped through the tent portal and snapped to an attention brace with a deafening clack of boot-heels.

  O’Bannon was in his sock feet and seated at his field console. “Sit down,” he said simply, with a wave toward the other field chair.

  Helton sat.

  O’Bannon fixed him with a cold look. “Exactly why does Commodore Napier want to see us?” he asked. “Have you gone and put my tail in a crack?”

  “His indication to me, Colonel,” Helton said, “was that he desired to de-brief us on the contents of the cavern.”

  O’Bannon waved his hand as if at some triviality. “Well, then,” he said, “there’s no need for me to go along. I haven’t the least notion of what’s in the cavern.” He glared at Helton. “Because they won’t let me in the damned place!” He paused. “My own damned troops, and they won’t let me in the place! Perhaps you might be able to explain that in some way that I can understand.”

  Helton pursed his lips and inhaled.

  “Well?” O’Ba
nnon snapped.

  “It’s part of the dig, sir. You put me in charge of the dig. That is a part of the dig, and I have declared it off-limits to everyone. I have this tape—”

  “Lest you lose track of things, Gunnie,” O’Bannon hissed, “I am in command of this operation. Nothing is off-limits to me!”

  “I felt the Colonel should look at this tape before I take him into the cavern,” Helton said, deftly switching to the more formal third-person form of address. “I have to destroy the tape after the Colonel has looked at it.”

  “Helton,” O’Bannon said, “I looked your record over pretty thoroughly before I put this kind of responsibility on you—Master Gunnie or no Master Gunnie. But, by Ghu’s guts, you have overstepped yourself!”

  Helton looked at O’Bannon directly. “Would the Colonel like to rant and rave some more, or would he prefer to see the tape at this time?” he asked evenly.

  O’Bannon had been looking at his own feet. Without moving his head, he lifted his gaze and peered at Helton through his eyebrows.

  Commodore Alex Napier closed the folio in front of him and arranged it in the exact center of his desk. There was no sound in his domed office, except an occasional double click as photo cells acted to close one segment of the sunscreen and open another.

  He tapped the heel from his pipe, blew through the stem, and carefully refilled the bowl with tobacco. After lighting the pipe, he puffed lightly on it and stared at the floor for several minutes. Then, he leaned forward and punched out a combination on his communications screen. The burst of colors solidified into the face of a smooth-cheeked young ensign, the duty officer in the Operations Center.

  “Yes, sir,” the ensign responded.

  “Get me your boss, Mister,” Napier said.

  “Commander Johnsen?” the ensign asked.

  “He is the Ops Officer, isn’t he?” Napier said.

  The ensign swallowed. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Napier said.

  Momentarily, a man with iron-gray hair, wearing the insignia of a full commander appeared. “Yes, Commodore,” he said.