Fuzzy Ergo Sum

by Diehr Wolfgang

  The orderly, sensing discretion would be the better part of valor, ran back out of the room where he collided with another orderly carrying a tray of food. Both orderlies went down, the tray went up and the contents rained down over both of them. Gus was laughing so hard at the display he forgot to be angry over not getting his hooch.

  “Dok’ta say wait month so a’fishul liveh not go bad,” Natty Bumppo reminded Gus for the nth time.

  “Need time to a-jus’ to body,” Allan Quatermain added.

  Gus wanted to argue but knew it was pointless. On almost anything else the Fuzzies would take his word as gospel, but a doctor saying Gus would hurt himself if he drank alcohol made them adamant to protect their Pappy even against himself. All Fuzzies were taught to trust doctors at Hoksu-Mitto, the Wonderful Place, when they first came in from the wild. They had to or else the medical teams would never be able to do work-ups and blood draws. So when a doctor said ‘do this’ or ‘don’t do that’ the Fuzzies accepted it without question. Even if their Pappy disagreed.

  Gus was considering other methods of sneaking in some libations when a visitor entered the room. The Fuzzies yeeked excitedly, then lowered their voices to the audible level yelling, “Pappy Jack, Pappy Jack!”

  “Jack! Save me from this hirsute Temperance League,” the Colonial Chief Prosecutor exclaimed.

  “They’re too tough for me, Gus.” Jack Holloway smiled, as he ruffled the Fuzzies’ fur. “Besides, it would take Science House another three months to grow you a new liver if you pickle that one too soon.”

  Gus swore blasphemously under his breath. “A cigar, then?”

  “No smokko, eit’er, Pappy Gus,” Allan reminded. “Dok’ta say so.”

  “They got you there, Gus. These two would make great babysitters.”

  “I should have named them Tomás de Torquemada and Konrad von Marburg,” Gus growled.

  Jack took a seat across from the cantankerous attorney. Gus put on a real show but Jack could tell he was enjoying the game with the Fuzzies, and maybe he was teaching them responsibility. “In a few weeks you’ll be back to your evil old ways. Just be patient.”

  “A patient patient should be considered an oxymoron,” he grumbled. “What brings you to this unholy den of morality?”

  “Just visiting you, actually.” Jack pulled a piece of red licorice out of a pocket and gave half to each Fuzzy. The Fuzzies thanked him and started in on the treats with gusto. He turned back to Gus. “I thought you might like to know that Baby Fuzzy is now an adult by Fuzzy cultural standards.”

  “Really? Good for him.” Gus stroked his thick facial hair. “It seems like only yesterday he was hiding in my beard playing peek-a-boo.”

  “Well, we really don’t know what the growth-rate and life expectancy of a Fuzzy is, yet,” Jack explained, “so Baby could be anywhere from three to ten years of age, and the equivalent of a twelve to thirteen year old Terran child. Khooghras become breeding adults at eight.”

  “Khooghras only live about thirty Terran years,” countered Gus, “assuming they aren’t killed by something other than old age.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow at the litigator. “I didn’t know you had been to Yggdrasil.”

  “I haven’t been, but I read some legal precedents concerning Terran commerce with the Khooghras back during the Fuzzy Trial. Never know what might come in handy against a shark like Coombes. I have been to Mars, Baldur, Thor, Loki, Shesha and Freya, but that’s about it.”

  “Freya?” Jack ruffled Natty’s hair. “Any little Gus’s running around there? The women are almost impossible to resist and are inter-fertile with Terrans, you know.”

  Gus made a sour face. “Freya was the second planet I hit after leaving Terra. My mind was on other things at the time. I’d forgotten that you’d been there.” Gus absently stroked his beard. “That was, what, thirty years ago? I might have missed you by a few months or so.”

  “Give or take a few years. There are times that I wish I had stayed there, but I like my life here just fine, even if I am trapped behind a desk most days.” Jack glanced over at Allan and Natty and thought of his own Fuzzies. “I wouldn’t trade my life here for all the sunstones in the world.”

  “Speaking of sunstones how have the diggings been?”

  “Well, as you know, I only go out on weekends and then only if the weather is good,” said Jack. “But I hit one of the richest loads I ever saw just before I found Little Fuzzy. Or he found me, I should say. It’s no Yellowsand, mind you, but with the improved microray scanner Henry Stenson made it takes less time to find the good deposits. If I was selling them I’d make as much in those two days a week as I did back when I was working the digs full time.” Jack reached under his shirt collar and extracted a leather pouch. He spilled the glowing contents into his hand and showed them to Gus. It was several polished sunstones. “This is just my ‘walking around’ stash.”

  Gus was no expert but he estimated that there were a good 25,000 sols worth just in Jack’s hand and the pouch still looked to be more than half full. He let out a low whistle. “You’re not selling them?”

  “One or two here and there, but for the most part I’m storing them up against either my retirement or my death. Don’t get me wrong, I still have a lot of good years left, but there are far more behind than ahead of me and a sensible man makes provisions for the future.”

  “Guess I should do the same,” Gus said thoughtfully. “Now that I’m a family man again, I should make provisions for Allan and Natty if something should happen to me.”

  “Family man again?” prompted Jack. Gus usually played very close to the vest when it came to his past.

  “Did I say ‘again’?” Gus shook his head as if trying to clear it. “Lack of suitable refreshment must be affecting my mind.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  Ruth van Riebeek was exhausted. In addition to her duties at the Reservation, she still worked two days a week in Mallorysport with the Fuzzy Adoption Agency and the Fuzzy Protective Services Agency. That meant flying out to Alpha Continent twice a week. The mornings were not a problem since the three hour time difference worked in her favor. Ruth could get up at her normal time and set the aircar on automatic while she ate a leisurely breakfast during the trip out. With the time difference Ruth would arrive at the same time she left. The problem was in the stresses of the day followed by a three hour trip home. If she left at 1700, between the time difference and the travel time it would be 2300 when she arrived home.

  Last Monday was a truly horrific day. There was the Fuzzy Family that was fed only table scraps and garbage by the adoptive family. Some people couldn’t make the mental leap to accept that Fuzzies were people, not pets. A male, his mate and an infant Fuzzy had to be returned to the Reservation. The adoptive family was being charged with neglect and abuse.

  Ruth simply couldn’t understand how anybody could mistreat a Fuzzy, or a human child, for that matter. As a student of the psycho-sciences she could understand the traumas and mental defects that could create the propensities in a person, but to actually be faced with such a monster was a different matter.

  Ruth flipped through her paperwork and one report caught her eye. “Lynn, what is this about an adoptive parent refusing to feed Extee-Three to his Fuzzy?”

  “Actually, they both, the pappy and mummy, claim that their Fuzzy doesn’t like Extee-Three,” Lynn replied. “They lay it out and the Fuzzy just ignores it.”

  A Fuzzy hating Extee-Three! she exclaimed to herself. “Has anybody else tried feeding the Fuzzy?”

  “Jeff tried. He said the Fuzzy nibbled at it as if to be polite, but no more than that.”

  “Let’s get that Fuzzy in here and see what he does if he has a choice between Extee-Three, live land-prawn or something else…um…goofer meat, maybe. I want to see what he goes for first.”

  “I’ll call the Garzas and arrange for them to bring Zorro in.”

  Zorro? The names people hang on Fuzzies!

  “Good.
I’ll call Dr. Mallin and Juan Jimenez. I think they’ll be very interested.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  Since the Big Ones set up camp near Red Fur’s tribe the game became progressively scarcer each day. Whatever the Big Ones were doing was scaring away all the animals. Except the zuzoru; nothing scared zuzoru. If anything, they were attracted to the Big Ones’ camp. Red Fur’s hunting party had no trouble collecting enough for everybody, but Red Fur and a few others disliked zuzoru although they would eat it when nothing else was available. Little One would only eat it if he was very hungry, while Runs Fast would eat zuzoru at every opportunity.

  There was also the problem with Makes-Things’ ears. They always hurt and he couldn’t hear right. To him there was always a sound like a strong wind blowing even though the air was still. Red Fur believed it was caused by the noisy made-things that the Koo-wen used to make the shimo-kato dead. Healer sent Climber up into a rogo tree to harvest some li-kou, the healing plant that sometimes grew on tall trees. Runner caught a hikwu for the stinger venom. Healer used two flat rocks to pound the li-kou into a powder, and then added the venom and some water until it formed a thick paste. This was gently dabbed into Makes-Things’ ears, and then covered with a wrapping of grass that went around his head. The surplus paste was wrapped into large leaves to be used later. The li-kou paste would be good for up to four hands of days if a little water was added when it dried.

  To find fresh game, the hunting party traveled South until they spotted a shikku. Red Fur wanted to try to kill the shikku for the meat but Climber and Stonebreaker objected.

  “Shikku big-big,” Climber complained.

  “Shikku run fast,” Stonebreaker added. “We not run fast like shikku.”

  “Have pointed sticks for throwing,” Red Fur argued. “We get close, throw pointed sticks, shikku make dead.”

  “Shikku big-big,” Climber insisted. “Too big to carry back.”

  Red Fur had to agree that Climber had a point. He looked to Makes-Things.

  After he had paced around the camp a few times, Makes-Things had an idea. “Use outside part to pull good to eat inside part,” he explained. They would make the shikku dead and then cut off the hide and drag the usable parts in it. Climber was skeptical but Red Fur was the leader so she would go along.

  Since Little One was not with them this time, and they were far from the Big Ones’ camp, Red Fur spoke in his normal ultrasonic voice and laid out his plan of attack. Stonebreaker and Climber stealthily crawled behind the shikku while Red Fur and Makes-Things worked their way to the front.

  The Fuzzies had just gotten into position when something startled the shikku. The beast leaped forward straight at Makes-Things. Red Fur jumped up and threw his pointed stick catching the shikku in the neck. The animal reared up in pain, but not before crashing into Makes-Things, knocking him several feet back. Stonebreaker and Climber ran up quickly from behind to assist Red Fur. Climber leaped twice his height into the air and came down on the shikku’s back, driving his sharp stick deep into the animal’s hide.

  Stonebreaker, disdaining the sharp stick, swung his coup-de-poing axe into the shikku’s haunch. The three-way attack quickly brought their prey down. A final swing of the axe into the animal’s skull finished it.

  Red Fur ran to Makes-Things. The battered Fuzzy was still breathing, but unconscious. “Climber, make run fast!” he ordered. “Bring Healer!”

  Climber turned and ran towards camp.

  “Stonebreaker, cut shikku skin. Make drag-thing for Makes-Things and another for good to eat parts.”

  “We bring shikku? Makes-Things hurt bad!”

  “Everybody still get hungry. Need good to eat things.”

  Stonebreaker was still skinning the shikku and Makes-Things was just waking up when Climber returned with Healer. A quick examination revealed that Makes-Things had a broken arm and leg.

  “This bad,” Healer said. “Not hunt. Might heal not right.”

  Makes-Things looked around then had another idea. “Get sticks and shikku skin. Wrap around broken parts. Make straight.” Healer did as directed and fashioned a workable splint for the injured limbs. Makes-Things still needed to be dragged back on the hide, but he would live.

  Back at the camp Red Fur called the tribe together. “Hunting not good here with Koo-wen scaring away hat-zu’ka. Soon, eat only zuzoru. We must move to place without Big Ones.”

  “Makes-Things not walk,” Healer countered. “It many days before he can walk.”

  “We wait for Makes-Things to heal. Then we go,” Climber said.

  “Maybe have nothing to eat if stay,” Little One added. The young tended to think with their stomachs.

  Red Fur spoke up. “Shikku big. Have meat for many days. Have zuzoru. Not go hungry.”

  The rest of the Fuzzies agreed that hunger was not the problem and nobody wanted to leave Makes-Things behind. There was a discussion about what to do if Makes-Things was never able to hunt again.

  Red Fur thought hard. Everybody contributed to the welfare of the tribe. Then Red Fur got an idea.

  “If Makes-Things not hunt, then he will make things for everybody. New pointed sticks for throwing, maybe new things we never see before. Makes-Things very wise.”

  “What about the Big Ones?” Tells-Things demanded.

  “We watch Big Ones,” Red Fur declared. “See what they make-do.”

  “Maybe make friends with Big Ones?” Tells-Things asked. She was interested in the made-things that could make a shimo-kato dead as were all the tribe.

  “Hope so,” Red Fur replied. “Not want Big Ones for…” Red Fur hesitated. There was no word in the Jin-f’ke language to explain what he feared. So he created a new word, one than meant bad not-friends; fuk’voko. “Not want Big Ones for enemies.”

  IV

  The group of men silently collected their luggage and then left the terminal. Once outside, the apparent leader of the group hailed a taxi.

  “We would like a hotel near the edge of town,” the leader said.

  “Close to or away from Junktown?” the cabbie asked, with an edge of humor in his voice.

  “Junktown?” the short man asked.

  “I was just pullin’ your leg, Pal. If you hafta ask ya don’t wanna go there,” the cabbie explained. “It’s a slum.”

  “Actually, that would be fine,” the taller man said.

  The cabbie shrugged. The taxi flew over a series of abandoned warehouses, dilapidated homes and empty factories. The group remained silent until they were in a room at the Alibi Inn.

  “Why did we have to take rooms in a dump like this?” the short stocky man with thinning red hair asked. “I’ll bet they don’t even have a robotic cleaning crew.”

  The room, while passably clean, was shabby compared to the better hostels on most Federation worlds. The owner of the Alibi Inn was a greasy shifty-eyed man with a ridiculous comb-over who fancied himself a sportsman. The floors and walls of all the rooms had animal skins on them, but nothing larger than a zarabuck hide. The mattresses were the only things that seemed halfway new, and were still well used. The group suspected most of the business done in the hotel was hourly instead of nightly.

  “Two reasons, Dr. Rankin,” the leader explained. “We do not want to attract undo attention, and here, in a location where morals are low and unemployment high, we will find the muscle we need to do the manual labor. I already have an inside track on who to see and who can be trusted.”

  Unlike the rest, the leader was schooled in the legal sciences. He was six feet tall and clean-shaven with thick gray hair. The skin on his face looked a bit tight, suggesting some form of plastic surgery, possibly even bone restructuring. There were faint scars on his throat that indicated vocal reconstruction to the trained eye, which could explain the rich baritone voice. Then there was the way he walked, as if he were having trouble maintaining his balance. But the most striking thing about him was his eyes. They conveyed a sense of sincerity that made a person want
to trust anything he had to say. When he spoke everyone listened.

  “Dane is quite correct,” agreed the balding man with an ebony complexion. “However, I think we should get some bodyguards first. I would hate to be at the mercy of some of these morally and financially bankrupt locals. We should have had the advance party arrange that for us before we got here.”

  Dane turned to the dark-haired man sitting on a bed. “Lundgren, can you hack into the local constabulary databases to find us some likely prospects? Ex-cops who were on the take would be ideal.”

  “It will take a little time if they changed all the passwords after the Charterless Zarathustra Company lost its charter, but it’s doable.”

  “Good. Let’s get to work.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  John Morgan collected his sidearm from the security desk. Colony worlds allowed for the carrying of weapons, but they still had to be registered upon planet-fall. The entire process took over half an hour, mostly due to the background check. Once finished, he strolled out of the terminal and hailed a taxi.

  “Where to, Bubba?”

  Morgan looked at the driver with a quizzical expression. “What is a ‘Bubba’?”

  “Old Terran expression, like ‘Mac” or ‘pal’,” the cabbie explained. “No offence intended. That’s how I address all my fares.”

  He thought it over for a moment. On Terra cabbies addressed fares as ‘sir’, but colony worlds tended to be less formal. Mars Colony, for example, used ‘partner’ to address unknown persons, a practice derived from the early days of colonization. Well, when amongst barbarians, do as they do.

  “Very well, ah, Bubba. Transport me to the CZC Company House.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Morgan hadn’t decided whether or not to stay at a hotel or to take advantage of his position as a major stockholder and stay at Company House. In either case, he needed to meet with the Charterless Zarathrustra Company CEO. He intended to do a lot of work there and it would be best to start off on the right foot. Home Office held Victor Grego in high regard, especially after his negotiating a deal with the local government that kept the CZC well in the black. A background check revealed that Grego had run successful operations on three uninhabited planets before coming to Zarathustra. He was a stern taskmaster, yet his employees liked and respected him. Grego could be a powerful ally.