Fuzzy Ergo Sum

by Diehr Wolfgang

  “Do they have any kind of prisoner employment program?” Dane asked.

  “They didn’t used to but after the attempted land-grabs and veldbeest rustling they had to pull a lot of workers off the farms and shift them to security,” Laporte said. “Rainsford signed off on the prisoner work detail plan and the CZC put a lot of the able-bodied prisoners to work.”

  “What kind of security do they have on the farms?” the younger man asked.

  “Collar and pole,” Laporte said. When he saw the blank expression on the two men’s faces he elaborated. Prisoners were each fitted with a thin metal collar that could only be removed with a special magnetic key. Any prisoner wearing such a device had to remain within a perimeter of electronic poles. Anybody wearing such a collar that escaped the confines of the perimeter would find himself suddenly and violently bereft of his head when the electronic signal from the poles was interrupted. Without the steady signal emitted from the poles, a preprogrammed command within the collar would ignite a fifty-milligram capsule of cataclysmite. “The last time somebody tried to make a break for it, the body kept going for six steps after the head ceased to exist. That was one Phil Novaes.”

  Dane’s associate let out a low whistle.

  “Hmm. Then we will simply have to arrange for Mr. Thaxter to be taken out of the prison for us,” said Dane.

  Laporte pulled his knife out of the desktop and set it aside. “And how do you expect to manage that?”

  Dane smiled. “I have a few ideas…”

  XI

  Hoenveld was happy. It was a rare state for the elderly scientist. With him were Dr. Ernst Mallin and the Fuzzy named Zorro. Hoenveld extracted a hypodermic needle from the Fuzzy’s arm and said, “There now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” The Fuzzy disagreed, rubbing his arm. “Tell you what, how would you like something nice to eat? We have land-prawn, goofer, pool-ball fruit…Ernst, what is the Fuzzy name for that?”

  Dr. Mallin had to admit that he didn’t know.

  “Well, pick anything on this table you would like and you may have it, Mr. Zorro.”

  Zorro looked over the offered fare and selected some taffy from Odin. Mallin scribbled something on his pad and resumed his observations.

  “I would have expected him to go for the goofer,” said Hoenveld. “We know he disdains land-prawn and Extee-Three, but he is still a carnivorous omnivore.”

  “Actually, he had some veldbeest for lunch, so he was more interested in dessert,” explained Mallin. “Although most human children at twelve years of age would automatically go for the candy first.”

  “I should be kept abreast of his dietary habits, at the very least, Ernst,” Hoenveld said tartly. He picked up a compu-pad and tapped in some notes.

  “I agree,” nodded Mallin, “that is why I have this list of everything Zorro has eaten in the last three days.” The psychologist handed Hoenveld the paper with a small grin.

  “And of course you had to wait until I complained about it to give it to me,” Hoenveld observed. “Always with the brain games.”

  “My stock and trade. I must say that you are being far more solicitous of Zorro’s care than I would have expected.”

  Before Hoenveld could respond, Juan Jimenez entered the lab. “How is our favorite patient, today,” he asked, as he ruffled Zorro’s head.

  “Unka Chris give taff-ee,” the Fuzzy exclaimed.

  Jimenez and Mallin both stared at Hoenveld.

  “Unka Chris?” Jimenez asked.

  “Everybody is either unka, pappy, mummy or auntie to the Fuzzies,” the scientist replied. “I saw no reason to argue the point with him.”

  “No. Of course not,” Jimenez agreed, “Unka Chris.”

  Juan and Mallin chuckled and even Hoenveld smiled a little.

  “Have you found anything significant in our little friend’s bloodwork?” he asked.

  “Actually, yes. So far, I have ruled out pathogens, allergies, parasites and physical trauma. Mr. Zorro, here, is as healthy a Fuzzy as I have ever seen.”

  Mallin added, “And there is nothing to suggest that he has suffered any kind of psychological trauma that would explain his aversion to Extee-Three and land-prawn.”

  “I do have one more avenue of research I would like to follow, but would rather not say anything about it until I have determined whether or not it will lead anywhere,” Hoenveld said. “I just took some more blood for analysis and will need a day or two with this young person to follow-up on it.”

  “I’ll talk to Ruth and see if she can get the Garzas to agree,” Jimenez said. “Where will you keep him? Not in the lab, I hope.”

  “Certainly not,” Hoenveld exclaimed. “I would never lock a sapient being up like an animal…unlike some people I could mention.”

  Jimenez visibly winced at the comment. Of everybody in the room, only Hoenveld had nothing to do with putting Fuzzies into cages for tests back before their sapience was established. And neither did Zorro, of course.

  “He can stay with me,” Hoenveld explained. “It…will give me a chance to observe him under non-clinical conditions. I have familiarized myself with the care and feeding of Fuzzies and promise not to let him come to harm.”

  Jimenez stared for a moment, then said, “Welcome to the Friends of Little Fuzzy, Chris.”

  Hoenveld simply ‘harrumphed’ and made a display of going to work on the blood sample.

  * * * * * * * * *

  “…A 25,000 sol reward for information leading to the safe recovery of Mr. Brannhard. To repeat; the search for Colonial Chief Prosecutor Brannhard who had been reportedly kidnapped by persons unknown at this time…”

  “Oh, this is just too perfect,” Dane said as he shut off the radio. “This is an opportunity we can’t miss. Everybody will be focused on getting that drunken caveman Brannhard back. They’re probably pulling men away from the prison force right now. Is Mr. Clancy ready to do his part?”

  “Yeah. How’d you find this guy so fast?” Murdock inquired. “He’s almost a dead ringer for Thaxter.”

  “Not almost. Now he’s an exact match,” Dr. Rankin added. “Just a little minor plastic surgery on his ears.”

  “I’ve been to Zarathustra before,” Dane cut in. “I know my way around and who to contact. Clancy arrived on-planet after I left, but my contacts found him for me when I asked for them to provide me with a double for Thaxter.” Dane turned to Lundgren. “Where are we on disabling the collar?”

  Lundgren held up a card attached to a miniature computer by a long, thin cord. “Without an actual collar to test it on I can’t guarantee that this will work, but it’s the same principle as any other security lock that uses an encoded card—”

  “You want to be very sure about this,” Dane interrupted. “If you’re wrong the plan blows-up…along with Thaxter.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  “…Colonial Chief Prosecutor Brannhard was abducted from his home. According to eyewitnesses, two men broke into his home, used a sono-stunner and took him in an aircar at around 2400 hours Alpha time. There is reason to believe that Brannhard is still alive and a major manhunt is underway. Victor Grego, CEO of the Charterless Zarathustra Company, has volunteered the assistance of the company police force in the search for the Colonial Chief Prosecutor. To repeat; the search for Colonial Chief Prosecutor Brannhard, who had been reportedly kidnapped by persons unknown at this time….”

  The leader signaled for the radio to be turned off then called some men over to him. “You all heard the radio?” They had. “This is bad, no getting around that. They’ll tear apart Alpha Continent atom by atom if they have to, then they’ll turn to the rest of the planet. Satellite surveillance will be stepped up and we have no way of getting the sweep schedule, now.”

  One man spoke up, “Do we abort?” It was the same man who wanted to pack up earlier when the Fuzzies were spotted. Some people didn’t have the stomach for extra-legal activities.

  The leader shook his head. “We can’t. Not with the increa
sed satellite activity. The only thing keeping us from being spotted now is the canopy. No way will we be able to pack up and light out without being spotted until Brannhard has been found, alive or dead, and the satellite schedule returns to the normal routine. Any suspicious activity will bring the wrath of Ghu down upon us. They’ll think we’re connected to the disappearance of this Brannhard. Even if we’re cleared of that they’ll still nail us for trespassing and illegal mining. We’ll have to stay under the canopy and work as best we can on the dig.”

  “The canopy won’t block a ground search,” a dark haired man said. “Since we are here illegally no excuse will satisfy anyone who stumbles upon us. We’ll likely be arrested under suspicion of complicity in this Brannhard’s kidnapping. Then we’ll each be put in the polyencephalographic veridicator and questioned. Then we have a choice; don’t speak and be assumed to be part of the kidnapping, or talk and give up our operation and everybody involved.”

  Then their whole mission would be revealed. “Is there any way we can camouflage our position well enough to withstand scrutiny from the ground?” he asked. Not against anybody with significant wilderness experience was the answer. Especially not against Fuzzies whom all possess superior hearing, vision and maybe even sense of smell. “I need options, people.”

  A tall blond man spoke up. “Let’s do the best we can with the camouflage then send some men out to join the ground search if they start one. If we get lucky they’ll be able to get assigned to this area and will lead any others safely around us.”

  “How do you propose to get anybody out of here and back to Alpha without being spotted? We’re on the far edge of the Fuzzy Reservation. Anything larger than a Fuzzy will set off the infra-red alarms.”

  “Wait a second,” Hendrix said. “This is Fuzzy land so the police have to be real careful not to disturb the Fuzzies, right? Well, let’s just encourage that group over the hill to stick around.”

  “How would that benefit us?” the leader asked.

  “I read that Holloway wants the wild Fuzzies out here to be left alone, let them develop and evolve without interference from Terrans,” Hendrix explained. “That means the cops won’t be allowed to get too close if there are Fuzzies in the area. Chances are they’ll just do an infra-red and sonic sweep, spot the Fuzzies, and move on.”

  The leader quickly grasped the implication. “The fibroid weave deflects infra-red and muffles most sound. We just shutdown the equipment and stay quiet if they move the search into this area.”

  “How do we encourage the Fuzzies to stick around?” Stewart inquired. “I heard they lead a nomadic lifestyle.”

  “That’s because they are always searching for food,” Hendrix said. “So, we give them some Terran Federation Armed Forces Emergency Ration, Extraterrestrial, Type Three.”

  “Excellent idea, but we’ll remove the tins,” the leader said. “We don’t need that kind of evidence lying around. Meanwhile, we’ll have to speedup our time table. Beta is a big continent; we might be able to finish here before somebody stumbles over us.”

  “Sir, there are about a dozen Fuzzies out there,” Jagger, the sound tech, reported. “At one tin per Fuzzy per day, they’ll go through our entire supply of XT3 in about two weeks.”

  “Good point,” the leader agreed. “We’ll leave three tins worth a day and add some local game to the buffet. I’ll need two volunteers to suit up in camou-suits with sonic rifles. Not very sporty, I’ll admit, but we don’t want any shell-casings left behind…”

  * * * * * * * * *

  It was morning and everybody was hungry and tired. No one had slept well the night before. Strange noises from the direction of the Big Ones’ camp frightened the young Fuzzys, forcing the adults to comfort them. Climber wanted to go out and see what was making all the noise but Red Fur stopped him. Some of the noises were just like the ones they heard when the shimo-kato made dead, the same noise that hurt MakesFuzzy Things ears.

  Red Fur was gathering the tribe together to go hunting when Little One came running with something strange in his hands. Everybody looked at the strange thing Little One carried. It was a never seen before thing. Red Fur sniffed it and wrinkled his nose. He had never smelled anything like it. Runs Fast took a piece of the strange thing and tasted it then put the whole thing in his mouth and grabbed for more.

  “Kii-mossii!” Runs Fast cried out, after he swallowed. “This is wonderful food!”

  Red Fur tried a piece and spit it out, as did Little One, Tells-things, Stonebreaker and Healer. The rest attacked the golden stuff and devoured it as fast as they could.

  “Where you find?” Red Fur asked. Little One took Red Fur to the hill by the Big Ones’ hidden camp. There were two more golden cakes placed on some leaves. “The Big Ones left this.”

  “Big Ones?” Little One asked. “Why?”

  “Not know,” the Fuzzy leader admitted. “Maybe want to make friends. Or maybe try to trick us, like shimo-kato.”

  “Shimo-kato trick?”

  Little One hadn’t learned how a shimo-kato would fool its prey by leaving the area and circling around to attack its victim from behind. Red Fur was afraid the Big Ones might trick the Jin-f’ke into thinking they were friends, then making them all dead. If the Big Ones wanted to be friends why didn’t they simply come out and meet the tribe? Why hide in their burrow? The Big Ones behaved very strangely, thought Red Fur.

  * * * * * * * * *

  It was good to get out in the field for a change. Normally, Chief Harry—never Harold—Steefer spent most of his on-duty time at Company House supervising the men and double-checking the security tech. And as always, there was paperwork, lots and lots of paperwork. Occasionally he would get out to the farms and ranches for inspection, and a once a month trip to Yellowsand to make sure the sunstone mining operation was secure. On average that got him out of Company House about four days a month.

  Steefer was used to action. During his time in the Federation Army he had seen his fair share of combat, mostly against rebellious aliens who didn’t appreciate what the Federation had to offer. There was the separatist group on Uller who favored the hit-and-run tactics of first century A.E. terrorists, and the mess on Freya when a small principality declared its independence from the kingdom of Taalstahk and took several Terrans hostage. But the one that ended Major Steefer’s career was the uprising on Yggdrasil when three tribes of Khooghras banded together and attacked the Chartered Yggdrasil Company. The attack was so sudden and so well executed nobody could believe the Khooghras had planned it.

  The native sapient population of Yggdrasil sported the lowest intelligence of any known sapient species. Harry Steefer distinguished himself by rallying his men into an effective counter-force that wiped out the lion’s share of the attackers. Unfortunately, he sustained severe injuries that resulted in the loss of one kidney, the spleen and two feet of intestine. While the Army readily paid for the organ replacement surgery, his military career was over. Officers were held to high standards of physical fitness and any officer who had had major surgery of any kind fell below those standards. Forced retirement with disability compensation was his only option.

  With his military career over Harry Steefer decided to put his criminology degree to good use and tried to join the police force in his home town on Terra only to find that his age worked against him. He had missed the cut-off by two years. While he could live well enough on his military pension, Steefer wasn’t ready to retire. He kept an eye out for employment opportunities and jumped at the chance to go into off-world security.

  When the word went out that Zarathustra was looking for men, he got on the next ship and never looked back. When he arrived on Zarathustra he was assigned a position as captain of security. There he caught the eye of one Victor Grego, who knew a good man when he saw one. When Chief Tanaka put in for retirement, Steefer was promoted on the spot.

  Now, eight years later, Chief Steefer was feeling the walls close-in. He missed the action and change of scenery
that was a part of military life. When Victor Grego asked him to join the Colonial Police in search of Gus Brannhard it was like an answer to a prayer. He put Lansky in charge of Company House security and left him a skeleton crew to supervise. The rest went with him to join the police effort.

  At first Chief Steefer enjoyed the change of pace. He and his men joined the police in serving warrants and searching suspect homes and businesses. While police regulations required civilian deputies to carry non-lethal weapons, the cops didn’t make a peep about the CZC security force packing firearms. Steefer appreciated this breech of protocol and said so.

  “No problem, Mr.- uh, Chief Steefer,” Officer Chang said. “We appreciate the extra manpower and Colonial Marshal Max Fane signed off on it. If any shooting starts up, I like having lots of guns on my side.”

  Steefer, Chang and a mixed squad of Colonial and Company police along with a squad of Terran Federation Marines, on loan from Lieutenant Commander Ybarra, were taking squad cars to an abandoned warehouse in the area formerly titled to Hugo Ingermann.

  “I like your thinking, son,” the Chief said with a wolfish smile. “Say, weren’t you one of the cops with Marshal Fane when he stormed through Company House looking for Jack Holloway’s Fuzzies?”

  “Yeah, me Piet and Miguel,” Chang replied. “I don’t recall seeing you there, though.”

  “I wasn’t. It was my night off, but I reviewed the security tapes after debriefing my men.” Steefer grimaced. “Just my luck to miss all the fun.”

  “I hope there’s no hard feelings.”

  “Not to worry. I understand following orders and doing the job you are supposed to do. I doubt Mr. Grego holds a grudge, either. He even tried to re-hire Ruth van Riebeek, and she’d been spying on the company. Now if you want me to be mad about something, do a half-assed job while I’m around to see it.”

  “I’ll pass,” Chang said, laughing. “Marshal Fane takes the same dim view of sloppy police work.”