Fuzzy Bones (v1.1)

by William Tuning (v1. 1) (html)

  Little Fuzzy paused again, to let the importance of his remarks gain weight, knowing the silence would help to generate a reply from Starwatcher. Little Fuzzy hadn’t failed to learn some diplomacy from watching the tactics of persuasion that Terrans used to convince each other.

  “Me know,” Starwatcher repeated slowly. “Fuzzies not have food. Pappy Jack give hosku—fusso.” He moved his hand in a semi-circle to include all of Fuzzy Valley. “Old ones die, but new young ones not come. Starwatcher not know why. Is Haigun—so-such must know why, but not. Pappy Jack give hoksu-fusso to eat. Greensuit Hagga good, too, but Pappy Jack make them come this place. Pappy Jack Best Big One.”

  “If Pappy Jack ask,” Little Fuzzy said, “so-then you say to him, ‘Me Haigun. Me no have say you why look at stars and moons.’ You so-say Pappy Jack?”

  “No,” Starwatcher said softly. “No so-say Pappy Jack.”

  “Then say me,” Little Fuzzy said. “I Pappy Jack’s Numba’-One Fuzzy, but no say him why. He ask, then I say, but not say any time else.”

  Starwatcher took a deep breath. “Old Haigun make me Haigun, but not say me what duty is—most, but not sum of it.” Starwatcher pointed toward the sky. “Blue star go about white star three hands, before old Haigun die. Then, he so-say me, ‘It be said, when lights come in sky, gashta go to far place. When lights come in sky, gashta be saved and taken up this place. You watch. You Haigun.’ Then, he die.”

  Little Fuzzy digested this for a moment. “Prrrr— prrrophesy,” he said, working hard over the unfamiliar “R” sound.

  “What that mean?” Starwatcher asked.

  “Is when you so-say thing happen before it happen,” Little Fuzzy replied. “But, why old Haigun so-say you? Why watch for lights?”

  “He no say,” Starwatcher said. “He not know. Only know to watch. Only know stay in valley and watch. Rest is forgotten.”

  Little Fuzzy knocked out his pipe on a stone, blew through the stem, and thought for a moment. Then, he began to refill the pipe from his little tobacco pouch. This was going to be a two-pipe problem.

  Xerxes was several degrees higher in the night sky before Little Fuzzy spoke again. “See lights in sky?” he inquired.

  Starwatcher held up two fingers. “Two times,” he said. “Old Haigun not dead then. He see, too.”

  “What he say?” Little Fuzzy asked.

  “He so-say, not lights we watch to see,” Starwatcher said. “I ask him how he know, but he no say me how.”

  “When last time you see?” Little Fuzzy asked.

  “Star turn hand-of-hands since,” Starwatcher said, opening and closing his fist five times.

  “You see on that place?” Little Fuzzy asked, pointing at Xerxes with his pipe stem.

  Starwatcher nodded.

  “That when gashta-Hagga—Big Ones—come this place,” Little Fuzzy said. “Big Ones save Fuzzies. Prrrrrophesy now is, so. Fuzzies go to place where you see lights.” He tapped his chest with his pipestem. “Me one of dem Fuzzies. Hagga teach many things to Fuzzies there.”

  Starwatcher jabbed his finger toward the ground. “But, we not go. We here, yet. So I watch.”

  The intercom chimed. Alex Napier thumbed the switch. “Yes?” he said.

  “Lieutenant Moshe Gilbert is here to report,” the yeoman replied.

  “Send him in,” Napier said. He broke the connection, laid his pipe in the large ashtray, and tugged the bottom of his tunic to smooth the front of it.

  Napier could see nothing amiss in Lieutenant Gilbert’s grasp of protocol. He reported properly and with briskness, but he looked awfully green to be a Class-A Agent. His two front teeth were markedly larger than they should be, which made him look younger than he was, and he had that well-scrubbed, just-out-of-the-Academy look about him, which is to say that innocence oozed from every pore. The only thing missing that Napier could think of was freckles. It taxed the mind to believe that this young man was a graduate of the Navy’s Advanced Protection and Escort School, yet there it was in his records, along with a string of commendations for successfully completed assignments. But, then, Napier reflected, the most efficient and ruthless agent he had ever seen was a sweet young thing who looked like a cheerleader.

  Napier toyed with the records jacket. “When did you go to APES?” he asked, although the date was plainly entered on Gilbert’s personnel form.

  “Five years ago, sir,” Gilbert replied. “Spring class of 650.”

  “I see,” Napier said. “At ease, Lieutenant, and have a seat.” He motioned him to a chair.

  “Thank you, sir,” Gilbert said.

  Napier filled his pipe and leaned back in his chair while he lighted it. “Relax, son,” he said, talking around the pipe-stem, between puffs. “No need to sit at attention, too.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gilbert said.

  “Did Captain Greibenfeld tell you anything about the nature of this assignment?” Napier asked.

  “Only that I would be assigned directly to your staff, sir—for an indefinite period,” Gilbert said.

  Napier smiled. “If you have any hot dates planned for the next year,” he said, “I suggest you cancel them.” That would be enough to tell him, for the moment, Napier decided. Then, if any scuttlebutt got back to him about the duration of the mission, he would know that Gilbert wasn’t the man he wanted. “I’ll brief you on the final phase when the time comes,” he continued. “In the meantime, your direct responsibility will be to create first-generation copies of several tapes and documents—as I furnish them to you. I consider this to be very sensitive information, Lieutenant. You are responsible to no one on this station, now, except myself. You will wear a sidearm at all times, whether you are engaged in building the duplicate file or not. If, any, any time, based on your own judgment, any compromise of security has occurred, you are to arrest the parties concerned and bring them to me under guard.”

  “And if they refuse?” Gilbert said.

  “You will shoot them dead on the spot,” Napier said evenly, “and inform me at once.”

  Without replying, Gilbert took his Class-A Agent’s identity plaque from his pocket and pinned it to the breast pocket of his blouse. “I take it you mean I start immediately, sir,” he said.

  Napier was pleased. “You take it correctly, Mister,” he said.

  Gilbert leaned forward slightly in his chair and reached behind his back. From under his blouse he withdrew a nine-millimeter automatic. Pointing its muzzle toward the ceiling, he stripped a round into battery and thumbed the hammer back down to the double-action safety position.

  “Personal?” Napier inquired.

  Gilbert nodded.

  “Inventoried when you came on station?” Napier asked.

  “No, sir,” Gilbert said, smiling. “You know Regulations don’t require that of a Class-A.”

  “Then, why are you making this show?” Napier asked, puffing slowly on his pipe.

  “So you’ll know I have it and where I carry it,” Gilbert said. “You’re my direct boss, now. I’m on assignment. I owe you the courtesy.”

  Napier nodded thoughtfully.

  Class-A Agents were distributed throughout the military services and were assigned to normal duty—from which they could be detached to perform Class-A functions. Most often it was just a matter of being present in the pay room when personnel were paid in cash, but there was also the matter of transporting payrolls and acting as couriers for diplomatic level and high-security documents. In their Class-A functions they were required by regulations to be armed. Most of them habitually carried a personal weapon, since it was often more expedient and efficient than digging up a Master-At-Arms to draw an issue sidearm. They were not required to surrender it on boarding any station, vessel, or civilian carrier—or even acknowledge that they possessed it.

  Napier got to his feet. “I think we understand each other, Mister, on the importance I attach to this matter.” He lifted the front of his tunic to reveal a pistol tucked in the front of his waistband.


  “Are you expecting trouble, sir?” Gilbert asked. “I mean, is there an agency of active intent to compromise this set of security?”

  “I doubt it, Lieutenant,” Napier said, “but I’m a great believer in prevention. Hell; at the moment, only a few people are even aware of this situation. There will be more, of course, as their Need to Know comes into the picture.”

  “Is that the reason for the beat-to-quarters-and-man-guns treatment the Commodore is applying, here?” Gilbert asked deferentially.

  Napier sat down. “The reason,” he said gruffly, “is the potential of Federation-wide importance. You’ll see that as we work along on building the duplicate folio. At the moment, your capacity is basically that of an armed copy-boy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gilbert said. That seemed clear enough. The Old Man was telling him to keep his nose clean and curb his curiosity.

  “Take the rest of the day to clean up any loose ends on your regular duty job, Lieutenant,” Napier said. “You start here at 0800 tomorrow. I’ll have desk space rigged for you in the outer office. For now, that is all.”

  Gilbert got to his feet, saluted smartly, and said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  As soon as Gilbert had departed, Napier punched out the combination for the Communications Center. As the screen cleared, he said to the yeoman, “Get me First Battalion commo on Zarathustra. I wish to speak with Lieutenant Colonel O’Bannon, Sergeant Helton, and Commissioner Holloway, either in that order or as a group.”

  “I’ll signal you when I have them on screen, sir,” the yeoman said.

  “Put it on scramble-8—and thank you,” Napier said.

  “What do you mean, he’s not here?” Christiana said apprehensively.

  “I mean, he’s not here,” the sexton replied. “He had an appointment with the Governor General at Government House, but I expect him back—”

  Christiana clenched her fist as her hand flew to her mouth, and she bit the knuckles to keep from crying out. “Governor Rainsford?” she said. “He had an appointment with Governor Rainsford?”

  “Why, yes, Miss,” the man said, “but he’ll be back—”

  “That’s all right,” she said, cutting him off, again. “I’ll see him some other time.” She turned and hurried out of the mission, onto the darkened esplanade.

  Christiana was accustomed to being double-crossed, used, and taken advantage of. It was something she had allowed to happen to her all her life. She had grown to mistrust people—until she met Victor Grego—so it was natural, in her mind, to assume that The Rev’s visit to Ben Rainsford might also involve some breach of the confidence into which she had taken him.

  It had stopped raining as the wind turned warmer. Both Xerxes and Darius peered through the remaining ragged clouds, intermittently flooding the poorly-lighted esplanade with shifting patches of pale illumination.

  Christiana almost didn’t hear her name being called.

  “Chris. Chris!” the voice said. “Over here!”

  She turned toward the sound, trying to orient herself with her surroundings. She hadn’t been aware of walking so far, but here she was, in front of The Bitter End. Recognition flashed across her face. “Gwennie!” she said, hurrying toward the short blonde with the unmistakeable cascade of curly hair falling across her forehead and spilling down around her shoulders.

  They hugged each other.

  “What are you doing down here?”

  “I thought you’d be Uptown by now.”

  “I’m moving up the street, at least.”

  “You’re looking great.” They both talked at once for a moment, and then paused for breath.

  “Gwen,” Christiana said, “what are you doing out here without a wrap? Here, take my coat.”

  Gwen’s face was flushed, and two rivulets of sweat trickled along her collarbone before they joined and disappeared down the front of her dress. She exhaled cigarette smoke through her nose. “I’m all right,” she said. “It’s hot enough to bake Ghu’s gizzard in there. I had to get some fresh air.”

  “Busy weekend coming up, huh?” Christiana said.

  Gwen nodded. “Marines are starting to drift in already. And, how’s your love-life?”

  Christiana shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “That’s the hell of it.”

  Gwen squinted through the cigarette smoke as she used both hands to pinch the fabric of her dress and tug the damp garment away from her body. She moved her hands back and forth with a quick, fanning motion to make the air circulate inside her clothes. “Honey, “Gwen said, “one never knows; that’s the real hell of it.”

  “I just can’t get anything out of him,” Christiana said. “I mean, he’s attentive enough but really formal about it—but I don’t know where I stand with him.”

  “Yeah,” Gwen said thoughtfully, “Jim is the shy type, too. ‘Course I haven’t really picked between the two of them, yet. I think I like Jim better, though. Ev’s always shooting his mouth off about how great he is—never how great I am.”

  “I thought you and Laporte—” Christiana said, “were—uh— I mean, I thought that’s why you moved the act over here from Pandora’s Box.”

  Gwen made a disdainful gesture. “Laporte? No, that’s just to keep the animals off me while I’m working. Laporte? I’d sooner go out with a khooghra; the conversation would be better.”

  Christiana nodded understanding. “I’m just paralyzed, Gwen. I’ve got to make a move with this guy, but I’m afraid to do anything for fear I’ll lose him.”

  Gwen put her hand on Christiana’s arm. “Look; let’s go inside and talk a while. We got time for a drink before I go back on.”

  In a few minutes, Christiana poured out the story of what a wonderful man Victor Grego was, how he was attentive without pawing over her, how he always treated her like a real lady, how kind and considerate he was—both toward her and Diamond—to say nothing of the good manners he had.

  “Sounds like a hell of a find to me,” Gwen said. “Why don’t you just snap him up?”

  Christiana frowned and looked down at the table. “He—” she faltered. “He doesn’t know what I did before. I’m afraid to tell him. I mean, he’s a high-class guy. He might not be able to handle it. I keep thinking we could go away someplace, but I know he’ll never leave the Company.”

  “What makes you think he wouldn’t understand?” Gwen asked. “If he’s that high-class, he should be able to understand.”

  Christiana snorted. “Rodney was that high-class—I knew he’d understand—the bastard. When I told him what Daddy was doing and begged him to help, all he did was fling me out of his life.”

  “You’re going to have to tell him, Chris,” Gwen said. “Sooner or later. Guys like Victor Grego have a way of figuring things out for themselves. Otherwise they wouldn’t be where they are. If my Jim could figure anything out, he’d be a Master Sergeant by now.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Gwennie,” Christiana sighed. “I thought I had a way to go, and now I’ve got this guy putting the screws to me for information; and threatening to tell Victor about me if I don’t come across.”

  Gwen nodded. “He sounds like somebody that’s working for Laporte—or maybe Bowlby. He could be an independent, but those bums wouldn’t let him keep breathing if he was. Remember what Bowlby did to you.”

  “I know, I know,” Christiana said. “I can’t betray Victor, and I can’t keep feeding useless malarkey to this guy in the hat. Sooner or later he’s going to get wise that what I’m giving him isn’t that useful.”

  Gwen leaned forward and put her hand on Christiana’s arm. “Listen, honey,” she said, “let me snoop around a little and see if I can find out who the guy is working for. Would that help?”

  “I guess,” Christiana said. “I’ll just have to figure it out as I go along, I guess.”

  “Good,” Gwen said. “How can I get in touch with you?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The orange sun was just setting behind th
e ridge as Jack Holloway grounded the airjeep among the lengthening shadows in front of his bungalow.

  The instant it lurched off contragravity, Little Fuzzy was out the side hatch like a shot and streaking for the Fuzzy-sized door next to the front door of Jack’s house. There were so many things to tell his family, and Mike and Mitzi, and Ko-Ko, and Cinderella.

  Jack ambled after him, let himself in the house, and dropped his gear on the big desk-table. He deposited his rifle on top of the pile of gear, unbuckled his pistol belt and laid it on the table, too. Then, he took a good, long yawn and stretch—and scratched himself here and there.

  A few minutes later, he emerged from the kitchen with a highball and sat down at the communications screen. He would think about dinner while he played back his messages, he decided, and then screen Gerd and Ruth at their place.

  Lieutenant Colonel James O’Bannon sat down on his bunk, after his guests were comfortably situated and provided with drinks and ashtrays. He reached down and began to unlace his boots. “Dick,” he said to Major Stagwell, “you’ll be in charge, of course, while I’m gone. I want you to bust loose with some liberty for the men. See that Casagra’s bunch gets the biggest end of it. They’ve worked the hardest and the longest. Not much left for them to do, anyway.”

  Stagwell puffed his pipe and nodded. “You want to maintain current patrol density, Jim?”

  “You bet I do!” O’Bannon said. “I don’t want a banjo-bird to get within a hundred kilometers of this place without our knowing about it—certainly not until I’m shut of the responsibility…Come down here to shoo a few news-people away from a hypership wreck, and now we’ve got a damn thing by the tail.”

  Stagwell nodded again and took a sip of his drink.

  O’Bannon peered at him. “Y’know, I think I’ll have one of those, myself,” he said as he tugged his boots off. He ambled over to his field chest and began to fix himself a drink. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more about this, just now, Dick,” he said, while his back was still turned, “but the whole thing is just too damned hot. Maybe after Phil and I have talked to Napier and come back down from Xerxes…“He turned to Helton. “Will you have everything case-packed and ready to go by the arrival time of the Ranger?” he asked.