Quozl (15 page)

“You said you have permission.” It was a polite rejoinder which High could have accepted. Instead his reply was cruelly brusque.

“I do.”

Blunt to the point of insult. Looks-at-Charts held his temper and considered leaving with the situation unresolved. This was not something he was obligated to pursue. He could depart with a farewell, leaving them to their music and dance, and file a formal report. Let Lifts-with-Shout and the Elders deal with it as they saw fit.

But he found he could not simply walk away. Something held him there: curiosity, old memories, a sense of responsibility perhaps. He could not have said. So he opened himself to further execration.

“Who gave permission?” There, he thought, pleased with himself. I can be as impolite as you.

It didn't faze the musician. “The Second Book of the Samizene. The Scroll of Aesthetics. The Talker Soliloquies. The entire artistic history of the Quozl.”

The scout's ears dipped. “I don't understand.”

“I wouldn't expect you to.” High-red-Chanter's mouth twitched to reveal a couple of teeth. Looks felt his blood rush. The ancient challenge was almost enough to make him charge. Almost. Only training, experience, and great self-control kept him safely within his own Sama.

“You are not an artist,” High continued. “Merely another cog in a machine.”

“We are all cogs in the colony. If it survives, that is more important than anything else. You are troubled by false individuality. You need help.”

Ears bobbed negatively. “Not we. As artists we can no longer abide by the foolish, arbitrary rules and restrictions that force us to dig in the ground like bugs.”

“The Quozl have always lived underground,” Looks-at-Charts pointed out. “There is no shame in living as our ancestors did.”

“Not if that is the only choice, but it is not.”

Looks tried another tack. “The decisions of the Council are not arbitrary.”

“They are whenever art is concerned. Since they chose to conspire to deny us choice, we must make one for ourselves.”

“You're crazy, the two of you.”

“We're artists, the two of us.” High-red-Chanter said it as if it explained everything. In a way it did.

Looks-at-Charts's conscience required him to say one more thing. “You have no official permission to be out here, do you?”

“We have aesthetic permission, historical precedence.” The female spoke for the first time. “It is there in the Second Book for any to see. We have spiritual permission. Those are the only permissions we need.”

“That's not for me to decide. You realize I must note your presence here in my official report.”

“We would not expect otherwise from you.” High managed to turn compliment to insult by way of inflection. “Report whatever you wish. It will not matter.”

“It will when you return to the Burrow.”

“Who spoke of returning to the Burrow?” Obviously relishing the scout's confusion, the musician continued. “We aren't going back. We're going to start our own Burrow. A place of free choices. Out here life is not predetermined as it was on
Sequencer
.” Extending both arms and all fourteen fingers, he pivoted slowly and addressed the sky. “A world is not underspace!”

“Honest aesthetic sentiments I'm sure,” Looks replied carefully. This was worse than he thought, much worse. He couldn't leave now. “But if you don't return you risk exposing yourselves to the natives, thereby putting the entire colony at risk.”

“We risk nothing of the sort.” The musician halted and lowered his arms. “We will live as well concealed as any colony. We know our responsibilities as well as our limitations. We have with us an ample supply of suppressants which we have been hoarding since we oversubscribed more than a year ago. Nothing will be put at risk.”

For the first time Looks-at-Charts noticed the pair of handmade, cleanly fashioned shoulder packs lying off to one side beneath a protective overhanging rock. He sighed, locked eyes with the unrepentant High.

“All this is nonsense. No one breaks from this Burrow. No one defies Landing Command.”

“Four years we have lived on this world,” argued High-red-Chanter, “and not a single native has been sighted in the vicinity of the Burrow. The colony remains safe no matter the wanderings of two inspired Quozl. We will not be seen. Two are less conspicuous than thousands even if they happen to be living on the surface.

“It may happen that we will eventually become bored with our self-imposed isolation and will voluntarily return to the colony, but right now we burn for freedom. We need the stimulation new sights, new smells, new sounds can provide. Recordings are not enough. If we do not obtain these things we will perish creatively.”

“There are many other artists in the colony. All content themselves with their surroundings.”

“How do you know? Have you asked any of them how they feel? It does not matter anyway. What matters is that
we
are not content. We seek space beyond our individual Samas. We required it.”

“You will not be allowed to find it. You must know that you will be returned, forcibly if necessary.”

“Those who would punish us must first find us,” High said haughtily. “I do not think Command will try to because dozens of tracking Quozl would be too conspicuous. We've been planning this for some time. Trying to locate us would be more of a danger to the colony than letting us go. We have kept it to ourselves and have encouraged no one else. Let any others who are disillusioned find their own path to freedom.”

Looks-at-Charts examined the musician's words. This was no irrational act, as he'd initially thought, but something which had been thoroughly planned. It might be as High-red-Chanter said, that Landing Command would decide it was less risky to leave them be than to try and bring them back.

He advanced to the outer limits of the musician's Sama, remained poised there on the thin edge of tolerance.

“There is one other possibility you have not mentioned.”

“What might that be?”

“That having found you and learned of your intentions, I might force you to return with me. That would eliminate the need for any large-scale search.” His right hand rested meaningfully on the butt of the weapon holstered at his waist.

High-red-Chanter glanced at the side arm, then searched the scout's face. “We are not going back and neither you nor anyone else can compel us to do so.”

“I could shoot you.”

“That's true, you could.” The musician's ears bobbed as he displayed his amusement. “Having already killed I suppose you could do so again.”

Looks-at-Charts had been expecting the insult and so it did not shake him. “I am no killer. I am a scout who knows his duties and responsibilities, much as we both know the laws you choose to defy. I do not kill.”

“Then how can you expect us to take your threat seriously?”

“I said I didn't kill. I did not say I couldn't shoot you. As the security of the entire Burrow is at stake I believe I can make myself shoot to incapacitate you. Medical could make repairs later.”

He could see that High didn't believe. “You threaten violence. I know you, Looks-at-Charts. You're still Quozl. If you shot us you'd suffer severe mental damage.”

“It would risk such damage, and I have the ability to override my conditioning. It was part of my training. If I were you I wouldn't insist on a demonstration of that ability.”

It shook High-red-Chanter. Looks could see it in his expression though the musician struggled to hide his emotions. It was a victory of sorts.

“If you shoot us you'll lose everything you've worked for. Command would never allow anyone who'd demonstrated deviant tendencies to travel to the surface again.”

“
You
speak to me of deviant tendencies? It wouldn't matter. I would resign voluntarily. It might cost me my mate. Friends would shun me. My parents would turn their faces away in shame should they encounter me in a corridor. Not even the mentally impaired would want to couple with me. Such reactions would be proper. I am prepared to deal with them all to ensure the safety of the colony.”

“Yes,” murmured Thinks-of-Grim, “I can see that you are crazy enough to go through with such actions.”

“I do not think it is my sanity that is in question here.” He unsealed his holster and started to draw his weapon. “Therefore I must insist that for the sake of the Burrow and the future of all Quozl on Shiraz you …”

He never finished the sentence.

When he regained consciousness he found himself lying on this back staring up at a semicircle of concerned faces. They were not those of High-red-Chanter and Thinks-of-Grim but of the study team he'd been guiding. They helped him to his feet, then evacuated his Sama as he stood alone surveying the otherwise deserted granite basin. The packs were gone, along with their owners.

“We came searching for you,” said the zoologist. “I know we should have waited for you to return but much time passed. We grew concerned and came looking. For this breach of regulations we apologize profusely.”

“You are forgiven for you zeal,” Looks replied absently. At the moment formalities did not interest him.

“You must have fallen.” The expedition's botanist indicated the slight slope behind them.

“I did not fall. I was struck.” He proceeded to tell them about the source of the music which had intrigued them.

“High-red-Chanter's mind is gone but there's nothing wrong with his reflexes, nor those of his companions,” he concluded. “He engaged me so deeply in conversation that I forgot to monitor the location of his mate. I was so concerned with my own potential for violence that I failed to consider she might be capable of it herself.”

Word of the artists' perfidy stunned the scientists and much mutual meditation was required before they regained their psychospiritual equilibrium. Only then were they able to discuss what had happened in a calm and rational manner.

“Do you think we should go after them?” the botanist asked. “There are four of us. We might force them to return.”

Looks-at-Charts extended both ears parallel to the earth. “We cannot. We are not authorized. Besides which, we've no idea which way they've gone nor do we have any equipment which might aid us in tracking them. Furthermore,” and he noted with irony that he was repeating High-red-Chanter's own argument, “we cannot risk being detected by the natives.”

The zoologist was staring off into the forest. “Surely we can't let them go. They could jeopardize the entire Burrow.”

“I tried to explain that to them. They are convinced they can remain hidden from the natives.” He touched the front of his head, came away with blood on his fingers. He eyed it as if it was an illustration from a medical text and not the reality of his own body. One Quozl had bled another. Truly the two artists were insane.

“This is not for us to decide.”

Unlike the time when he'd been forced to kill the native, this time he was calm and relaxed. He'd done what had to be done and failed, but at least he had tried. And it was not he who had committed violence.

“No one will blame you for what has happened.” The geologist spoke most sympathetically. “You failed because you acted properly. Had you not come upon them their flight would have gone unremarked upon. Now the authorities can determine how to deal with it, before it is too late.”

“It may already be too late.” Looks-at-Charts took a step forward, felt himself swaying. Instantly two of the scientists moved to support him. The geologist inspected his forehead. The rock had struck him just above the left eye.

“You could have been killed. This is proof enough of their madness.” She eyed her companions. “We must make a report. Our own work can wait.”

“By all means,” agreed the zoologist fervently. “Let us return to the Burrow as rapidly as possible.”

They had no choice, of course, but Looks-at-Charts still found reason to regret their action. Perhaps this one time it might have been better to have acted insensibly.

Lifts-with-Shout was beside himself when he heard the news. The aging Landing Supervisor was all for sending out an armed party to track down the two miscreants. He was vetoed by the Captain and the Council of Seven. Exactly as High-red-Chanter had predicted, they decided the risk was greater than the possible gain.

“Human atmospheric craft are slow and primitive,” the Captain was saying, “and they pass close to this region but infrequently, yet we cannot chance one sighting a sizable search party. We must balance this and the small chance of tracking the two against other possibilities.

“High-red-Chanter and Thinks-of-Grim are artists. They do not have survival training.” She glanced in Looks's direction as she said this but he kept his gaze properly averted. “They may very well perish at the claws of the native fauna or die of food poisoning. When the cold season arrives they are quite likely to die of exposure.” The Quozl had learned that the cold season on this part of Shiraz was very cold indeed, characterized by immense drifts of frozen water and bone-chilling temperatures.

Looks-at-Charts confirmed that neither of the renegades was heavily dressed, though of course he had no way of knowing what they carried in their packs. The packs were not large enough for them to carry much.

One of Lifts-with-Shout's subordinates rose to speak. “They are at the mercy of a hostile alien environment, with only what they can carry to help them. I cannot see how they could survive the cold season. Any tools they did not steal they must fashion with their own hands.” He let his gaze wander around the conference room. “Although much of the local flora is edible or neutral, some is toxic to Quozl systemology. The renegades have no botanical training. They may have taken records and information with them, but that is not the same thing. Our work is still very incomplete. They must survive all alone and,” he could not keep a sneer out of his tone, “propagate their art.”