Quozl (3 page)

Landscapes and climates flashed across the viewer box, mirrored in his eyes. Bored, he switched to information on Mazna, always more interesting than statistics from Azel or Moszine because unlike them, Mazna had turned out to harbor hostile lifeforms. The first two colonies had been established with comparative ease. In contrast, Mazna had been a fight.

Details were so few, he mused in frustration. By now there must be dozens of other Quozl colonies scattered across the firmament, but none save the first three had advanced enough to return a vessel to Quozlene with helpful information. For all he knew, half a dozen such ships had arrived home subsequent to the
Sequencer
's departure. Any one of them might hold the solution to a forthcoming problem. It was a solution he would never see. Communication between worlds traveled no faster than a settlement ship itself, though here were always stories and rumors of new scientific developments. It was intolerable.

Useless it was, and stressful, to sulk over such things. For all practical purposes Quozlene, Azel, and the rest did not exist. Nothing existed except the
Sequencer
and those aboard her. The ship was a ponderous giant, a slowly moving island of intelligence and life making its way through a dumb, ferocious cosmos. Isolation was their pouch, not Quozlene. Not for the past six generations. Sometime in the far future his great-great-great-offspring might succeed in building a ship to return with news of the colony's success, but he would not know of it, nor would any of his contemporaries.

More out of frustration than need he shifted the viewer from the education lines to the primary entertainment line. He found himself watching a depiction of the epic Fourth Dynastic War which pitted the Northern and Eastern United Clans of ancient Quozlene against the Southern. The depiction required days of nonstop viewing and he had yet to watch it all the way through. It was full of the kind of sweep and spectacle which entralled the colonists who had been born on the ship, and which for thousands of cycles had made Quozlene a living hell.

Within a short time he had witnessed less than half a dozen disembowelings and as many beheadings, interspersed with scenes of ritual torture and dismemberment, but he was not disappointed. Even in an epic some time had to be reserved for necessary explication. Some of the performers were legends or so the accompanying history of the making of the epic insisted. They were dead now, but their images lived and breathed and drifted within the depths of the viewer. They had achieved electronic immortality.

He found himself nodding off, the curved sides of his bed-lounge enclosing him pouchlike, the false wood walls arching overhead and the viewer humming softly high above his feet as it disgorged shrunken depictions of ancient massacres.

His mind's eye was filled with dreams of the new world. In them he was the first to stand on its rich soil, to survey a paradise compared to which Azel was a desert. A second Quozl stood beside him, sleek of fur and bright of eye, the most beautiful he'd ever seen. They coupled repeatedly while his communicator frantically asked for details.

Though he was not yet of age and had yet to qualify according to the standards set for procreation, he dreamed also of siring offspring, of fulfilling the central Quozl purpose of replication, of watching youngsters moving inside their mothers' pouches. Soon it would no longer be a fantasy. With a whole new world to fill, the chemical inhibitors everyone ingested in their daily meals would be removed and impregnation could commence unrestrained.

Unless their new home turned out to be another Mazna, hostile and threatening. In that case he, Looks-at-Charts, would show the way, beating back the flora and fauna until the colony was safely established. Nothing could stop him, nothing could hold him back.

They would raise a memorial to him. His offspring and his children's offspring would do him homage as the first to set foot on the new world. Looks-at-Charts the Great. Looks-at-Charts the Honored. Looks-at-Charts the Unsurpassed.

They would admire him as one whose taste was unequaled.

He could hear the acclaim, feel the roar of adulation wash over him, and he accepted it as his due even though he knew he couldn't really be hearing it because he was asleep, asleep and then he wasn't and it wasn't the whistling from thousands of throats that brought him awake but rather the insistent whine of his viewer.

Absent the epic and in its place a disapproving face staring back at him. Tell-no-Fury was addressing him in appropriately honorific terms, but he was not wasting time. That befitted the senior member of the Landing Preparation staff. Looks-at-Charts blinked double lids and sat up fast, his future glory a rapidly fading memory.

“I am terribly sorry to have interrupted your rest. Please forgive me,” said Tell-no-Fury. Looks-at-Charts was properly ashamed for not having been available to respond. Technically he was on duty.

“It was unforgiveable and I can't find a proper excuse.”

“There is no need for excuses.” What Tell-no-Fury was actually saying was that he was good and mad but that he didn't have the time to waste on bawling the young scout out because he had something more important on his mind. As if this wasn't sufficiently apparent in his tone, both ears were turned down and forward.

“The meeting,” he explained quietly.

Meeting.… Looks-at-Charts checked his chronometer and his eyes squeezed shut in shock.
The
meeting. His encounter with High-red-Chanter had caused him to forget. No wonder Tell-no-Fury was so upset!

“It is about to commence,” the staff senior said dryly. “It will commence with or without you, but having noticed your absence I felt it incumbent upon me to ascertain the state of your health and to inquire if I might be of some assistance in the event you proved unwell.”

“A thousand thousand apologies for my inexcusable tardiness!” It was the best Looks-at-Charts could manage under the circumstances. In this instance eloquence would be an unavoidable casualty. He would try to make up for it later. “I'll be there before your viewer cools.”

He did not so much leave as flee his bed, forgetting even to shut his own viewer down. That would cost him later but presently he was only concerned with now. He ripped off his jumpsuit, got the armholes of his dress jumper on backward, cursed as he straightened them out, and adjusted his fur beneath the elastic. Then he closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, repeating the requisite phrases over and over in a soft murmur. When that didn't work he approached the foam figure of a Quozl in full ancient battle dress which stood near the doorway and struck it several times in the three vital areas. Feeling much better, he hurried out into the corridor.

II.

N
O RELAXING PACE
this time, no casual stroll through the recreation area. He commandeered the first empty intraship transport vehicle he encountered and snapped directions. Leaning back and propping his feet on the rest bar, he straightened his ears as the wheeled capsule accelerated. The vehicle resembled an infirmary pill and moved through the ship's guts almost as fast, traveling through the narrow transport tunnel. He emerged close to piloting and guidance, having traveled from near the
Sequencer
's midsection to a point close to its bow.

Ignoring the warning from the vehicle, he jumped out before it had come to a complete stop and tried to run without appearing hasty. His ears were burning but not from the machine's admonition.

How could he have slept through part of
the
meeting? There was no time to check insignia, brush his fur, or check his shaved patches, no time even to use a grooming razor.

As he neared the meeting chamber he slowed, wondering who would be present and who would not. Tell-no-Fury perhaps, Flies-by-Tail certainly among those he considered friends. The doors recognized him and parted to permit entrance, the fluorescent lines simulating the grain of Orkil wood pulsing brightly.

There was no mistaking the importance of the meeting. Stream-cuts-Through sat on the highest row, surrounded by her officers. The Captain looked tired, but then that seemed to be her natural state of being lately. Around the ribbed triangle shaved into her forehead gray was beginning to appear prominently. Stream-cuts-Through was fourth generation and something of a legend in her own time. It was rumored that in her younger years she had been noted for her readiness to interrupt the most intense coupling in order to deal with any problem involving the ship.

Eye-bends-Left sat next to her on the high table. There were four tiers in all, arcs facing the main viewscreen, and most but not all the chairs were occupied. Eye was the
Sequencer
's Navigator, or more properly, the individual who monitored and took care of the computer which navigated the settlement ship. The presence of both Captain and Navigator suggested that this might be the meeting their lives had been pointing toward. It was no great surprise. The timetable was as much a part of everyone's life as eating and coupling.

And he'd almost slept through it.

Tell-no-Fury was not present, he saw as his gaze swept the ranked rows. All of his colleagues and most of his other superiors were, some forty in all. The youngest sat on the bottom row, their elders above according to age. All were freshly groomed. Scarves were twisted just so, earrings polished and gleaming. As he entered quickly he wished he could hide behind his own feet, which for a Quozl was not a physical impossibility.

A few faces turned in his direction, rapidly and politely looked away. Only Nose-sees-Carefully acknowledged his arrival, half raising her right ear in salutation. If observed by one of the Elders higher up the gesture would draw her a protocolic reprimand. Looks was grateful for the gesture and responded. They had never coupled and neither found the other particularly attractive, but they would have to find each other soon. Coupling to ensure compatibility was essential to any successful mutual enterprise, and they might find themselves working together.

Several of the Seniors were still taking their seats which meant that the meeting had not officially begun. Tell-no-Fury had warned him just in time. Stream-cuts-Through rose as he stumbled to his seat, trying to make himself as small as possible. Nose-sees-Carefully sat seven seats away from him, one row up. She did not look in his direction. He resolved to couple with her as soon as practical. Her gesture might have drawn the attention of disapproving Elders away from his ignoble entrance.

Had he arrived two moments later his disgrace would have been unavoidable. But if this was
the
meeting he was certain his tardiness would be overlooked.

Stream-cuts-Through's voice was high and strong despite her age. Since it would have been extremely impolite to stare at her while she was speaking, Looks kept his eyes on the viewscreen ahead. His posture was formal: ears erect and aimed forward, back straight, fur relaxed.

Her magnified image spoke to him from the screen. In ancient times a leader spoke to his or her audience from behind a translucent partition. Later it was done with mirrors. Now electronics placed the ritual respectful distance between speaker and attendees.

Her address was brief and to the point: Quozltime had finally come. Six generations of patience and hard work were about to be rewarded. Tomorrow at this time the
Sequencer
's drive would begin shutting down for the first time since their ancestors had left Quozlene orbit. She paused to let that thought simmer before continuing.

“Already we have entered the welcoming sunstorm of charge particles emanating from the star that warms our new home. Tomorrow we will return to normal space for the first time in six generations.”

There were no celebratory shouts and whistles and barks. No one rose to yell, no one made a sound. This was a moment for proper contemplation.

The Captain continued. The
Sequencer
appeared to have survived its long journey in excellent condition and was already being prepared for the final part of its mission.

She really was aging, Looks-at-Charts thought as he regarded her screen image. He wondered how long she would have following establishment of First Burrow to enjoy the new world.

Not that her presence would be necessary. Captains did not lead colonies. Captains guided ships through underspace. It would be up to the Landing Supervisor and the Council of Seven to administer the new social order. Stream-cuts-Through would be the last of her kind even as Looks-at-Charts would be the first of another. He sensed the passing of the spear, not so much from one generation to another as from Quozlene to a new world. Shiraz. It had been so named before the
Sequencer
's drive had been ignited.

“As you know,” she was saying, “it is not easy to do imaging of normal space when traveling in underspace. However,” both of her ears bent forward and kinked halfway to indicate good tidings, “our technicians have had little else to do in Imaging for some time now, and they have been bending all their energy to the task of securing at least one special image for us to view. They finalized this objective only a little while ago. It is something for all of us to enjoy, a destination that no longer need be represented by an abstract point on a floating chart.”

The viewscreen flickered and in place of the Captain was a world. Distant, heavily magnified, and computer-enhanced, but beautiful enough to take one's breath away. A world not unlike Quozlene itself, rich with bright color and cloud.

Politeness had its limits. As soon as the image appeared on the screen, several members of the audience could no longer restrain themselves. Whistles and hums of delight echoed through the chamber despite the frowns of some Seniors.

It was far away but at first sight was everything any colonist could hope for. Ample water and judging by the cloud formations, rain. That might mean trees, the soulmates of every Quozl. Not a nightmare desert world. Another Azel, perhaps, or Moszine.

The young Communicator on his right leaned over to whisper. “Look how little land, how much water!”