Fuzzy Nation

Chapter Fifteen

When his guests had left, Holloway reached over for his infopanel and punched up the feed from the security camera. If any of the three men who had been in the house had seen the camera, they didn’t note it, which was just as well since Holloway planned it that way. There was a reason he kept the hat on the camera stand.

For the first several minutes the video showed nothing but the skimmer with Joe DeLise in it, fiddling with the dash buttons and the key fob and generally looking bored. Holloway fast-forwarded through this and then slowed down the feed when something popped up on the hood of the skimmer. Holloway zoomed in; it was Pinto, the rambunctious fuzzy.

Pinto walked over to the windshield of the skimmer, clearly curious about the human inside. The human inside appeared to view the fuzzy sourly. Pinto pressed its little face against the glass to get a better look at DeLise. DeLise smacked the inside of the glass with his hand.

Pinto drew back, startled, but then seemed to realize that the human smacking the glass was not any sort of trouble for it. Pinto smooshed its face up to the glass again. DeLise smacked the glass again. This time Pinto didn’t move. DeLise smacked the glass a third time, and again. Holloway zoomed in on DeLise’s face; he was yelling. The skimmer was too far away to pick up the words, and the microphone had been muted in any event.

Holloway frowned at this. He’d had the security camera on DeLise, but having an audio record of what was said in the cabin would have been useful insurance. He must have accidentally hit the microphone’s mute button when he moved it to get a better angle on the outside. Nothing for it now.

Holloway zoomed out again to see Pinto, back away from the glass now, watching the yelling DeLise with interest, perhaps wondering why the human didn’t get out of the skimmer and try to catch it or hurt it. After a few minutes, after DeLise calmed down, the fuzzy moved up to the glass again. DeLise was resolutely ignoring the little creature.

Pinto turned around, squatted, and very deliberately rubbed its ass on the glass, right in front of DeLise’s face.

DeLise exploded into rage, leaning back into his seat to kick up at the windshield. Apparently only DeLise’s absolute certainty that Holloway would blow his head off with a shotgun kept him in the skimmer. Otherwise Pinto would have been dead meat at this point.

Holloway tracked back the video to watch this part again, a huge grin on his face.

Moving forward again, Pinto looked up, as if calling to someone or something. Sure enough, a minute later another fuzzy showed up on the hood of the skimmer: Grandpa. The two of them stood on the hood as if they were holding a conference on something, and then Pinto rubbed its butt on the windshield again, prompting another kick against the glass from DeLise.

Grandpa Fuzzy, clearly not impressed, whacked Pinto across the head and pulled the smaller fuzzy off the glass, then pushed it off the hood. Pinto took off for the nearest spikewood. Grandpa then turned and looked back at DeLise, walking up to the glass to do so. DeLise spat and fumed.

After several moments of this the fuzzy appeared to reach a decision, squatted, and rubbed its own ass against the glass. Then it slowly walked off the hood of the skimmer as if it were taking a Sunday stroll. Holloway laughed out loud, alarming Carl.

Holloway fast-forwarded past several minutes of DeLise doing nothing, then stopped again when the security guard’s three fellow travelers returned to the skimmer. At the sight of them, DeLise opened the front passenger door and risked taking a step out of the skimmer to stand up and start yelling at them as they approached. This was followed by a minute or two of DeLise gesticulating and pointing toward the spikewood Pinto and then Grandpa had climbed up when they departed. Aubrey and Landon briefly walked over to glance up at the spikewood, as if to look for the creatures. Then they returned to the skimmer and the vehicle lifted off, going out of frame several meters above Holloway’s platform.

Note to self: Give Pinto and Grandpa a beer the next time you see them, Holloway thought. He wouldn’t actually give them a beer; he tried giving a little to Papa and Mama Fuzzy once, just to see how they liked it, and they had both spit it out. Fuzzys liked water, preferably from the running faucet, which still fascinated them, and fruit juice. Every other liquid they gave a pass. But in this case, it would be the thought that counted. Anyone who didn’t like DeLise was all right by Holloway at this point, regardless of species.

Anyone, said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Isabel.

Holloway shook it off. Yes, anyone, but that didn’t mean the fuzzys were sentient. Carl was someone, too, but that didn’t make him the equivalent of a human. It was entirely possible to think of an animal as a someone—as a person—without attributing to them the sort of brainpower that accompanies actual sentience.

Holloway glanced down at his dog, splayed out on the floor. “Hey, Carl,” he said. Carl’s eyebrows perked up; well, one of them did, anyway, giving the animal a rather unintentionally sardonic look.

“Carl, speak!” Holloway said. Carl did nothing but look at Holloway. Holloway never taught him the “speak” trick. The idea of having a dog intentionally bark its head off for no particular reason never appealed to him.

“Good dog, Carl,” he said. “Way to not speak.” Carl snuffled noncommittally and then closed his eyes to get back to sleep.

Carl was a good dog and good company and not a sentient creature in any standard that would matter to the Colonial Authority. Neither were chimpanzees or dolphins or squids or floaters or blue dawgs or wetsels or punchfish or any other number of creatures who were clearly more clever than the average animal species and yet still not quite there. In over two hundred worlds explored, only two creatures matched up to human sentience: the Urai and Negad, both of whom shared enough common examples of big-brained activities that it would have been impossible not to ascribe them the sentience humans had.

Well, no, not impossible, some pedantic part of his brain reminded him. In both cases, there was a substantial minority of the exploration and exploitation industry community who argued against their sentience. Both Uraill and Nega (formerly Zara III and BlueSky VI) were rich enough in resources that it was worth their time to take a stab at it, particularly in the case of the Negad, whose civilization at time of contact was roughly equivalent to the hunter-gatherer tribes of the North American continent around 10,000 B.C. Pointing out to E & E lawyers that by their standards they would deny sentience to some of their direct ancestors didn’t seem to bother them any. Lawyers are trained to disregard such irrelevancies. The Negad didn’t read, didn’t have cities, and only arguably had agriculture. Three strikes and they were out, as far as the E & Es and their lawyers were concerned.

Holloway picked up his infopanel again and backed up the video feed once more to watch Pinto and Grandpa. If the E & Es would argue against the Negad, they would have a field day with the fuzzys. No cities, literacy, or agriculture here, either, as well as no language, no tools, no clothing, and apparently no social structure beyond the family unit—or something close enough to it given their weird unisexual biology that it was a distinction without difference.

It would be better for them not to be sentient, Holloway thought. Just because they were sentient wouldn’t be a guarantee they’d be recognized as such. Not when so many people had such a vested interest in them not being so. Better to be a monkey and not be able to understand what’s been taken from you, than to be a man and be able to understand all too well—and be helpless to stop it.

Carl scrambled up from the floor and headed to the cabin door, tail wagging. He poked his snout at the dog door, swinging it out slightly. It was caught by something, which held it open, and Carl backed away.

A second later the Fuzzy Family made its way through, back from whatever small, furry adventure they had been having with their day. Each of them greeted Carl with a pat or a rub, with the exception of Baby, who wrapped itself around Carl’s neck for a hug. Carl tolerated this well, and gave Baby a lick when it disentangled itself from him.

Papa Fuzzy walked over to Holloway and stared up at him in that way Holloway knew was the fuzzy telling him it required his assistance. Holloway, thus reminded of his role as fuzzy butler, grinned and followed the creature into the kitchen area, where Papa stopped at the cooler. Holloway, who knew the fuzzy was capable of opening the cooler if it chose, appreciated that it was asking permission. He opened the cooler.

“Well, go on,” Holloway said, motioning. The fuzzy dived in and a few seconds later hauled out the very last of the smoked turkey.

“I don’t think you want that,” Holloway said. “It’s on the verge of going bad.” He took the turkey from the fuzzy, fished out the last two remaining turkey pieces, and held them up for Carl, who was passionately interested. “Sit,” he said to Carl, who sat with an altogether enthusiastic thump. Holloway tossed the turkey to Carl, who snapped it out of the air and swallowed it in about a third of a second.

Papa watched this and then turned to Holloway and squeaked. Holloway assumed the squeak to mean I’m sorry, but I must kill you now.

Holloway held up his hand. “Wait,” he said, and went into the cooler, pulling out a second package. “My friend,” he said, holding out the package to the fuzzy, “I think it’s time to introduce you to a little something we humans call ‘bacon.’”

Papa looked at the package doubtfully.

“Trust me,” Holloway said. He closed the cooler and went looking for a frying pan.

Five minutes later, the smell of bacon had attracted all the Fuzzys and Carl, who stared up at the cabin’s tiny stove with rapt attention. At one point Pinto attempted to climb up to snatch some semi-cooked bacon out of the pan; it was pulled down by Mama and handed over to Grandpa, who smacked the younger fuzzy across the head. Head-smacking was apparently Grandpa’s major mode of communication with Pinto.

Soon enough, six strips of bacon were cooked and sufficiently cooled for consumption. Holloway handed each excited fuzzy a bacon strip and kept the last one for himself. Carl, sensing the abject injustice of a situation in which everyone had bacon but him, whined piteously.

“Next batch, buddy,” Holloway promised. He peeled off the next batch of strips and turned to place them into the pan. He turned around again to see how the Fuzzys were enjoying their cured, nitrated treat, and saw Papa Fuzzy holding out a piece of its bacon to a very attentive Carl. Papa squeaked. Carl sat. Holloway smiled at the fact that Papa Fuzzy was trying to copy what he’d done with the turkey.

Papa opened its mouth again. Carl instantly lay down. Papa opened its mouth a third time and Carl rolled onto his back, tongue lolling out. Papa tossed the bacon piece to Carl, who gobbled it up greedily. Then it continued to enjoy the rest of its treat.

A spatter of bacon grease on Holloway’s arm brought his attention back to the fact that he was still actually cooking food. He finished up the second round of bacon, distributing it equally among the Fuzzys and Carl, each of whom was delighted at the second serving; bacon had now clearly replaced smoked turkey as the king of all meats, at least for the Fuzzys. Holloway put the rest of the uncooked bacon into the cooler, cleaned and stowed the pan, and then walked back over to his desk and picked up his infopanel.

When Isabel departed, she had left Holloway a set of her videos and notes concerning the fuzzys, partly as a courtesy and partly for archival purposes. If anything happened to her set of data, his set would probably still be fine. Holloway accessed the data now, calling up video files in particular. He fiddled with them, changing some of the presentation parameters.

He did this for the next several hours.