Quozl (2 page)

“It pains me deeply to interrupt your progress in this manner, but there is a small insignificant matter that requires mutual attention.”

“It's no bother at all,” Looks-at-Charts replied appropriately. “I am only sorry you find it necessary to waste your valuable time on unworthy communication. A brief note to my room would surely have sufficed.”

“Electronic communication lacks eloquence.” High-red-Chanter shifted nervously from one huge foot to the other. “Though I likewise regret the loss of time, I find it unavoidable.”

“Since you have taken the time to interrupt your important schedule, the least I can do is pause to listen.” Looks-at-Charts promptly assumed combat position, selecting the Aki stance, ears swept safely back behind the head and down, one arm tucked back and ready to block, the other held forward in preparation for striking. His knees were bent and his toes raised, ready to kick.

High-red-Chanter chose the Omo bracket, both arms held parallel to each other and the floor. It was less traditional, more daring. Other members of the crew swerved around them, chatting among themselves and ignoring the two potential combatants.

Looks-at-Charts suffered some embarrassment because of their exposed position in the middle of the walkway. High-red-Chanter should have confronted him in the park courtyard or off to one side. Now neither could leave until the confrontation ended.

Wasting no time, he took one step and brought his right leg up in a formal opening kick. It was delivered with precision, stopping a thumb's length from High-red-Chanter's stomach. The musician brought his left arm down to block the kick. Foot brushed stomach and forearm grazed leg. Both Quozl assumed new stances, the initial exchange having been properly met.

Looks-at-Charts had a pretty good idea what this was all about. Simply because every nonmated male on the ship was available to every nonmated female and vice versa did not mean there was no such thing as jealousy among shipmates. There was one lustrous-furred supple young thing who worked in Agriculture who had attracted more than passing attention from both kicking, punching Quozl. Her name was Tie-grow-Green and though she tried, she could not dispel the animosity that seemed to erupt of its own accord between scout and musician whenever she was discussed.

Frankly Looks-at-Charts was surprised that High-red-Chanter hadn't tried to force the issue before now. The musician was notoriously nervous and unreasonable. Looks-at-Charts drew inspiration from the unsurpassed sculpted tree that dominated the gathering area. He would not back down. There was principle at stake here. He struck with a clenched fist.

“I'll see your genitals broiled!” the musician snarled as he leaped and twisted. Looks-at-Charts could have brought his fist up hard but naturally did not. His fingers extended to flick the lowermost edge of High-red-Chanter's jumpsuit just as his opponent spun to bring the outside part of his foot around in a scything arc. The ship sandal kissed the shaven circle on Looks-at-Charts's left cheek.

High-red-Chanter was good, Looks had to admit as he changed position once again. The fight continued, the two Quozl circling and feinting and striking. The conversation was as important as the blows they threw. Passing crew avoided them. Rarely were any rude enough to stare. Neither of the combatants paid them the least attention.

Looks-at-Charts drew his inspiration from the wooden cascade of mutilated and eviscerated figures that dominated the great wooden artifact nearby, sought strength in the frozen waterfalls of blood so lovingly rendered from the soul of the tree. High-red-Chanter sang to himself, martial music both ancient and new. Looks-at-Charts recognized much of it. He appreciated fine art and High-red-Chanter was one of the most accomplished young musicians on the ship. Looks had often admired his work.

He was not as enamored of Tie-grow-Green as the musician was, but a challenge once issued could not be ignored. If he'd walked away in front of witnesses his status would have suffered. A scout wasn't supposed to walk away from anything. Lose that and the next female might not be so interested in coupling. His frequency of intercourse might fall from a normal, healthy four or five times a day to one or two. Eventually that would impact on his work performance. He had no choice but to accept High-red-Chanter's invitation.

Because of his scout training, Looks-at-Charts enjoyed advantages in skill and strength, though High-red-Chanter was more flexible in his movements. As was to be expected from an artist his language was also more elaborate. Looks appreciated the beauty of it even as he struggled to parry and thrust. Not that he was unskilled in the use of the spoken insult himself, but he spent so much time preparing for the day that might not come that his social skills suffered from neglect. His nouns were rusty and his tenses loose. High-red-Chanter scored repeatedly and Looks immediately realized that if he was going to emerge victorious from this contest it would have to be on the physical level.

So evenly matched were they that the contest might have continued until both withdrew from exhaustion, until High-red-Chanter risked a difficult double kick and flip maneuver. It was harder than stringing together adjectives to form a spear of vituperation. The complex leap should have been attempted only by an expert in the form. While willing, High was no specialist.

Even as he ducked to avoid the blow, Looks-at-Charts admired the determination which had driven the musician to try it in the restrictive confines of a ship's corridor. High executed the flip and double kick impressively, but it took all he had simply to accomplish the move. At the end he didn't have enough to exercise proper control. The claw on his seventh and outside big toe skimmed Looks-at-Charts's left arm, which was held in the correct defensive position. Unable to manage the swing, High-red-Chanter could not stop himself from breaking the skin of his opponent, slicing through the dark fur.

Looks-at-Charts did not blink, did not wince. He saw the bright red blood foaming up through the bristles. A red mist formed over his eyes, indicating the onset of the fury which every Quozl is taught from birth to deny. He forced himself to recite the first line of the ancient First Book of the Samizene. Peace returned to blanket his emotions, the mist faded, the ages receded.

Landing on both feet and stumbling only slightly, the musician assumed a stance preparatory to throwing a choke hold. “The veins in your throat will grow stiff as the branches of a Samum, your blood will become as water.…”

He stopped as he watched blood run down his opponent's arm. Looks-at-Charts adopted a defensive posture even as he quickly raised a scarf to try and hide the wound. He was too late. High-red-Chanter had seen the blood. His expression tensed, lips held firmly shut over clenched teeth, then assumed a submissive position: head bowed, ears front and down, elbows out, and all fourteen fingers interlocked to show contrition. He was barely able to control the anger in his voice.

“I have drawn blood and broken flesh. I stand ashamed before you.” He knelt on one knee, resting his backside on the protruding heel of a long foot. “Defeat comes to me like a bad dream in the night.”

Having won, Looks-at-Charts felt terrible. “I rain apologies on you for this accident.” Because of the embarrassment he knew that High-red-Chanter would be impossible to interact with for days to come.

Looks-at-Charts's apology would only make it worse for the musician, but there was no other way to handle it. His clumsiness had cost him and he would have to live with that.

“This is not over,” High-red-Chanter mumbled. “I will challenge you for her again.”

“It was nothing of importance. You magnify everything. And you were winning. I wish it could have been otherwise.”

“No, the miss was mine, as was the challenge.” The musician rose, having held the submissive position just long enough. He was unable to meet his opponent's gaze. “I was not skilled in that maneuver and should not have tried it. I let my ambition and anger get the better of me. That will not happen again.”

“Yes, another time things may go differently.” While Looks-at-Charts's voice was full of sympathy, his stance indicated his true feelings.

“It is thoughtful of you to say so.” Anger burning within, High-red-Chanter spun and stomped off into the recreation area.

Looks-at-Charts waited until his rival had been swallowed by the crowd, then resumed his walk forward. It was fortunate that the musician had drawn blood because on the verbal level, at least, he had been winning handily.

Hundreds of years ago there would have been no attempt to score status with a near miss, a passing strike. Then each blow would have landed and more than blood would have been drawn. Eyes would have been gouged, genitals crushed, bones broken. That was the old way of the Quozl, the way of the ancients. The way depicted in so much Quozl art. It had been the only way of coping with the phenomenal Quozl fecundity. Nature had tried disease and famine but in the end it was the Quozl themselves who were the only ones able to limit their population. They had chosen war. Centuries of it.

Then had come artificial methods of birth control, and the Books of the Samizene to show the Quozl a new way, and the teachings of Over-be-Around and the great philosophers.

You could still fight, but combat became a ritualized art form instead of organized murder. You won by almost disabling, almost killing, almost cutting. To actually make contact more than fur-deep was to lose, both in status and in the fight itself. Hence High-red-Chanter's embarrassment at having drawn blood.

A poor fighter might try to win by deliberately courting contact, but a skilled opponent could always dodge and adjust. Fighting became a matter of control. It was necessary therapy for the calmest Quozl. One could draw solace from the violence that flowed through most Quozl art. All the old, dangerous, primitive tendencies had been subliminated. What could be studied did not have to be acted out, what could be seen did not have to be repeated.

Such fight-dancing was frequent. Had it been otherwise the ship's psychologists would have become concerned.

One simultaneously fought with words. That had been High-red-Chanter's strength and Looks-at-Charts's weakness. He had fought back as best he could, however, confident that the emotional musician would eventually make a mistake. Which was exactly what had happened.

Be not too proud, he told himself. His special training had stood him in good stead, but he had not received it to gain status among his peers. Fill a pouch too full and it will burst. He had learned more control than most Quozl because one day he might have to demonstrate that control under unimaginable circumstances.

He turned up the corridor that would eventually lead him back to his room, wondering whether to look for a coupling or simply some rest. The two techs from Agriculture had given him good and he wouldn't be ready to go again until he'd had something to eat. Proof arrived in the shape of an attractive colonial with black fur and yellow eyes whom he deliberately avoided. Fuel first. The fight had taken a lot out of him.

He considered watching a viewplay, perhaps an amusement or something similar requiring little mental effort. He could study the Samizene or simply sleep awhile. As a scout there was little for him to do except study.

Soon it would be different, he told himself. It was all but assured. What was hard to do was to maintain the proper air of indifference, to show control when sheer anticipation threatened to put you in the infirmary from exhaustion.

He was quite at peace with himself as he entered his residence, though he still felt some regret at the manner in which High-red-Chanter had lost the fight. Sprawling on the bed-lounge he idly called up recent work on his viewer. They were too familiar to him by now to hold his interest. He'd memorized them years ago: theoretical geography, adaptive botany, field survival, and basic surveying, all information based on facts provided by the citizens of the three worlds the Quozl had first settled. Many settlement ships had been sent out since, but thus far only the inhabitants of Azel, Mazna, and Moszine had progressed far enough to build ships capable of making the return journey to Quozlene.

As he scanned the statistics he was as amazed as ever at the variations that could exist within a single star system. A scout had to be ready to deal with all of them in addition to the unexpected. Three worlds plus Quozlene itself did not seem sufficient background to draw upon. There would be surprises. There could not be too much preparation. He and his colleagues Flies-by-Tail and Breeds-cloud-Out had committed everything available to memory.

The device could also synthesize scenarios by extrapolating upon known facts. For example, it could assume slightly less oxygen and more methane in an atmosphere and postulate the resultant vegetation accordingly. Such syntheses were amusing but insufficient. A mockup by its very nature must ignore certain important factors.

Such ignorance caused Looks-at-Charts to feel the weight of responsibility more than ever. It was going to be up to him and his associates to help decide where the
Sequencer
should land, where the colony would try to establish itself on the new world. Someone had to be first. Not that he wanted it any other way. In temperament and intelligence he was perfectly suited to the task he'd chosen and for which he'd studied so hard. His whole life had been aimed toward the moment that was fast approaching.

Stares-down-Canyons had died a cycle ago without having the chance to fulfill his dream. He had been fifth generation and Looks-at-Charts's mentor, drilling him in his studies while knowing all the while that unless the original calculations proved wrong he would never set foot on the new world, never have the chance to exercise the skills he had mastered. His patience and good humor had made the impossible seem attainable to the young Looks.

Stares should be here, Looks-at-Charts thought sadly. Not I. He recited several phrases from the Fifth Book which dealt with feelings of inadequacy and immediately felt better.