Quozl (4 page)

“No, there's plenty of land,” countered Looks-at-Charts, disagreeing.

“I know what you are all thinking.” The Captain gestured with an ear and the image flickered anew. “This is a view of the other hemisphere.”

A few sharp whistles sounded and someone was discourteous enough to blurt aloud, “It's worse than the other! It's
all
water!”

The view of the first hemisphere returned. Given the extraordinary circumstances of the meeting, the interlocutor was not chastised. “Certainly Shiraz possesses more water than any world thus far encountered, but there is ample land for settlement. Preliminary calculations indicate that Shiraz will support a population of many billions if carefully developed, though we cannot tell precisely since we as yet have no way of judging such matters as the fertility of the oceans or the land, or even the exact composition of the atmosphere. That will have to wait for orbital measurements to be taken and for the first ground surveys to be completed.” Looks felt the slightest of pressures on the back of his neck but didn't dare turn around to see if the Captain was staring in his direction. To make eye contact now with one's superior would constitute an unforgivable breach of courtesy.

One of the senior administrators seated on the top tier let out a sigh. “At least it's there.” Those around him whispered similar sentiments.

“Having taken up entirely too much time,” the Captain declared, “I turn your ears now to your Landing Supervisor.”

She sat down and the Quozl next to her rose, his image occupying only the upper left-hand corner of the big screen. Lifts-with-Shout was so anxious to speak that he stood before the Captain had completely resumed her seat. No one remarked on the discourtesy because they were all dying to hear him.

One of the fifth generation, he was also one of the strongest Quozl on the ship, much more squat and powerful than the average adult. The deviation from the physical norm was unusual, but then so was everything else about Lifts-with-Shout. Unlike his collegues, he had little time for ritual, meditation, or casual conversation. Only his remarkable mind had enabled him to overcome these deficiencies and reach his exalted position. For Lifts-with-Shout could organize anything, and above all a Landing Supervisor had to be able to organize.

It was whispered behind his back that he was a throwback. Jokes about his lack of social skills and grace were common. But even his most ardent detractors had to admit that he knew his work.

Looks-at-Charts paid close attention to everything the Landing Supervisor was saying, putting all thoughts of pleasure, meditation, or recreation out of his mind. It was time to be serious, and Lifts-with-Shout was all that, scarcely pausing long enough to apologize for the poor quality of the imaging and his own feeble skills.

He spewed a stream of information about Shiraz, using the image of the new world to show them principle features. Particular attention was paid to two large land masses joined by a narrow mountain range. They would scan these last. The main land mass would be their first choice for a Burrow, since it offered the greatest opportunities for rapid expansion of population.

Looks listened and filed everything the Landing Supervisor said away for future study. By the time they entered Shiraz orbit he would have memorized every word and gesture, having studied the recording of this meeting over and over.

When Lifts-with-Shout concluded he crossed both ears to indicate his satisfaction, thanked them for their attention to his wholly inadequate speech, and passed domination back to the Captain. Stream-cuts-Through rose a second time.

“The work of many fingers is about to come to fruition. The Akora sapling begins to put out first branches. Our roots are strong and go deep and the grain of our determination is hard and unbroken. This is a moment of great significance for all Quozl. I am told by Eye-bends-Left,” and she gestured at the Navigator seated on her right, “that all preparations for re-emergence into normal space are progressing properly.

“Tomorrow we will break back into the real universe. Those of you who are section supervisors must prepare your populations for this. Our journey has been more tedious than dangerous, but this is one of the few maneuvers the
Sequencer
must perform that is potentially fatal. It will all be over quickly one way or the other.”

At least there'll be some excitement around here for a change, Looks mused. Breaking from underspace into normal space was a complex operation, sure, but the Captain was deliberately overemphasizing the danger. That was part of her job. The thought that something could go wrong was of more significance than the expectation that something likely would.

When she had concluded, the ship's senior philosopher rose to call for a full moment of meditation, charging everyone in the chamber to clear their minds and spirits for the task ahead. Looks-at-Charts participated as fully as everyone else. It was not necessary for the meeting to be formally dismissed.

The presentation had gone on longer than he'd expected and he felt the familiar stirring in his loins. After coupling he intended to return to his room to commit Lifts-with-Shout's dissertation to memory and to drink in the image of his new home.

He and Burden-carries-Far were out in the corridor when they found themselves confronted by the Landing Supervisor. It was hard to believe when looking at him that he'd never set foot on any world, had never walked a surface made of something other than plastic or metal or ceramic. It was vitally important that Lifts-with-Shout
looked
competent.

“It's been decided,” he said in his familiar brusque manner. “You two will take the first survey ship down.”

Looks-at-Charts had expected as much but it was exhilarating to have it officially confirmed. The only surprise was that Burden-carries-Far was to accompany him. He'd thought his friend and colleague would command a second vessel. Obviously it had been decided to put as much talent as possible on the initial survey.

Looks was glad of the decision. Burden would be good company to share the great responsibility with. They had competed in study but never personally, had participated in multiple couplings together. Burden-carries-Far had jet-black fur except for white patches around his face and wrists. Members of the opposite sex found him especially attractive.

“I wish I could go with you,” the Landing Supervisor was saying in an uncharacteristically soft voice, “but the initial survey is only a small part of landing preparation. The
Sequencer
must be made ready, not to mention her population. So I must remain here, though I will travel with you spiritually if not in person. I will know your work as well as you do, so see to it that you miss nothing and apply all your learning. I will be available to advise and to make the important decisions. You will have all the glory and none of the stress.” Both scouts executed their most deferential and apologetic gestures.

“We know nothing of actual conditions on Shiraz?” inquired Burden-carries-Far.

“Impossible to tell from underspace. One prays for a world like Azel. You two will be among the first to know for certain. If Shiraz should be more like Mazna we will cope as best we can.”

“What are your thoughts?” Looks-at-Charts asked his friend after the Supervisor had left them.

Burden-carries-Far inhaled deeply. “I think we have not enough information about which to wonder, and that I am ready for a coupling.”

Looks was more than ready to go along with that.

They retired to a public assignation chamber for that purpose. Burden had chosen one decorated to resemble a Fifteenth Dynasty pleasure burrow. The effect was sybaritic, accomplished through skillful use of lights and artwork. Privacy coves were as abundant as the alveoli in a healthy Haghwick's lung. Not that privacy was necessary for coupling, but occasionally one liked to try something that might not work. A failure in public could be embarrassing, while in private it was likely to be ignored.

They encountered a pair of prowling computer technicians and after the formal, traditional exchange of greetings and commentary, plunged into a satisfactorily orgasmic quaternary that was better than anticipated because of everyone's heightened sense of tension and expectation.

When it was over and farewells had been executed, the two scouts left together. They joked about fighting to see who would be the first to actually set foot on the surface of Shiraz. Their competition was friendly and confined to words and gestures. Neither wanted to risk loss of face by initiating an actual combat dance. Looks-at-Charts tried several times to defer to his companion but the sly Burden would have none of it, knowing that if he accepted such offerings he would lose status.

The battle might not be to see who first set foot on Shirazian soil but who could succeed on staying inside, in which case they might both lose out to some thoughtless botanist or crew member who'd trip and fall headfirst onto the soil of their new home. It was not an impossible scenario. He and Burden would have to talk this over between themselves lest in their desire to act appropriately and without loss of status they fail in their primary objectives.

You could feel the heightened sense of anticipation everywhere. Everyone knew they were about to emerge from underspace. Everyone knew that Shiraz was, astronomically speaking, now little more than a falling branch away. Since Engineering and Navigation were the only sections fully engaged, the rest of the colonists were overflowing with nervous energy. Coupling proceeded at a frenzied rate, to the point where the Captain had to go on the
Sequencer
's communications network to call for restraint lest secondary tasks be seriously neglected.

Or as she put it, “You must control your internal drives if the rest of us are to efficiently manage that of the ship.”

Her sense of humor went a long way toward relaxing the most nervous among the crew. By the time Engineering actually commenced its countdown the atmosphere aboard had mellowed from the orgiastic to the merely anxious.

No one knew what it would feel like to return to normal space. They could only refer to the texts and try to imagine. And when it finally took place it did so in a Fashion that, as so often happens with events anxiously anticipated, was greatly anticlimactic.

Looks-at-Charts was walking toward the center recreation center when it happened. As the final countdown issued from the wall speakers he paused for a deep breath. When it was done he felt no different. The interior of the
Sequencer
and his fellow Quozl looked no different. It was the universe that had changed. Once more he was part of real time, real space. There was that knowledge. That and the fact that somewhere before them, very near now, lay their new home. Shiraz. An entire world instead of a metal droplet floating through emptiness. They would make it Quozl.

Someday his children's children would refurbish the
Sequencer
or build another ship like her and return to ancient Quozlene to proclaim their success. The new generation would meditate at the place of Elders. Looks-at-Charts would not be among them. He would be one of those they would meditate upon. In addition to the more mundane elements necessary to the establishment of a new colony the
Sequencer
also carried with it a sense of history and of destiny.

Now that the transition back to normal space had been accomplished, the recreation center was filling up rapidly. There was no coupling taking place here. This was not a designated area. Instead it was a place to come to view entertainment portrayed on oversized viewers, to listen to localized music which changed as you strolled from one acoustic bubble to the next, to study art traditional and modern, and to invest your skill in a game or two. A great place to relax and meet other members of the colonial team.

The psychologists insisted on this. It was vital, they insisted, that a ship's complement not become socially stratified. That engineers mix with ergonomists. The ship's engines weren't all that had to be kept operating in tandem.

Looks thought he saw High-red-Chanter off in the distance manipulating a triple whirl. The globular machine spun and dipped like a drunken gyroscope as the two riders strove for position. You won by obtaining a predetermined tactical position—and by not throwing up.

As he moved deeper into the complex he spotted Flies-by-Tail chatting with two other females. There was a good chance she would be the one chosen to pilot the initial survey vessel. As she turned, her gaze settled on him and her ears danced eloquently. His first though was to invite her to the nearest coupling chamber, but now was not the best time. He meditated briefly, forcing down the familiar feelings. Perhaps on the surface of Shiraz, he mused. That would be another footnote for the history texts.

They greeted one another politely and she ordered cool refreshments from one of the ubiquitous service machines. The acoustic bubble she'd chosen was mid-level traditional mixed with a few unobtrusive electronics. Soothing but not stupefying. Around them Quozl burned off excessive energy. There was plenty to burn in the excitement of having returned to normal space.

“I saw the imaging,” she said softly. “It looks to be a pretty place.”

“Shiraaazzz.” He stretched the concluding whistle, sipped from a long twisted drinking tube. “Hopefully it will live up to its name. If not we will tame it.”

“Confidence in a scout is invaluable. Overconfidence can be dangerous.”

“Isn't it the same with a pilot? I'm never overconfident.”

“Never? In nothing you do?” Her ears curved in amusement and he read the hidden meaning. He was as adept as any mature Quozl at detecting the standard double entendres.

“In nothing I do. I know what I'm capable of. A scout has no time for overconfidence, only assurance. When to move ahead, when to retreat.”

“Advance and retreat, yes.”

Blessings on this pilot, he mused. They thought alike. Yet strangely enough at that moment he wanted only to talk and relax. Nonetheless, he could not keep himself from eyeing with approval the delicate whorls and designs shaved into her golden brown fur. White streaks ran from her nostrils across her face and down to disappear beneath the top of her jumpsuit. It was a wonder, he knew, that given their unrelenting urges the Quozl had managed to raise any kind of civilization at all.