FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"Sir," came a rather canine, female voice over the intercom, "please enter this chamber and stand with your feet on the foot prints." "Life inspection?" the black bear moaned. "That's right, sir. Please enter the..." "I heard you the first time." Morris walked through a door that looked like it belonged to a bank vault. It closed behind him with a deep, bass thud. Another, similar door stood closed on the far side of the chamber. A pair of ominously red shoe tread symbols were painted on the bare, rock floor. Morris stood on them. "Please hold still, sir," came the dog's voice from above. "Inspection's a funny word for it," Morris growled. "I feel like the electrolyte in a big power capacitor." "That's a good comparison, sir. Please hold still." Around the black bear now there was a low whine. It rose rapidly in both pitch and volume. There was a snap and a feeling of energy passing through him, like an invisible wall of heat. It was uncomfortable, but quick. The big door on the far side opened. "You may leave the chamber now, sir." "Thanks," Morris grunted. Outside, a basset hound girl stood waiting. She aimed her handheld at his face. Morris let her scan his eyes. "Satisfied that I'm not a droid?" "Corporate AIs are dangerous, sir. They can be programmed to do anything and they're too fast for a real person to stop..." "Miz, I'm a Federal Express special courier. I know why corporate droids aren't allowed outside Earth orbit. I've gone through this before. Doesn't mean I have to like it. Okay?" The dog gave him an appraising look, then sighed. "You're quite right sir," she replied, levelly. "You don't have to like it. Do you have any weapons, unregistered biochemicals or genetic or cybernetic enhancements?" "No." "Any food other than what's in your manifest?" "No." "Welcome to Eichsfeldia Colony, Mr Jones. Please exit to the left to pick up your luggage. And please try not to inflict your bad temper on anybody else in the colony, sir, as there's a fifty beaver fine for ignoring emotional hygiene. Have a nice day, sir." "A fifty beaver fine for..." Morris stood for a moment, his mouth hanging open at the idea of emotional flatulence. The guard began to open her own mouth to explain. Morris waved her away and hurried towards the exit as fast as his sense of balance, still wobbly from hibernating through the trip from Earth to Eichsfeldia, would let him.

#

"I need a room and a secure, low-band channel to Earth, please," Morris told the hotel clerk, as he scanned his ID into the hotel register. "I expect to be here for two weeks."

"Sure!" the clerk replied. "The room will be three beavers per day. You can pay now or when you leave. For the channel, I'll need some kind of credit."

"American Express?"

The clerk blinked at him. Morris stared back.

"Seriously?"

"Worth a try. I have an account with Bachmann & Turner, an iron/carbon/water fund. Will that do?"

"Whoa, hang on! Who even offers credit cards out here? Who are you, mister?"

Morris sighed. "I'm just a Federal Express courier."

"Making a special delivery? To who?" (Morris glared .) "Come on, who's getting it?"

"That's private."

The clerk laughed and looked at his own register. "Mister... Jones, huh? Eichsfeldia is a pretty small town so far. Whoever's getting the package, I'll know pretty soon anyway. Just tell me." (Morris glared.) "You're not getting a room until..."

Morris leaned across the desk and roared, giving the clerk a good look at his teeth. The clerk leapt back, his eyes wide.

"Whoa! Mister, there's a fifty beaver fine for public displays of anger!"

"Now you look..."

"If you can't handle your own frustration over a little thing like this, what'll you do in an emergency? Not to mention, we're all armed up here..."

"I just got off a sleeper ship!" Morris yelled. "Where I hibernated for about twice as long as nature intended! I'm hungry! I'm half-asleep! I'm in a strange place and I'm feeling just a bit defensive! Now how about you give me a break?"

The clerk gave him an appraising look. "What would you have done if there was a hull breech on the way from Earth?"

"Hull breech! I... I was sleeping... I was in... The sleep tanks have their own pressure! The crew would never have woken me. They'd have done whatever was necessary and left me sleeping out of harm's way. More important, out of their way."

The clerk chuckled. "Two weeks?" he nodded. "Bachmann & Turner are good here."

#

"Morris Dancer to Blue Peter," Morris typed, "reporting from Eichsfeldia, reply please."

Morris took a concentrated meal bar from his trunk. He chewed on it and sipped a coffee as he waited by his tablet for the reply. Half an hour and two more meal bars later, it came.

"Peter to Morris, sorry for the delay, it's three in the morning."

Morris examined the reply. There was a tall-tale symbol beside it; a red Q with an exclamation point. The quantum check-sum was broken; somebody was tapping the channel.

"Many apologies," he typed. "This channel is not repeat not secure. Do you wish to proceed?"

"Proceed with your report. Federal Express has nothing to hide. You are four days late, what's the matter?"

"My trip was delayed at Phobos. Word reached Eichsfeldian authorities there were assassins aboard. All passengers had to be awoken and questioned under scan. One turned states evidence on the others and was granted asylum. The rest were killed humanely and frozen against a change in politics."

"Pity, but it couldn't be helped. Premature wakies must have been hard on your metabolism."

"My liver didn't thank me, but I'm okay. It was actually easier on passenger species that don't hibernate. The artificial organs in their tanks supported them better. Passengers whose cells lack receptors for artificial hormones and had to use medical stasis had it hardest. Woken from the dead, poor beggars! I'm jealous of one kangaroo, he's allergic to stasis, stood awake for the trip's whole period."

"Pray tell, what's this allergy? And how did he even get on a passenger ship? If he couldn't sleep through the trip, how did he manage?"

"Man's a genius! Medical stasis gas is sulphur based, right? He's allergic to sulphur compounds. He actually got permission to emigrate to escape pollution. But his cells are incompatible with the artificial hormones. Then he realized that the ship's crew don't hibernate. Went to school, got space hand's certification and worked his passage. Beggar got to Eichsfeldia with six month's pay!"

"Pure genius, he's a clever man."

"Man's an even bigger genius. If Eichsfeldia rejects him, he's still got spacer's papers."

"Putting that aside, has your delivery been made?"

"My bag is secure, but not yet opened. I have an appointment tomorrow to deliver the message pouch."

"Please advise when the delivery is complete. Will you be returning as planned, or is your return window not open any more?"

"Minimum energy return is not available until next year, but there's a high-energy ship waiting at Phobos for a priority shipment. I can arrange passage."

Morris fished a chocolate bar out of the trunk of food he'd brought. He followed it with a couple more as he waited the twenty six minutes it took for the round trip at light speed between Earth and the asteroid belt. Suddenly a reply came through... three seconds too soon! He checked the tell-tale; the red Q was flashing now beside the reply.

"Negative! It's an eight month trip, you'll only have twelve days to fatten up for hibernation. It's too hard on your body. Wait for the next Minimum Energy Return window."

Morris blinked. He re-read the message carefully. He and his contact on Earth had agreed to use Marco Polo verification; his messages started with an M word and ended with a P word, Peter's did the opposite. Not only had the reply been intercepted, it had been replaced. Clumsily!

"Morris Dancer to Blue Peter," he typed, "interference, re-send please." He turned on a music program for something to do while he waited. Once again the reply arrived three seconds sooner than it could have. Somebody's timer was off!

"Morris Dancer, your high-energy return plan is too dangerous to your health. Wait at Eichsfeldia for MER."

"Morris Dancer to Blue Peter," he typed, "interference, will proceed as planned. Over and out."

Morris closed the channel, glanced at his watch... it had gotten late... and turned down the covers on the bed. He had no way of knowing whether his contact back on Earth had actually received what he'd sent. It didn't really matter, he'd been expecting this.

#

The office into which Morris was conducted was plain and crowded with junk. Given that Dee, the rat girl who'd founded the colony, was an amateur engineer, this didn't surprise him much. There were several seats, but per company policy, he waited standing to be invited to take one. The lavender-fleeced, male sheep who'd led him in stood to one side, fiddling with a tablet. The door opened and a female rat entered. The lower half of her abdomen was encased in a mechanical 'taur body which walked with beautiful fluidity. Her modest breasts were covered by only a standard-type spacesuit bra. Morris couldn't help staring.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Dee said. "I'll be with you in a minute."

The rat-girl stepped carefully around piles of projects to a work bench. She took off one mechanical arm and replaced it with one that looked natural, then did the same with the other before lifting herself out of the 'taur body and onto a chair. She attached a pair of natural-looking legs to her hips before grabbing a camisole and a pair of panties and quickly slipping them on. She took a brush next and brushed fur over the joints. Morris caught himself staring and looked away as she dressed.

"I like to go formal when I meet Earth-siders," she said, as she strolled towards him. "It puts them more at ease. Have a chair," she added.

"Thank you."

"Baz, you ready?"

The sheep nodded and stepped outside.

Morris had positioned himself near a rather plain chair without arms that let his messenger bag hang at his side. Dee pulled a stool up in front of him and sat. She looked him straight in the eye. He felt like he was being scanned to his very skull by her gaze.

"Thank you for seeing me," he said, keeping his tone measured and plain. He reached into a pocket of his messenger bag and pressed his palm against the screen of his tablet. A second, larger pocket clicked and zipped itself open. He reached in and pulled out a sealed pouch. "I was told to place this directly into your hands," he added, offering it to Dee.

The rat girl made no motion to take it, however, just sat and keep gazing at him.

"What do you know about Eichsfeldia?" she asked.

Morris looked down at the pouch in his hand, back up at Dee and blinked. She didn't move and her gaze didn't waver. He cleared his throat.

"It's a canton of New Attica," he said, "aligned blue, although you personally started out white. It's one of the few physical cantons, necessarily because you're so far from Earth orbit. You're the chair of the current local council, known as the Bayesian Nakama, Bayesian because you base your decisions on the probability of a good outcome. But you personally are Bayesian in the sense of never telling a lie or breaking your word once you've given it, at least that's what they say; no offence, I just got here. You're signatories of the New Attican charter, but your local policies, well, I only had time to study the basics before they put me in hibernation. FedEx takes deliveries as the customer demands and this one was urgent. You're basically socialist; individual freedom, responsibility shared by society, organized partly by consensus, partly by your nakama, all supported somehow by your life support technology. I'm sorry, I didn't have time to study the details."

"That's an honest answer," Dee replied. "I respect that. Want to know the details?"

"Honestly, I'd rather just deliver this pouch and start getting ready to go home."

Dee smiled. "Baz, could you fix the lights, please," she said.

Morris glanced towards the door through which the sheep had left. Now he noticed that it had been open a crack, just as it shut completely. There was a whine and a feeling of heat moving through him, like the pulse of a life inspection scanner. A loud snap came from his messenger bag. Dee smirked at him.

"That should cut off Earth surveillance," she said. "It fried your tablet though, sorry. We can talk freely now."

Morris held up his hand. He crossed his fingers, then made a fist, then spread his fingers wide. Dee did the same, ending with a fist. Morris leaned forward, holding up his spread fingers. Dee bumped her fist into his open palm. Morris nodded.

"So what am I doing on Eichsfeldia?" he said,

Dee stood up. "Let me show you something," she replied, and walked towards the workbench.

Morris followed. Dee flicked a switch on a cable that was attached to a wire mesh box, touched a wire to it, then opened it.

"Faraday cage," Morris muttered.

"Very good," Dee replied. She took out a small, plastic box with a clear lid. Inside it was a dark grey rectangle mounted on some kind of plastic. "Recognize this?" (Morris shook his head.) "Not many people besides engineers and technicians see these on a regular basis. It's a CPU chip, an old Intel 8086, one of the first to go into an old desktop computer."

Morris took a moment to recall history. "That must have been twentieth century," he said.

"Good! Late twentieth century to be more specific, early nineteen eighties. I made it."

"Yeah?" Morris replied. When Dee didn't go on, he added. "And?"

"Think," Dee replied. "What does twentieth century mean?"

Morris stared at the antique microchip in thought. "...before the Blue Revolution..." He gasped. "Before ubiquitous surveillance..." he breathed.

"That's better," Dee replied. "We had to make a maker by hand that this chip could run. We used that to make a PowerPC 601 chip. At least we only had to hand-design the maker that it could run!"

"And another and another, each more sophisticated... Where are all these primitive chips and makers?"

"Oh, they're all around the office somewhere. Anyway, we used the PPC601 to make a Snapdragon S2 and so on. We've finally gotten as far as second generation neural-emulation chips now."

"Powerful enough to run a standard maker!" he exclaimed. "A maker... without surveillance..."

"More than that, they're powerful enough for a ship's systems, or a colony's. The chips you'll be taking back with you will have their own patterns embedded so you can use a modified maker to make more."

"My god, the end of surveillance! We could even make guns! Bullets!"

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I want you to take more than that back to New Attica. Okay, hand over your tablet."

"What? Why?"

"Because in about ten minutes, whatever is monitoring its surveillance signal is going to notice a six millisecond interruption that we couldn't help. By the time their reaction gets here, the tablet will need to be back online and ready to re-send the missing time."

Morris dug his tablet out of his messenger bag and handed it to Dee. She opened it deftly, then grabbed a soldering iron with a peculiar looking tip. In seconds she'd removed one chip and replaced it with one from the faraday cage. She swapped the iron for a probe and started testing the other circuits.

"Don't mind that I'm not looking at you," she said, as she worked. "I don't have much time. You described our colony as socialist. Is that what you think we are?"

"Well as I said, I didn't have time to study the details before I left Earth."

"Now you need to know them, so listen carefully. Every colonist who comes to Eichsfeldia gets a surveillance-free tablet and access to our local computing cloud. They also get a spacesuit and an LSU, a life support unit, which comes with a bolus of water, air and other stuff, plus a square metre of solar cells, enough to power it. They all belong to you and you can take them with you if you go somewhere, but they're usually hooked into the colony's central life support facility. Your LSU takes your waste products and turns it into all the water, air and food you need. If you want more than that, you can make it yourself or trade with another colonist. These three gifts come from our community bank of makers, we can make as many of them as we need for the cost of supplies and maintenance.

"In return we ask colonists for four things. First, to start with, we ask for a contribution to our central stock of supplies. Water or minerals are recommended. Second, once a year we ask each colonist to gather supplies from the belt or do some maintenance on the community systems. The cloud keeps a list of work that needs to be done and by when you need to do some of it. Third, everybody serves in the militia, organized or unorganized. There's training; drills too if you're in the organized group. Lastly, the rest of the time we ask all colonists to accomplish something. Write a book. Get some education. Make yourself healthier. Make somebody else healthier. Make a game. Find new knowledge. Do whatever you like, just don't waste your time.

"And that's how we live. We can do it because our technology is advanced enough to support it. The real difference between the oligarchy on Earth and Eichsfeldian socialism, if that's what they call it, is that we don't ask each other to earn what we can make for free. And if it's not free, we don't ask more than what it costs us. That means just about everything on Eichsfeldia is free, by the way, because makers can make nearly anything. Do you understand?"

"What about power?"

"Solar power cells. Once they're in place, they just need occasional maintenance, so power's free, too."

"How much work is that yearly maintenance requirement?"

"Not much. There are only a few things that robots can't do. For that matter, gathering supplies from the belt means taking a spacehopper to a remote station where you can direct some mining drones in real time. Five or six day's duty, then you take the spacehopper back to the colony along with the ore you gathered. And you go in a gang of four, so you're only working six hours a day. The rest of the time you're free to accomplish something."

"And this... scheme... system... it actually works?"

Dee snapped Morris's tablet back together. It immediately went into its start-up routine. "It has so far," she replied. "It's not perfect, but it's better than the oligarchy back on Earth!"

"And that's what you want me to take back to New Attica?"

Dee snorted. "They've known how we live since we started planning. I want you to take the truth about Eichsfeldia back to Earth. Along with copies of our surveillance-free CPUs."

Slowly, Morris rested his muzzle in one hand and held it. He sighed. "That's a tough order to fill," he said. "When I get back, there'll be cavity searches, full-body MRI scans, truth scans, probably even a mind scan for hidden information and brain washing before they'll let me cross the boarder." He looked up at Dee. "Do you have a plan?"

Dee smirked and shook her head at him. "You were doing so well, too. Give me the pouch now."

Morris blinked, startled by the reminder of his cover story. He passed the message pouch to Dee. She immediately ripped it open and pulled out a small marble disk. She held it up to him; "Morris" was carved into one side.

"Nice rock," she said, and offered it to him.

Morris blinked again, cocked his head, then looked down. For a moment he was very still. Then he reached, took the disk from Dee and stared at it. "That steal-the-rock game New Atticans play," he murmured. "So I'm not going home."

"Of course you are! Just not right away," she replied, "and certainly not through Customs And Immigration! Take the chips to the New Attica Self-Defense Force, intelligence bureau. They'll know what to do with them. You'll have to get word to your contact on Earth somehow."

"What word?"

"I don't know. NA-SDF are arranging the smuggling operations. The fewer people who know, the fewer who can tell! Do you have any spare pouches?"

"Always."

Morris took a new message pouch out of his messenger bag and handed it to Dee. She took several cases out of the faraday cage and stuffed them in, sealed the pouch, then handed it back to Morris, who put it into the main pocket of his messenger bag. Dee handed him his tablet; he stuffed that into its own pocket and his messenger bag sealed itself.

"Now," Dee said, "your tablet should be receiving that re-send command in a couple of minutes. When it does, we'll have to match our positions in the false images Baz has been sending instead. You've done pretty well with your lessons today, you've earned a reward."

"A what?"

Dee pulled off her camisole and bra. Smiling, she knelt in front of Morris. "Take off your pants," she said.

#

Morris counted letters, checked initials and adjusted his phrasing; his first send had to look natural even though his coded message was held in it. The oligarchy must not suspect it! C/Rs, 55 over 21 would mean he was bringing back a high priority package, coming through New Attican authorities, when to be determined. He crossed his fingers, opened the channel and sent his message.

"Morris Dancer calling Blue Peter. Reply soonest please."

Earth had moved in its orbit since yesterday, Eichsfeldia not as much; the delay due to light speed should be almost half a minute longer now. He leaned back and watched his own breathing, trying to relax. Ten minutes later, he gave up and tried to munch a high-calorie bar instead. He remembered Dee; the thought of his dick between her breasts came immediately. Her delighted giggle as his spunk matted the fur of her lower jaw... He pictured her gaze on him instead, that look that stripped him to his soul. Oh, she'd probably enjoyed their encounter, but it was business to her, impersonal, part of the path to her goal. He wondered, did she really care about anybody else? The New Atticans kept her at a distance and not just physically... There was a lot that he didn't know about her.

His tablet chimed. The reply had arrived. The Q beside it was green; the quantum check-sum was clean, nobody was spying. He counted letters...

"Peter here, go ahead, Morris."

...twenty nine of them, received and understood; H/ga, do whatever you were told locally.

"My package has been delivered, Peter."

He unzipped his pocket and took out the little, black marble disk. Whether he could hold onto it told the New Atticans in their Earth-orbittng habitats how good he was at keeping track of things that mattered, that kept him alive; how he reacted when somebody stole it told them what kind of person he was. Steal-the-rock; when would Dee try to steal it? Had she already stolen and returned it twice? He'd need to learn this game if he was to survive among the New Atticans until... who knew how long. Meanwhile. he'd need to get used to local cuisine... The tablet beeped! Twenty six and a half minutes already? He checked the time stamp; twenty seven and a quarter mninutes already! He was not doing a good job of keeping track!

"Perfect! There was interference at the end of our last conversation. Are you going to try for the high-energy return ship, or wait for MER?"

"Minimum Energy Return would be easier on my liver. Eichsfeldian authorities told me I'm allowed to wait here if I want to, but I'll be considered a colonist until I leave. I'm not sure I like that. What do you think, Peter?"

But he knew what Peter would say. He lay back and tried not to think. The tablet's beep woke him from a nap.

"Preferably you should survive the trip. FedEx will support your decision, Morris."

"My liver wins, then. I'd thought about setting up a temporary FedEx office for the six month wait, but there doesn't seem to be much call for courier service out here. Maybe I'll take up art, I used to like painting."

In fact, he rather liked the idea. Dee had made it clear that he'd have to spend six days collecting minerals in lieu of his contribution. Then he'd be expected to accomplish something, like any other colonist. He'd had art lessons in school, but never really worked at it. He tried to remember the feel and smell of the pigmented oils.

"Paint me a Picasso! Accounting will have a fit over your expense account. Can you get by on regular pay? I can try to get you more."

Oh oh! His own tablet could be set to defeat surveillance, but Peter's was wide open and subject to censorship. Telling his contact that he wouldn't have to pay for anything would introduce all the concepts that the oligarchy would not want their subjects to know about! How to tell him? He typed slowly, thinking as he went.

"Money won't be a problem. It's complicated, but I'll be living at Eichsfeldia's sufferance on a sort of pension."

Not really, but the censors would probably let it through. Where would he live, though? He'd already paid for two weeks at the hotel. After that he'd be at the remote station for six days, then... According to Dee, colonists got a tablet, a spacesuit and an LSU. But where did they stay? He opened a browser on his tablet and started looking things up. It turned out that they borrowed equipment and dug their own room, or suite of rooms as they saw fit, out of the carbonacious rock of the asteroid. He could start carving at a convenient spot in a corridor and hook into the service pipes that lined corridors or add a pressure lock and keep his LSU there to provide air pressure. He'd have to think about that. One thing was sure, by the time he got back to Earth, he'd know quite a lot about how a society worked without... everything!

His tablet pinged. It was too early for a reply from his contact. But this was an automated message from the hotel. "Just a reminder that your communication channel is still open. You have funds in reserve sufficient for another hour of service."

On its heels, right on time, came the next reply.

"Permission granted to be a leech on Eichsfeldian hospitality for half a year! We'll be taking it out of your vacation time, though. Just kidding. Remember FedEx policy on mixing in with the locals," (It was a simple enough rule; don't.) "Enjoy yourself, Morris."

"Morris Dancer to Blue Peter, this channel is going to expire soon, time for one last exchange. Please send any further instructions by regular email. I'll keep the lights on in case you need to chat. Wish me luck among the stars, I wish you the same planetside. Morris Dancer out."

Morris turned down the bed and crawled into it. This had been a long, long day and it was only the beginning of... What? The rest of his life! The phrase had never meant so much. He turned on some music and listened, trying not to nod off too quickly. At last the reply came.

"Peter to Morris, understood. Good luck, old bear, you'll be missed. Blue Peter out."

Morris closed the channel, stopped the music and turned out the light. The rest of his life was going to be an adventure. And somehow he just knew he was going to dream about Dee.

###

Copyright © 2013 by Allan D. Burrows, All Rights Reserved except that Dee, Baz, the Eichsfeldia colony, New Attica and everything to do with it are Copyright © 2013 Daniel Eliot Boese, All Rights Reserved or at his discretion

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