A Matter of Survival
A modern Spontoon Island story
© 2022 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  RockBaker

Nine.


The next morning, Twyford sat at his desk and watched while Stagg read through the transcription of the whitetail buck’s notes. Both lawyers had a cup of coffee near at paw, but the Spontoonie had only taken a few sips while reading. Twyford had nearly finished his.

The feline-cervine hybrid had turned out to be a little shorter and with a much more athletic build than the buck. Probably the benefit of his bloodline and his youth; Twyford was over fifty and starting to show some spread around his middle.

Stagg finally closed the folder and placed the notes on the desk, and as he picked up his coffee he said in a businesslike tone, “Good interview.”

“Jack stayed late to get the notes typed up.”

“I’ll be sure to thank him,” and the hybrid cheetah smiled. “So, what’s the next step?”

Twyford smiled. “I submitted two motions to the judge in the case, one to get you signed on as an adviser,” and Stagg nodded, “and the other to throw out the images found on Wu’s laptop.” A feline eyebrow went up, and the whitetail deer added, “They didn’t have a warrant.”

“Ah. Tsk,” Stagg said. “Overzealous police.”

“Any experience with them over on Spontoon?”

A spotted paw rose and waggled side to side. “One or two, but the Constabulary and the Althing have managed to keep them on their best behavior. We can’t have a constable rousting a drunken tourist during Speed Week. It’s simply not done.” A finger touched his chin and he smiled as he said, “So, um, are you going to ask?”

Twyford gave a soft laugh and sat back, his coffee in his paws. “I admit it had occurred to me.”

“Okay.” Stagg finished his coffee and set the cup aside. “My great-grandfather was a whitetail from New Haven – an ex-pat, not Red Fist, and he married a nice cheetah from Philadelphia.”

The buck raised an eyebrow as his ears flattened. “That’s unusual, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“No offense taken. I used to get asked about it a lot, and the traits seem to show up to some degree or other.”

“You trim your antlers?”

Stagg nodded. “Used to trim them when I was younger, and got in the habit of doing it.” He chuckled. “Too much weight high over your board practically guarantees a crack-up.”

“’Board?’” Twyford asked.

Stagg grinned. “Well, after I graduated high school, Mother and Father wanted me to go to university. Sort of a tradition for us kids to go to college, and then law school or something. My sister’s up in Seathl; she’s an oncologist.” He stood up and crossed to the coffee maker, poured himself a second cup, and held up the carafe. “Refill?”

The buck shook his head. “So,” he said as Stagg returned to his seat, “you didn’t go to college?”

“Oh, not at first. Wanted to burn off some energy and get it out of my system, so I started surfing professionally. Did the circuit, participated in the Quadrathlon a couple years in a row, and finally enrolled up at North Pacific.”

“But you still BASE jumped?”

A deep chuckle. “I think I’m responsible for Mother’s gray headfur. Father paid to have a friend of mine tag along to help keep me out of trouble. I jumped off the Petronas Tower in Kuala Lumpur one year, and we barely made it out of the country before the police caught up with us.”

“Heh. So, do the,” and Twyford waved a paw to take in Stagg’s hooves and antlers, “do those cause you any trouble in court?”

“Not in Spontoon,” Stagg replied. “My family’s been there for eighty-odd years. Father pleaded cases before the court for a few years before switching to environmental practice.” He sipped his coffee. “I hope you don’t mind me being forward, but your turn.”

“My - ? Oh. Yeah, the third antler. That’s a little bit of a story. Ever hear of a place called Woodstock?” Twyford asked.

Stagg thought for a moment, his ears flicking. “A concert, was it?”

Twyford nodded. “Back east, in nineteen sixty-nine. My parents met there. Nine months later,” and he smiled good-humoredly, “I came along. They named me Kent for the massacre that happened about the time I was born.”

Stagg promised himself that he would run an internet search on this ‘massacre’ later. “And the – “ and he pointed at his own head.

“Mom and Dad used to joke that they did acid at Woodstock,” Twyford chuckled, “but later I found out that it happens. Rare, but it happens.”

Stagg nodded, drinking the rest of his coffee. “When do we talk to the judge?”

“I – we - have an appointment to meet with the judge at one o’clock.”

“What do you think of our chances?”

Twyford grimaced. “Hard to tell. Charges like this have a lot of weight here nowadays.”


***


The Swiss-built private jet had been in the air for hours when Ni Lu felt it begin descending. The red panda glanced out the window, saw the vaguely pork chop-shaped island in the distance and relaxed. The only people aboard other than himself were the pilots and one steward, and they knew what to do.

They were also trusted employees.

More than a century after its founding during the Gunboat Wars, Krupmark Island was still a criminal haven run by a small syndicate of very powerful and wealthy furs. Approach to the place was tightly controlled with the latest in antiaircraft missiles and artillery, and anyone approaching the island from the air without the proper recognition codes was liable to be shot at.

Seaborne approach required much the same set of signals, and those ships that didn’t identify themselves properly tended to disappear without a trace. Carefully-fostered rumors and stories held that Krupmark had a mutual defense pact with the inhabitants of Cranium Island, and while most people pooh-poohed the stories of mad scientists and unnatural horrors, both Cranium and Krupmark were marked in red on every map.

Despite all this, Krupmark was still a primary nexus and transfer point for illicit trafficking in drugs, weapons, people and other commodities. The port at Smuggler’s Cove in the southern part of the island was thriving.

Amazingly, the clique decided to open the island to tourists before Lu had been born, setting aside part of the original settlement as the ‘Fort Bob Historic District.’ It was accessible by boat or seaplane only from Mildendo Island, and the admission prices kept all but the wealthiest Speed Week visitors away. There were a few casinos, carefully-maintained reproductions of the original town’s buildings, and even re-enactments of the Trolley Wars. Armored streetcars were still employed on the two trolley lines, and tourists were encouraged to ride along (and even participate) when the trolley crews started shooting at each other.

Blank ammunition, of course. It was all carefully sanitized, and accounted for only a small portion of the money that flowed into the island.

The jet dipped below radar altitude, rose, dipped, and began broadcasting a certain transponder signal before turning toward the island’s main runway, hooking south over the forest before turning north and descending to land.

Lu wondered at times what his forebears would have thought of the place if they could see it now.

One of the Family’s agents was waiting beside a mid-sized American SUV, with three well-armed furs at guard positions around the vehicle. Modern Krupmark may have been, but it was still a violent place.

“Mike,” Lu said as he shook paws with the well-muscled cougar. “How are things going?”

The Family’s current chief factotum, wanted on several Federal warrants in the United States for kidnapping, murder and wire fraud, smiled as he, Lu and the guards piled into the SUV and started off down the road that ran beside the new light rail tracks.

Once the vehicle was moving the cougar said, “Things are going well. The Casino is showing a profit, and Xia authorized me to give out bonuses to the girls.”

“Good.”

“Anything going on that I should know about?” the cougar asked as they drove past the Krupmark Country Club and its attendant golf course. It was the only neutral ground on the island, apart from safe zones around the light rail stations. The course was sandwiched between the airport and the woods, where (it was believed) the half-insane, half-possessed skunk named Mad Mac still lurked. Lu shook his head, and Mike asked, “What brings you here from Hong Kong, then?”

Lu smiled. “Nothing’s going on, but I have a feeling.”

“Ah, I get it,” the cougar said, nodding sagely. Lu had the knack of knowing when and where his particular services might be required.

The SUV pulled to a halt and reefed into a hard right to get into the Lucky Dragon’s parking lot, the two guards in the back glaring, ears perked, at a truck that had been following a shade too closely.


***


Booted feet thumped along beach sand as the red panda femme ran. It was good exercise, which she needed, and it helped burn off her anger.

And she really needed that.

Older members of the Family said that she had Hao’s temper, and she strongly suspected that it was the reason that she’d never been accepted to Songmark. Her Aunt Xinyu had, but the Tutors had told her when she’d graduated that she would be the last member of the family ever admitted to the all-female school.

Still, she’d begged her aunt to tell her what the students did for their training, and made it part of her daily exercises. The regimen kept her trim and in good physical condition, as well as helping her manage her temper.

An encrypted email from Krupmark Island had arrived with her morning coffee. Her cousin Lu was on the island, and while ordinarily she would be pleased to see her relation, he hadn’t let her know he was coming, and Mike’s email had passed on to her that Lu was anticipating being needed.

He was a complication, and Ni Xia hated complications.



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