Brightsuit MacBear

by L. Neil Smith

  At once, Mac could see why the screwmaran was faster. She consisted of little more than a pair of giant propellors. No complicated gearing system wasted the energies of her crew by taking them around right angles. Also, her design made more efficient use of their weight and of the stronger muscles of their legs.

  He didn’t doubt for a minute—although with his olfactory capacities overcome by the Intimidator, he couldn’t tell just yet—that she smelled the same.

  Preparing themselves for another confrontation with the First Wave colonists, he and Pemot sat down near the lamviin’s sand-sled, waiting for them to arrive.

  “You’d think,” the boy observed as he and Pemot watched the odd vehicle approaching, “with an advantage like that—”

  “An advantage like what?” The lamviin sounded irritable.

  “The several thousand years’ retroactive head start you told me about. You’d think these colonists should be way ahead of the rest of humanity by now. But they’re not, are they? And anyway, what’re you so ticked off about?”

  “Ticked off? You accuse me of harboring parasites?”

  Mac laughed. “I could well believe it—and give myself a close inspection, too—after a few minutes aboard one these machines. No, I’m just wondering what you’re so upset about.”

  The lamviin sighed.

  His fur seemed to relax.

  “MacBear, my fine unfurry friend, as long as I’ve been on this planet, I’ve remained within the confines of Confederate settlements or taflak villages, eschewing the First Wave population. I might offer several excellent reasons, but our most recent exploit’s a good example of why I’ve pursued such a policy.”

  “Sounds sensible to me. I could tell you don’t much like being called a mutated spider.”

  “Or being compelled, in self-defense, to employ deadly violence. Still, what I’ve managed to learn of Antimacassarite culture leads me to believe it similar to my own. My greatest fear is that, despite my Uncle Mav’s painstaking tutelage, I may be vulnerable to its blandishments. And this unfortunate world, like others settled by the First Wave—much like your own Earth’s early history—has always been subject to cyclic collapse. It’s seen countless civilizations struggle into being, blossom to maturity, waste their hard-won substance on war or internal conflict, only to pass out of existence.”

  “Pretty depressing,” the boy replied, trying to raise one eyebrow. “Why do you stick around?”

  “Because there’s something here to learn, I think. Also, I enjoy the company of the indigenous sapients. Majesty’s unique, for all its tragedy, differing, at least in Confederate experience, from all previous lost colonies. And, I might add, as a native of Sodde Lydfe, I can appreciate that difference.”

  Mac nodded. “The taflak.”

  “Precisely. My native Sodde Lydfe is inhabited by its own sapient population, and, feu Pah ko sretvoh, was never discovered by the First Wave. Although its technology’s unsophisticated in comparison with yours, it’s scientific and progressive, and its relationship with the Confederacy is, for the most part, as an equal.”

  He sighed again. “The taflak haven’t been left alone. The planet’s first human inhabitants were intolerant, and remain so, as you’ve seen. Thus the taflak have been required to fight for their existence since the First Wave arrived. Themselves scarcely changing, millennium to millennium, they’ve witnessed the whole sorry spectacle of human civilization; and in this regard they’re far from primitive, for they enjoy many clever and cynical sayings about the follies of humankind.”

  “It sounds to me,” the boy suggested, with a close, observing eye on his friend, “like maybe you’re getting a bit cynical about human beings, yourself, Mr. Xenopraxeologist.”

  The lamviin splayed all three hands, a gesture of denial among Sodde Lydfans. “Humans on this planet, MacBear. Sapients who stubbornly—proudly—remain primitive, even by the standards you or I, with our respective disadvantages, have grown up with. And in a different meaning of the word than applies to the taflak. Humans who were still politically divided, despite their vast and terrible experience, when the Confederacy rediscovered them.”

  Mac remembered reading about that somewhere, and keyed his implant. Securitas, the nation-state they’d rubbed elbows with already, was, according to the brochure, a stern, paternalistic dictatorship emphasizing discipline and tradition. “But not personal hygiene,” Mac murmured aloud.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing—just talking to myself.”

  The other, Antimacassar, was a welfare state, determined to care for its subjects if it had to kill them in the process; a culture, Mac thought, in which his grandfather, dissatisfied with the live-and-let-live Confederacy, might have been happy. It did sound rather like what little he knew of civilization on Sodde Lydfe.

  And, in one respect, the rediscovery of Majesty, the arrival of starships and people from the outside galaxy had changed nothing. Both forever-warring political entities still existed, along with their centuries-old rivalries and hatreds.

  Mac told Pemot what the implant had to say.

  “True enough, as far as it goes,” Pemot explained. “But now the First Wavers complain no one cares about the old, important issues anymore. The rulers of Securitas and Antimacassar resent being eclipsed by a new, more vital and productive culture as the First and Second Wave populations begin to mingle.”

  “Yeah?” Mac pointed at the arriving machine. “Well it looks like it’s our turn to mingle, now.”

  The new moss-negotiating machine hove to, bow to broadside, a few hundred cautious yards from the immobilized crankapillar. Flamethrowers on the screwmaran’s flying forecastle were aimed at the Securitasian vessel, their pilot lights flickering. Meanwhile, a detachment of several dozen figures, men and women, armed and uniformed, swarmed down the threads of the screwmaran, stopped in her shadow to tie on moss-shoes identical to those Mac thought he’d invented, and broke into two groups, each headed in separate directions.

  The first group, their old-fashioned bayonetted long arms at the ready, jogged toward the crankapillar, running up her boarding plank, moss-shoes and all. Shouting could be heard—not from the dispirited and quiescent feebs, Mac thought—but no shots of any kind were fired, and he assumed the strange vessel had now been claimed by the victorious forces of the nation-state of Antimacassar.

  The second and smaller group, consisting of perhaps a dozen individuals (if “individuals,” Mac thought, was what you called people all wearing the same clothing), approached the pair of extra-Majestan travelers and their sand-sled at a more leisurely rate, their antique weapons carried across their brass-buttoned chests, and paused a few feet away. The military uniforms of Antimacassar were charcoal gray, and much neater than the bottle green of Securitas.

  Mac hoped that, somewhere in the deep sea moss, Middle C was taking this all in.

  A tall, attractive, but severe-faced young woman, carrying a flap-holstered pistol, but no long arm, stepped forward, removed her cap, and saluted them. “Good day to you both, gentlebeings, I am Leftenant Commander Goldberry MacRame, Third and Security Officer of the A.L.N. Compassionate, a frigate of Her Imperial Kindness’ Leafnavy of the Antimacassarite Government-in-Exile. Might I be so intrusive as to inquire whether you are responsible for having disabled this pirate machine, and, if so, whether you accomplished this by yourselves?”

  Still at stiff attention, she nonetheless glanced side to side, as if fearful that, in fact, they hadn’t done it alone. Where, Mac could tell she was thinking, was the rest of their force hiding? If that’s what’s bothering her, he thought, she’s asked the wrong question: yes, of course she might inquire.

  “I do believe,” Pemot whispered to his companion, “given the somewhat spectacular consequences of your recent diplomatic efforts aboard the Intimidator, that I’ll do the talking this time, provided you’ve no objection.”

  Mac looked down at Pemot, and shrugged.

  Pemot blinked, made
a throat-clearing noise in his nostrils, and stepped forward. “How do you do, Leftenant Commander. I’m Epots Dinnomm Pemot, a lamviin of the planet Sodde Lydfe and of the University of Mexico. This gentlebeing is my associate, Mr. MacDougall Bear, a human being like yourself, late of the starship Tom Edison Maru. I’m afraid we are, indeed, responsible for what happened here”—he held up all three arms—“er, single-handedly.”

  Someone in Supply had failed, Mac thought, to issue Leftenant Commander MacRame a sense of humor. Without so much as a chuckle or a grin at Pemot’s joke, she nodded.

  “I wonder,” she asked, “whether you would mind telling us in some detail how this, er, achievement, came about.…But I suspect that both of you would be more comfortable onboard Compassionate, and I am certain that my commanding officer will be interested to hear what you have to tell us, as well.”

  Pemot blinked and tipped his carapace. “Why, this is uncommonly generous of you, Leftenant Commander, most magnanimous indeed. And of course we’d be delighted. We are, as you see, travelers, at somewhat of an inconvenience at the moment, and hoping to obtain transport to Geislinger.”

  The Leftenant Commander nodded. “I should like very much to be of assistance to you, Doctor Pemot,” she replied, “but naturally my commanding officer will have something to say about that.”

  “That,” Pemot answered, tipping his carapace in yet another bow, “is entirely understandable. I assure you, whatever can be contrived will be more than satisfactory.”

  Mac leaned down and whispered. “She sounds just like you, Herr Doktor Professor Pemot. Polite as all get-out, aren’t they?” He looked up at the woman.

  She raised a single eyebrow.

  “Yes,” the lamviin whispered back, “as a matter of fact, they are. Which, unless I miss my guess entirely, means we’re in greater danger than ever before.”

  “I give up.” Mac laughed aloud. “I thought you were going soft on me or something.”

  “Not,” the lamviin answered, “bloody likely.”

  With half of her detachment taking up the rear, they followed the woman back to the screwmaran.

  As they made their way across the open space between the two vessels, Pemot towing his sand-sled behind him, a tremendous whoosh! and a wave of hot air blasting from the direction of the Intimidator almost knocked them off their feet.

  At the same time, they heard a hundred-throated cheer from the direction of the Compassionate.

  The Securitasian vehicle was soon enveloped in flame, with greasy black smoke rising to the overcast above. A column of uniformed Antimacassarites began winding, antlike, from the burning wreckage, some carrying boxes and bundles salvaged from the crankapillar, others towing makeshift wicker rafts of feebs who, without moss-shoes, were helpless to escape even if they’d been motivated to.

  Quite a spectacle, Mac thought. Down deep inside, he’d always been fond of fires and explosions but was unaware he shared this vice with the majority of the human race.

  Meanwhile, Pemot commented to Leftenant Commander MacRame on “the tragic waste represented by destroying an admittedly slower but perfectly serviceable vehicle.”

  “Worse luck,” the Leftenant Commander complained. “None of us will enjoy any gain from this unhappy ship. Securitasians are useless as prizes unless newly commissioned.”

  “I get it.” Mac’s guess was conversational. He’d been impressed, despite himself, with the pretty Antimacassarite officer and had been trying to think of something to say. “Too much work to clean them up?”

  “Oh, never fear, boy. We always have plenty of workers available for that.”

  She indicated the Securitasian feebs being dragged back to the Compassionate.

  “Usually their own lot. But it is an impossible task for any number of workers. Sometimes I could almost believe they keep their vessels filthy and disease-ridden out of nothing more than a perverse desire to deprive us of our due.”

  Boy, was it?

  They weren’t required to climb the screw threads as the military squads had. The guests’ entrance to the A.L.N. Compassionate, such as it was, consisted of a thirty-foot rope ladder dangling from beneath the flying bridge at the rear of the huge machine. Leftenant Commander MacRame took a closer look at Pemot and made the polite suggestion that a sling be dropped overside for his convenience.

  “Thank you, Leftenant Commander, but I doubt whether that will be necessary. You see, my ancestors were quite as arboreal, after their own fashion, as your own.”

  He winked at his human companion, something the boy had never seen him do before. “Cacti,” he whispered, “rather than trees.”

  He followed one of the Leftenant Commander’s dozen soldiers up the ladder with considerable agility—more, in fact, than Mac, following behind him, managed.

  Chapter XVII: The Captain-Mother

  The ladder went straight through a trapdoor onto the open command deck of the Compassionate.

  This was an expanse of wickerwork similar to the equivalent area aboard the Intimidator. Mac could see better, now, how the ship worked. As they trudged along the threads, which were woven as well and had been polished until their edges shone from continuous contact with the moss, the slaves came to the aft or larger ends of the giant screws, climbed off, and followed a hanging walkway forward again. No bulge-muscled overseers brandished whips. Instead, if a slave stumbled or hesitated in line, another one behind him shoved him along.

  Somehow, Mac thought, this was worse.

  It turned out he’d been wrong about the smell aboard the Compassionate. No proper Antimacassarite would permit such a travesty. As each slave left the walkway to resume driving the screw threads, he passed under a shower bar which, if it made his footing more difficult and dangerous on his next trip along the stair steps, at least guaranteed him, after a manner of speaking, a clean death.

  Aft of the command deck was a large, roofed superstructure with overhanging eaves, a door, and windows—the silica they required must have been every bit as precious on this vegetation-shrouded planet as metal, the boy realized, unless some portion of the sea plants secreted it—into which they were conducted.

  “Doctor Pemot of the planet Mexico!” Leftenant Commander MacRame bowed to a figure seated behind a table and indicated the lamviin.

  “Mr. MacDougall of the starship Maru.” Again the leftenant commander bowed.

  “Please allow me to present to you our esteemed commanding officer, Captain-Mother b’Mear b’Tehla. Captain-Mother b’Tehla, Doctor Pemot and Mr. MacDougall.”

  “Bear,” Mac corrected.

  “Pardon, young man?”

  The white-haired old woman they’d been introduced to sat in a wicker rocking chair with a knitted shawl wrapped around her plump shoulders. She appeared to be even further overdue for rejuvenation than his grandfather. She peered at Mac with shrewd, glittering eyes through the thick lenses of bifocal spectacles.

  “MacDougall Bear, ma’am—that’s my name—of the Confederate starship Tom Edison Maru.”

  The old lady chuckled. “Dearie me. We greatly fear you’ll have to be somewhat forgiving of our good leftenant commander’s roughshod and straightforward military manner. Without a doubt, it has its proper place aboard the Compassionate, as, indeed, do we all. Moreover, any inclination upon her part toward empty courtesy would be a poor substitute, indeed, for her real talents. Now, won’t you be seated, Mr. Bear? And what sort of furniture would you find most comfortable, Doctor Pemot?”

  “A stool would do nicely, Captain-Mother b’Tehla, or I can remain standing in perfect comfort.”

  “By all means find the good doctor a stool, Goldberry, and have our aide bring tea in, if you will.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain-Mother.”

  Spine straight as a ruler, Leftenant Commander MacRame saluted, turned on her booted heel, and left the captain-mother’s cabin, closing the door behind her.

  “Now,” asked the captain-mother, “would you be so good as to tell us what it
is which brings the pair of you young beings across the course of our Compassionate?”

  Leaving Middle C and the rest of the taflak out of it, Pemot explained that he was a Confederate social scientist, a xenopraxeologist, studying the planet Majesty, that Mac was his associate (a word with wonderful, flexible meaning, Mac realized), and that they’d somehow missed an appointment to be picked up by hovercraft and taken back to the Confederate settlement at the north pole.

  The captain-mother’s aide, another young woman, came in with a well-laden tea tray. Balanced atop a small stool, Pemot offered his sincere regrets as a literal nondrinker, but was agreeable to nibbling on some of the small crustless sandwiches which had been brought with the tea.

  Mac, meanwhile, discovering he was ravenous, had several of the things, washed down with three cups of tea.

  When asked about the Securitasian crankapillar, Pemot told a reasonably straight story about what had happened between them and its captain—again leaving out Middle C.

  “Dearie me,” asked the captain-mother, “aren’t we the busy ones? And admirably quick on the trigger. Do you know, young fellow, we’ve been pursuing the thrice-cursed Timmie and that rascally scoundrel Tiberius j’Kaimreks all over the Sea of Leaves without any luck at all? You are most valiant, and have our full congratulations and felicitations, but we believe we shall miss him.”

  Pemot muttered something modest.

  “What did j’Kaimreks do?” Mac asked, stuffing another sandwich in his mouth.

  “The villain is—was, thanks to your good offices—a chronic sacker and burner of Antimacassarite towns, a habit made all the worse and easier for him since in recent years we have taken to dwelling exclusively upon raft villages and craft such as this. But this is a mere peccadillo, compared to the truly heinous offense against all humanity for which, most lately, we have been pursuing him.”