Brightsuit MacBear Read Free

cilia which protozoan animals use to get around or by the similar hairlike structures which line and clean the human respiratory system, had been engineered at the molecular level to ripple like microscopic fingers, propelling their living cargo throughout the starship’s many levels. The system would accelerate its passengers away, Berdan knew, whisking them faster than the speed of sound, taking them wherever their implants had requested, long before they could attempt to take a breath, become aware of the stifling darkness, or feel a moment of claustrophobia.
    Unaffected by this everyday magic, Berdan passed it by, wanting some time, on the way home, to think. And to be angry. Prompt obedience had never come easy to Berdan, any more (if his grandfather was to be believed) than to his father MacDougall. Bad blood , the old man was fond of saying, an expression on his face which Mr. Meep reserved for rotten eggs or spoiled milk, bad blood had killed MacDougall, and it would no doubt someday kill Berdan.
    Let it, Berdan thought, right now, he didn’t give a—
    “ Chickensquat! ”
    Berdan’s unhappy ruminations were interrupted by a rude word he’d heard many times before. He looked up from the yellow, rubbery sidewalk on which he’d kept his eyes as he made his way home, and was surprised. His absentminded footsteps had brought him further than he’d intended, past three transport patches, almost home the hard way, to the center of Deejay Thorens Park. Far across its cultivated lawns, a brass band played from a whitewashed gazebo.
    Unlike the people of many previous civilizations, the beings of the Confederacy tended to honor scientists, inventors, and philosophers, rather than soldiers or politicians, erecting statues, naming parks and streets and starships after them, preferring to single out those who were still alive to enjoy the tribute. Some exceptions disproved the rule: two levels above this, another park had been given the same name the starship itself bore, Thomas Alva Edison.
    But this was Thorens Park, and, sure enough, right at the feet of its central feature, a life-sized statue of the galaxy’s greatest (and most beautiful) physicist, the woman who’d discovered the principle which drove this vessel between the stars, sat its other central feature, a rumpled study in gray and black, just as he always seemed to be, on a violet-colored park bench.
    Old Captain Forsyth. Rumors which had almost grown into legends claimed the old fellow had once been a fearsome warrior of great accomplishment. Now he was in his usual place, silent and immovable as the statue itself, reading an old-fashioned hard-copy newspaper. Even from where he stood, Berdan could read headlines about the museum theft and the new planet, Majesty. He’d often wondered whether the ancient chimpanzee ever went home, or whether he even had a home.
    “ Slimy loops of DNA!
    “ Spell ’em out—whaddo they say?
    “ What’s in genes won’t go away!
    “ Chickensquat—the family way! ”
    But, for the moment, Berdan had more immediate problems. Before him, standing in his way and blocking it, he saw a trio of all too familiar-looking faces.
    Berdan sighed to himself. He knew what was coming next. What always came next. It made his heart pound in his chest like a hollow drum. He swallowed—so they wouldn’t notice how dry his throat had become—and assumed a fed up, weary expression which was affectation only in part. No one knew better than Berdan Geanar how it was possible to be bored and terrified at the same time.
    He spoke first. “Okay, jerks, what do you want now?”
    “Hey, whaddya know, you guys!” replied one of the three, speaking to his cronies and ignoring Berdan. “Chickensquat here answers to his chickensquat name!”
    The particular jerk in question was Olly Kehlson, about the same age as Berdan. Kehlson displayed a kind of belligerent stupidity which bothered Berdan worse than anything else about him, as if he were