Progenitor

by Michael Jan Friedman

  So if Simenon seemed grim and fidgety, he had a right to be that way. In a sense, countless generations of his bloodline were depending on him—both those who had come before him and those who might come after. Picard didn’t envy him that burden.

  And to complicate the matter, Simenon wouldn’t be racing against his equals. He would be racing against representatives of Gnala’s two other subspecies, the Aklaash and the Fejjimaera.

  In this case, they were the Gnalish who had spoken against the engineer in the Great Hall. Kasaelek, the pale-skinned giant at whom the elder had hissed, was a product of the towering subspecies called the Aklaash. The light-and-dark specimen was Banyohla, who represented the small, slender Fejjimaera.

  Simenon had outlined the other subspecies’ advantages for his colleagues. The captain recalled his engineer’s words as if he had spoken them only moments earlier.

  “The Aklaash are big and unspeakably strong and they tend to fare well in the ritual, which is why they’re easily the most populous subspecies on Gnala.”

  “I see. And the Fejjimaera?” Picard had asked.

  “They’re smaller than I am, but a hell of a lot quicker. Also, they have a considerable talent for camouflage.”

  “And do they fare well in the ritual also?”

  “Almost as well as the Aklaash, as a matter of fact. Finally, there’s the subspecies to which I belong—the Mazzereht. We perform the worst of all, and by a wide margin.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” the captain had said.

  Simenon had frowned. “So am I. But there’s no way around it. Strength and speed are big assets in the wild.”

  “But if your subspecies has survived at all, Nature must have given it some assets of its own.”

  “She did,” Simenon had told him.

  “And what are they?”

  “She gave us... brains.”

  Simenon hadn’t said it with any real optimism. Clearly, for the purposes of the ritual, he would have preferred that his people possess some more physical attribute.

  Nor could Picard blame him.

  He regarded Simenon now. The engineer’s eyes were hard and alert, the eyes of a being about to meet the challenge of his life. And not just a challenge, but a test of his ability to survive.

  The captain and the others could help him here and there. They could lend him support in his struggle. But ultimately, the test was Simenon’s to pass or fail.

  “Well?” Ben Zoma asked, inadvertently breaking into the captain’s reverie. “What are we waiting for?”

  The first officer had finished getting dressed and seemed eager to get going. They all seemed that way—even Dr. Greyhorse, though he still looked a little bleary-eyed.

  Picard looked back at Simenon. “Are you ready?” he asked as gently as he could.

  The Gnalish scowled at him. “I’d better be, hadn’t I?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  AS PICARD AND THE OTHERS ISSUED from their sleeping chamber in the thin morning light, a white-robed Elder and two of his Aklaash bodyguards were already waiting for them. “You will follow me,” said the figure in the white robe.

  Simenon agreed that he and his comrades would do this. Then they followed their guides into the embrace of the undulating, dawn-speckled forest, leaving the pride and majesty of the Northern Sanctum behind.

  Insects chittered at them over the sighing of the wind. There were scraping sounds of tiny creatures making their way from hiding place to hiding place. The occupants of the lowest rungs on the food chain, the captain thought, gathering to witness the trial of the beings on the highest rung.

  Before long, they came to a large clearing ringed by immense crimson trees with mottled bark and broad, spade-shaped leaves. Picard had seen sequoias on the western coast of North America; it seemed to him that these behemoths were bigger.

  As the captain and his officers entered the clearing, he saw that they were the last to do so. The other two teams were already standing in closely knit circles, munching on something that smelled vaguely like bananas but sounded a lot crunchier.

  Seen in briefer and more informal attire, Kasaelek and his bunch looked even more imposing than they had in the sanctum—more massive and thickly muscled under their scales. The smallest of them was as tall or taller than Vigo, and Vigo was a head taller than Picard. It was difficult for an offworlder like the captain to believe the Aklaash and Simenon belonged to the same species.

  The Fejjimaera group was decidedly less impressive-looking, their informal garb revealing small, slender physiques. However, as Ben Zoma had pointed out, it was their speed that had earned them a good track record in the ritual event—and quickness wasn’t likely to manifest itself in a display of bulging muscles.

  But it wasn’t just their body types that distinguished the Aklaash from the Fejjimaera. While Kasaelek and his comrades seemed very much at ease, almost lethargic, Banyohla’s team looked fidgety. They kept darting looks at the other two groups and hissing their observations in each other’s ears.

  Perhaps that was just the way they acted, Picard thought. Or perhaps they were actually worried about the competition the offworlders might offer them.

  He chose to believe the latter.

  Of course, the Gnalish in the white robes were in evidence here as well. There were three of them in all, including the individual who had led Simenon here—each of them followed closely by a couple of Aklaash in black garb.

  According to Simenon, the rest of the Assemblage would be waiting for them at the “finish line.” They would sit there patiently, telling stories of their forebears and humming ancient melodies, until a victor appeared—the first of the three competitors to reach the nest of unfertilized eggs.

  And when he did, they would oversee the fertilization process, as he added his DNA to that of the eggs. Apparently, that was one of the Assemblage’s duties as well.

  Picard was hardly an expert on Gnalish biology, but he could imagine what the fertilization process might be like. It made him cringe a little to think of his engineer performing such an act in full view of both the Assemblage and his colleagues.

  But then, he wasn’t a Gnalish. No doubt, there were human behaviors that occasionally made Simenon squirm as well.

  As Picard thought this, a black-garbed Aklaash came over to the engineers’ group and distributed something small and flat to each of its members, with Simenon receiving an extra package of the stuff. When it was the captain’s turn, he saw that he had been given a couple of crackers with a strong, bananalike scent to them—the same sort of food the other teams were eating.

  “Lovely,” said Greyhorse, an expression of displeasure on his face as he inspected the crackers more closely. “What are they?”

  “Layfid,” Simenon replied, as he tucked the extra package into an interior pocket of his shirt.

  “And what’s that?” asked Ben Zoma.

  “Reconstituted worm waste,” said the engineer. He took a bite of one of his crackers and nodded approvingly. “And nutritious worm waste at that.”

  Vigo swallowed back his revulsion. “I don’t suppose there’s an alternative of some kind?”

  Joseph grunted. “This from the guy who shoves sturrd down his throat? I’ll take worm waste over that stuff any day.” And to prove his point, he began munching on one of his crackers.

  Picard tried one of his own and found it wasn’t nearly as bad as Simenon had made it sound. Besides, they were going to be in the woods for some time, and he would sooner trust a cracker than something he found growing in the wild.

  Another black-robed guard came by and gave each of them something else—not food this time, but a tapered wooden club about a meter long and a belted sheath to go with it. The captain turned the club over in his hands.

  Then he glanced at Simenon. “This is a tellek?”

  The engineer nodded. “The only weapon any of us is allowed.”

  Simenon had described it to Picard and the others the night before. It had
sounded formidable. But now that the captain held it in his hands and saw how light it was, he was a good deal less confident about its effectiveness. Nonetheless, he put on the belt and stuck the tellek in its sheath, and watched his companions do the same.

  For a few minutes, they ate their crackers and watched Gnala’s sun come up through the branches of the densely packed forest. Then one of the white-robed ones made his way to the center of the clearing and raised his bony hand.

  “Come on,” said Simenon.

  He led the way to a narrow trail radiating from the clearing—one of three distinct pathways through the woods that began just a few meters apart. Kasaelek approached the trail on their left. Banyohla approached the one on their right.

  The Assemblage’s representative said something slow and rhythmic, something that seemed to find willing accompaniment in the soft plaint of the morning breeze. Picard’s universal translator had a devil of a time making any sense of it.

  But then, he didn’t have to understand the words. All he had to do was watch for the fall of the elder’s hand, because that was the gesture that would signal the start of the race.

  The captain glanced at Simenon. He looked like a Markoffian sea lizard, coiled and ready to strike.

  As Picard thought this, the elder in the white robe stopped singing. His hand fell like a dying bird. And the captain plunged forward alongside Simenon, for the ritual had begun.

  Gerda Asmund was checking her monitors for unexpected obstacles on the course she had plotted when her sister spoke up.

  “All right, what is it?” asked Idun, who was sitting beside her at the helm console.

  Gerda glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Your expression,” her sister said knowingly. “You seem concerned about something.”

  The navigator frowned. Was it that obvious?

  “I was wondering how the captain and the others were faring on Gnala,” she said. It was the truth, more or less.

  “They’ve been in my thoughts as well.” Idun made a sound of disgust, loud enough only for her twin to hear. “They should have taken us with them.”

  “They couldn’t,” Gerda reminded her. “The ritual in which they’re participating is restricted to males.”

  Her sister dismissed the idea with a sound of disgust. “If it were a Klingon ritual, there would be no such restriction.”

  Gerda nodded. “True.”

  Klingons were more egalitarian than most other species in that regard. When it came to fighting, to killing and being killed, males and females were on the same footing.

  “Nonetheless,” said Idun, “they will acquit themselves well—I am certain of it. The captain is a brave and clever individual. Likewise, Ben Zoma and Simenon.”

  “What about the others?” Gerda asked.

  Her sister shrugged. “What Joseph lacks in experience he makes up in determination. And Vigo... few humanoids have his strength.”

  She had failed to mention only one member of the party. What’s more, Gerda understood the omission. Despite Greyhorse’s size and the handful of lessons she had given him, he wasn’t much of a fighter.

  Then why had she tutored him in the martial arts? Why had she spent precious hours with him in the gym when she could have been honing her own fighting skills or studying her navigation charts?

  Yes, she thought. That is the question.

  Gerda and Idun had always shared everything with each other. Even their deepest secrets.

  When the two of them were taken in by the House of Warrokh, tiny stripling girls in the midst of huge, menacing warriors who roared and snarled at each other for no apparent reason, they had cried themselves to sleep—and shared each other’s tears, for they were wrapped in each other’s arms.

  When they were older and a gang of sneering boys had thought to push “the human girls” around, they had stood back to back and endured their beating together. And in the end, they obtained their revenge together as well, cornering the offenders one by one and returning their injuries measure for measure.

  And when their father died defending his family’s honor, they had howled together over his ruined body and and shared the joy of knowing he would go to join Kahless in Sto-Vo-Kor.

  We have shared everything, Gerda thought. But I cannot share my feelings in the matter of Carter Greyhorse.

  And what was worse, she couldn’t bring herself to say why.

  Ulelo stopped when he got to the set of doors he had been looking for and waited for his presence to be announced.

  It took longer to get a response than he had expected. But then, having never called on any of his crewmates, his only point of reference was how it felt on the other side of the doors.

  Finally, the duranium panels slid aside, giving him a view of an anteroom much like his own. However, this anteroom looked a good deal warmer, decorated as it was with Japanese watercolors and a grouping of Vulcan statuettes.

  Emily Bender looked at him. She was standing in front of an unusually shaped teakwood chair, a padd in her hand. “Yes?”

  Ulelo recited the words he had rehearsed. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior. I treated you rudely and I’m sorry.”

  His host regarded him for a moment. “I don’t know whether to forgive you or detest you.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you either way,” he said.

  That seemed to soften her up a bit. “Have a seat,” she told him, clearly still a little wary. Of being hurt again.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Emily Bender stepped aside and Ulelo entered her quarters. Once inside, he noticed a number of other personal touches—a geode filled with brilliant violet crystals, a woven wall hanging done in more muted violets, an artifact that might have been a ceramic oil lamp a very long time ago.

  And a picture of Emily Bender with two people who seemed to be her parents.

  She indicated a Starfleet-issue chair. The communications officer sat. For a heartbeat or two, neither of them spoke, until he realized that she wasn’t going to make this easy for him. It was incumbent on him to begin the exchange.

  He did so.

  “What I said before must have seemed strange to you,” Ulelo ventured. “Both in the corridor and in my quarters. After all, you were certain that you knew me, but I wasn’t acknowledging that I knew you.”

  Emily Bender nodded. “It was strange, all right.” She was still holding herself back, waiting to hear what he had to say.

  “I’m sure everything you told me was true,” he continued. “About the Academy, our friends there, how close we were. . . I don’t doubt it for a minute. But what I was saying... that’s true too. I honestly don’t remember any of it.”

  She tilted her head to one side as she studied him. “You’re saying you have amnesia...?”

  Ulelo shrugged. “I was in an accident a little while ago. I lost pieces of my memory. Apparently, my relationships with you and the others you mentioned were some of the pieces I lost.”

  It was a lie, of course. He hadn’t had an accident at all.

  So why was he misleading her? Heaven knew it wasn’t because he wanted to torment the woman. It would have been a lot easier on him if he could have simply told her the truth.

  But that wasn’t an option.

  “An accident,” Emily Bender echoed, making it clear she was skeptical about the information.

  He nodded. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.” Another lie. He was getting good at telling them. “But it wasn’t pleasant,” Ulelo added for good measure.

  She sighed. “So you really don’t remember me?”

  “Not at all.” That part, at least, was true. “And I don’t remember any of the people you mentioned.”

  Emily Bender seemed to weigh his claims for a while, her eyes searching his. Then she drew a breath and slowly let it out.

  “Look,” she said, “if you don’t remember me, you don’t remember me. I guess that’s the way it is.”

  “It’s frustrating,�
�� Ulelo allowed. “For me more than anyone.”

  “I’m sure it is. And lonely, I imagine.”

  “That too.” Painfully so.

  Emily Bender leaned forward in her chair. “So let me get this straight. When you asked me to leave your quarters...you weren’t giving me the brush-off after all?”

  He started to answer in the affirmative—until he saw where his response might lead her. As before, he acknowledged the fact of her beauty, if only to himself. He tortured himself with the idea that he could bring some joy into his life, just by giving in to a woman who obviously wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  A woman who was willing to accept him unconditionally, it seemed. Without reservations. Without questions.

  Fortunately, Ulelo was still strong. He could still do what his duty—and his sanity—demanded of him.

  “I wasn’t giving you the brush-off,” he conceded. “But please understand... I would feel awkward getting involved with you romantically, given the fact that you know me and I don’t—”

  Emily Bender held up her hand. “Don’t. I can already hear what you’re going to say.”

  Ulelo frowned. “And what’s that?”

  “That you could use a friend.”

  He hadn’t planned on saying that at all. However, he saw no way to deny it.

  She considered him for a moment. Then, looking a little bitter, she shook her head. “If we can’t be what I’d like us to be . . .” Her voice trailed off wistfully.

  The comm officer was grateful that the matter had resolved itself without his having to engage in further maneuvers. “I understand,” he said softly. Then he added, “I guess I’ll be going.”

  She didn’t stop him. In fact, she didn’t even turn her head to watch him go.

  Picard and his colleagues had been jogging down their ritual trail for less than twenty minutes before Simenon slowed them to a walk.

  The captain himself could have continued at a trot for another hour, if necessary. However, it was clear that at least one member of their party could not.