Progenitor

by Michael Jan Friedman

  So if the ensign extended her personal force field outside of her suit, and set it for the frequency most commonly used by Federation vessels, she would be able to penetrate the Belladonna’s protective barrier. At least, in theory.

  Of course, Commander Wu might have guessed wrong about the frequency of the research ship’s shields, in which case the challenge facing Jiterica would suddenly become a good deal more complicated. However, she had decided to—as humans seemed fond of saying—cross that bridge when she came to it.

  With the outer surface of the Belladonna’s deflector wall getting close enough to reach out and touch with the fingers of her gauntlet, that bridge was now at hand.

  As Wu had instructed her, the ensign extended her force field beyond the skin of her suit, instantly placing a much greater burden on herself to maintain an unnaturally dense form. If she had to do this on her own all the time, it wouldn’t be possible for her to remain on a ship like the Stargazer. But for a short span of time, she could handle the considerable strain of self-containment.

  Next, Jiterica matched her field’s frequency to the deflector’s—or rather, what she expected the deflector’s to be. At that point, there was only one thing left for her to do.

  She let the shuttle’s tractor beam carry her forward.

  The ensign’s sensors ticked off the distance between her and the Belladonna. Twenty-five centimeters. Twenty. Fifteen. Ten. None.

  She braced herself for an impact—because if the deflector remained impervious to her, she would bounce off it like any other solid object. But she didn’t bounce.

  She went right through it.

  Wu’s theory had proven out. Jiterica had pierced the Belladonna’s defenses. And the tractor beam was still carrying her forward.

  Once she was certain she was past the deflector barrier, the ensign withdrew her force field into the fabric of her suit again. Then she relaxed, allowing it to reassume the burden of containment.

  Better, Jiterica thought with a sense of relief. Much better.

  The still-visible portion of the research ship was looming in front of her, looking strangely truncated. Also a little curved, an effect of the churning graviton activity in the area.

  As luck would have it, one of the vessel’s exterior hatches was almost directly ahead. The ensign could make her way toward it as soon as the tractor beam released her—which it would do in a matter of seconds, judging by the rate at which she was approaching the Belladonna’s hull.

  Again, she braced herself—not for contact with a deflector shield, but with the duranium surface used by the Federation in the construction of spacegoing vessels. But the impact, however gentle, never came. And somehow, though it seemed the research ship was mere centimeters away, Jiterica was still moving forward—propelled dutifully by the shuttle’s tractor beam.

  At first, she didn’t understand. Then she checked her sensors and realized what was happening.

  The Belladonna wasn’t nearly as close as it looked. But then, her suit’s visual-analog device was designed to respond to light in the manner of flesh-and-blood optical organs, and lightwaves would be distorted in the presence of all those gravitons. Fortunately for the ensign, her suit’s sensor suite responded to other sorts of stimuli, which were more dependable gauges of distance under the circumstances.

  Intent on her sensors this time, she tracked her progress toward the research ship’s hull. Thirty meters. Twenty. Ten. And then, as if it had been there all the time and had only now decided to take on substance, the hull pressed back against the palms of her gauntlets.

  Jiterica had arrived at her destination.

  What’s more, Ensign Paris must have known it, because she didn’t feel any more pressure from the tractor beam. It had carried her as far as it could. She was on her own now.

  Activating the magnetic anchors built into her suit, Jiterica latched onto the duranium surface—first with her right palm and then her left, followed by her right foot and finally her left one. Each time she made contact, she felt a reassuring clunk.

  When she was done, she found herself in a shallow crouch, all four limbs of her suit adhering to the hull. Had she been a human, she would have taken the opportunity to smile. Despite everything, she had reached the Belladonna.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  JITERICA TURNED THE HELMET of her containment suit as she hung onto the Belladonna’s outer skin. The hatch that she had seen was above her and to her left, almost hidden by the curve of the ship. It appeared to be no more than ten meters away, but she had learned better than to trust her visual-analog faculty in this place. Consulting her other sensors, she saw that the actual distance was more like twenty meters.

  Detaching her right palm-magnet, the ensign brought it alongside her left and reattached it to the Belladonna’s hull. Then she did the same with her right foot. Once her right-side appendages were in place, she detached those on her left, extended them as far as she could in the direction of her goal, and resecured them. And in this manner, she made her way toward the hatch.

  She was more than halfway there when she detached her right palm again and realized that something was amiss. Looking down, she saw the feet of her suit drifting away from the hull.

  Commander Wu had warned her about this phenomenon as well. The magnetic eddies that existed in the accretion bridge were wreaking havoc with her anchors. If Jiterica wasn’t careful, she might go drifting off—and if she did that, it was unlikely that Ensign Paris would be able to reassert his tractor lock on her.

  First, she reattached her sole anchors to the hull. Then she moved more slowly and cautiously than before, making sure not to detach any of the magnets until she was certain that the others were secure.

  It took a while, but the ensign at last reached the hatch. It was locked, of course—no surprise there. But she had a remedy for that. Removing a hyperspanner from its sheath along the leg of her suit, she went to work on the hatch.

  As it turned out, the mechanism was in perfect working order. With the proper tool in hand, it was the work of a minute to swing the hatch door open. Resecuring the hyperspanner, Jiterica maneuvered herself about until she could lower herself into the aperture.

  Unfortunately, she still hadn’t gotten any better at moving in tight places. However, the hatch was made to accommodate the bulk of a containment suit, so she was able to thrust herself down through the opening without too much trouble. At the last moment she felt one of her hand anchors slip off the hull, the victim of a competing magnetic wave, but by then she was mostly inside the hatch.

  Deactivating her magnets, Jiterica pulled the hatch closed. She found herself in a small compartment—an airlock, not unlike those that existed on the Stargazer.

  It took a moment for air to shoot in and a few more to fill the lock. Though oxygen was of no use to the Nizhrak except as an occasional source of nutrition, she was compelled to wait for the process to run its course. When the readout on the bulkhead indicated that an atmosphere had been established, Jiterica pressed the pad that would give her access to the interior of the ship.

  A pair of doors parted, revealing a corridor. Moving out into it, the ensign scanned its length in either direction. There was no evidence of any living humanoids.

  But the Stargazer’s scan had indicated a number of survivors. Since Jiterica’s personal sensors didn’t have the range to locate them, she picked a direction at random and set out in search of the Belladonna’s crew.

  Not much longer now, Simenon thought as he pelted over the dark, spongy ground, barely able to feel his legs.

  A couple of kilometers at most, he promised himself. Just a couple of kilometers. Then the ritual would all be over, one way or the other.

  His friends were all around him, ahead and behind, coping with varying degrees of exhaustion. Their breath rasped in their throats and they grunted every so often, evidence of how hard they were struggling not to let him down.

  Simenon hadn’t seen any sign of the Aklaash or
the Fejjimaera since he left them on the stone wall, but he had a feeling they weren’t far behind. If he stopped and listened, he would probably hear them thrashing through the woods on an unseen trail, desperate to close the distance between Simenon’s party and their own.

  All the more reason to keep going, he told himself. To fend off any thoughts of slowing down for a moment, no matter how tempting they might be. To ignore the savage throbbing in his banged-up ribs and the ache in his damaged arm.

  Funny, Simenon thought. In the end, his intellectual superiority over his competitors hadn’t made the slightest bit of difference. The only smart thing he had done was refrain from arguing too much when he found Picard and the others standing on that transporter pad. If not for them, he would have lost this race a long time ago.

  Suddenly, he felt something sticky on his face. He brushed it aside with his good hand. Then he felt it again. And again.

  Sedgmaya, Simenon realized with disgust. Ugly little creatures not much bigger than one of his fingers. They stretched their secretions from tree to tree to catch insects, in the manner of Terran spiders.

  Actually, he was lucky. Fully spun sedgmaya webs would have been a lot heavier—heavy enough to wrap themselves around him and slow his progress along the trail. Obviously, it had rained in the last few days, forcing the slimy little beasts to begin spinning new webs.

  No, Simenon thought, even in the midst of his exertions. That can’t be right. If it had rained, he wouldn’t have seen those footprints back at the bridge.

  Or maybe it had rained, he allowed, and the footprints weren’t as old as he thought—not even as old as the last ritual. If that were so, someone other than a ritual runner had left them there—having snuck into the forest without anyone noticing and sabotaged the bridge.

  But who? Other than one of Simenon’s rivals, who would have had something to gain if he fell into the chasm? Who would have benefited if he had died or couldn’t finish the race?

  And then it came to him, like a bolt of lightning in a vast summer sky.

  Anger rose into his throat and threatened to choke him. No, he insisted. I can’t afford to think about this now. I need to concentrate on reaching the clearing.

  “Damn!” said Ben Zoma, who was running just ahead of Simenon.

  “What is it?” the Gnalish demanded.

  The first officer jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s the Aklaash,” he said with uncharacteristic solemnity. “They’re making a race out of it.”

  Simenon didn’t want to look at them. He knew it would only slow him down. But he looked anyway—and his heart sank.

  He could see the Aklaash moving through the scarlet trees, showing not the least sign of fatigue, their long strides devouring the ground in gulps. Slowly but surely, they were catching up. And Simenon’s party still had at least a kilometer to go before it reached the finish line.

  The Gnalish darted a glance back over his shoulder at Greyhorse. As usual, the doctor was bringing up the rear. Simenon swore beneath his breath. What had ever possessed him to let the doctor take part in the ritual?

  An inexcusable ignorance of his physical conditioning, the Gnalish thought. A complete and utter failure to question whether Greyhorse would be an asset or a liability.

  He knew the answer to that question now, though, didn’t he? Unfortunately, it was a bit too late for him to do anything about it.

  Just then, Simenon saw Vigo move to the side of the trail and fall behind. What now? he thought. Had the weapons officer chosen that moment to pull up lame?

  Then he realized that Vigo wasn’t hurt, after all. He had just dropped back to join the doctor. Pulling Greyhorse’s arm over his right shoulder, the Pandrilite threw his own arm around the doctor’s middle and started forward with him.

  What’s more, Greyhorse didn’t utter a protest. He had run out of steam and he knew it. With Vigo helping to support him, the two oversize beings lumbered toward the clearing.

  And they still had a lead on the Aklaash. As long as they maintained that, they couldn’t lose.

  The muscles in Simenon’s legs burned like fire. His throat hurt so much he couldn’t swallow. But he was close to the end, just a few minutes away from it. He could endure anything—any pain, any suffering.

  Especially if it meant avoiding a lifetime of regret.

  Then he saw it—the clearing. The eggs, he thought, his primal instincts coming to the fore. He could feel them somehow, a presence that drew him on unerringly.

  But the Aklaash must have sensed the egg cache, too, because they began to close the gap more quickly. Simenon could hear them cursing each other, taunting each other, inciting their comrades to demand more and more of themselves.

  The engineer’s heart pounded in his chest, spurred by anxiety as much as by the nearness of the eggs. He would never have believed he could run so far or so fast, especially after the beating he had taken in the crevasse. But he was doing it. He was dredging up every last bit of strength as he closed in on the clearing.

  The trail rose, dipped, and rose again. Simenon could hear the Aklaash, their voices cracking like whips. He didn’t have to look back again to know that they were gaining ground, driving toward the finish line with all the power they could muster.

  But Vigo was a powerhouse, too. And he was using his strength to propel Greyhorse along faster than the doctor could ever have managed on his own.

  Come on, Simenon thought. Come on...

  The clearing was right in front of them now. He could see the white robes of the Elders, waiting to proclaim a victor. He could see the black robes of their bodyguards, there to make sure that all transpired in accordance with the law.

  The Aklaash started cheering as if they had already won. But Simenon resisted the temptation to cast another glance in their direction. He would see them soon enough.

  The trees parted before him and the path widened, giving him a better view of those who awaited him. His breath was coming in sobs now, in strangled groans, his lungs incapable of taking in enough air to meet the demands of his straining body.

  A little farther, Simenon told himself, his mouth dry as dust, his eyes starting to lose their focus. For your brothers. For all those who came before...

  And with that thought burning in his brain, the Gnalish burst into the sacred clearing.

  He wasn’t alone, either. There were bodies plunging past him on either side. Human bodies. Three of them.

  Falling to his knees, Simenon turned and looked for his last two comrades. They were close, closer than he had thought they would be, Greyhorse’s arm still slung across Vigo’s massive shoulders as they lumbered forward.

  But the Aklaash were close, too. They raged toward the clearing down their separate trail, a juggernaut of muscle and bone, the evolutionary apogee of Gnalish strength and endurance.

  Run! Simenon thought, urging his comrades on. For love of the gods, run!

  Wheezing and gasping every bit as badly as Greyhorse, Vigo all but carried the doctor into the clearing. At the last moment, the two of them stumbled and fell in a tangle of long, powerful limbs.

  But it didn’t matter anymore. They had made it.

  Unfortunately, so had the Aklaash. With Kasaelek in the lead, they came pounding into the clearing at what appeared to be the exact same moment as Vigo and Greyhorse.

  At least, that was how it appeared to Simenon. But then, his opinion didn’t matter. All that mattered was how it looked to the Elders standing in front of the egg cache.

  If they thought the engineer’s group had come in first, Simenon would be awarded the right to fertilize the eggs. But if they thought Kasaelek’s group had beaten them...

  Simenon didn’t even want to think about that.

  His comrades gathered around him, their faces flushed and their breath coming fast. “Don’t worry,” Ben Zoma told him. “We took them, no question about it.”

  “I think so, too,” said Joseph.

  But Picard wasn’t venturing an
opinion. Like his engineer, he seemed to think it was too close to call.

  Simenon studied the Elders, waiting for their decision. As wisdom dictated, they turned and consulted with each other. Then, with both parties hanging on their words, one of them stepped forward and rendered their verdict.

  “The race has ended in a draw,” he said.

  “A draw?” Ben Zoma muttered in disgust.

  Picard turned to Simenon. “What does that mean?”

  The Gnalish sighed. “It means the winner will have to be chosen another way.”

  The captain’s brow creased. “What way?”

  Simenon regarded Kasaelek, who was grinning and clenching his fists at the news. The engineer wished he felt like grinning, too.

  “In single combat,” he said softly.

  Commander Wu stared at the blazing section of the accretion bridge on her forward viewscreen as if she could see into it and follow Jiterica’s progress.

  But of course, she couldn’t. All she could see was the tiny speck that represented Ensign Paris’s shuttle, its position supported by a tractor beam emanating from the Stargazer.

  Her officers, on the other hand, could keep track of Jiterica’s movements via ship’s sensors. And as time went on, they periodically brought the second officer up to speed. But they couldn’t say the words she was waiting to hear, the words that would enable her to breathe easily again.

  Finally, she heard from the one who could say those words. “Paris here,” came the transmission from the shuttle.

  Wu leaned forward in her seat. “Go ahead.”

  “She’s in,” the ensign said.

  The commander nodded. “That’s good news,” she told Paris.

  But she knew the Nizhrak’s trial wasn’t over yet. There was still the small matter of what she had to accomplish on the Belladonna.

  “Come on home,” she instructed the ensign. After all, his shuttle could only get in the way now.

  “Aye,” Paris said—and cut the comm link.

  On the viewscreen, the shuttlecraft could be seen wheeling about, its portion of the mission accomplished. Obviously, Wu had been right to place her faith in Ensign Paris.