Progenitor

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Ornitharen grinned. “That’s . . . that’s incredible. I’m so happy for you. For us, I mean.”

  “I knew you would be.”

  His cousin looked at him askance. “Something’s wrong.”

  “What makes you say that?” Simenon asked.

  “You should be happier about this. What’s going on?”

  Simenon frowned. “Someone sabotaged the vine bridge at the crevasse.”

  Ornitharen gazed at him wide-eyed. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “But who—” Ornitharen thought about it for a moment. “You mean Banyohla? Or Kasaelek?”

  “Neither of them.”

  “Then who, Phigus?”

  Simenon looked at him. “You, Ornitharen.”

  His cousin looked hurt. “You must be insane. What would make you say such a spiteful thing?”

  The engineer’s frown deepened. “There’s no longer any point in feigning innocence, Ornitharen. I found Mazzereht-sized footprints near the bridge and had them compared with yours on a hunch. They turned out to be a match.”

  “Then the records people made a mistake,” Ornitharen insisted.

  Simenon shook his head. “There’s no mistake. It was you who was trying to kill me. And the more I think about it, the more I believe you had a hand in my brothers’ deaths as well.”

  “But why would I do that?” asked his cousin.

  “That’s what I asked myself,” said Simenon. “Why would Ornitharen try to kill me? What could he gain by spilling my blood? And then I came up with the answer.”

  Ornitharen remained silent.

  “I was the progenitor,” the engineer told him, “the one whose seed would carry on our line. But you didn’t like that situation, did you? You wanted it to be your seed. And if I were dead, it would be you running in the ritual instead.”

  Again, his cousin failed to respond to the accusation.

  “You can save us all some trouble,” said Simenon, “and admit what you’ve done. You’re going to be found guilty in any case.”

  Ornitharen glowered at him for a moment. Then he made his reply, his voice dripping with resentment.

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be second-best, Cousin—to know you’ll always be second-best? Do you know what it’s like to have to kowtow to a sedgmaya who doesn’t give a colunnu feather about your family’s affairs?”

  Simenon shook his head. “If you weren’t happy with me, you should have brought it up a long time ago. We might have been able to work something out. As it is . . .” He shrugged. “It’s a bit too late for that.”

  Ornitharen spat at his feet. “Had I been born a week earlier, it would have been me racing Kasaelek and Banyohla.”

  “I might have been content with that,” said Simenon, “if it meant my brothers would still be alive.”

  His cousin didn’t say anything more. He just glared at the engineer one last time and left the room for the corridor outside, where the black-garbed Aklaash were waiting to take him into custody.

  For a little while, Simenon remained alone, contemplating the lengths to which people will go when they’re thwarted in their ambitions. Then there was a knock at the still-open door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Picard led Simenon’s other colleagues into the room. All five of them.

  “You and your cousin appear to have completed your business,” the captain observed.

  “They’re taking him away?” Simenon asked.

  “Yes,” Picard confirmed.

  The Gnalish heaved a sigh. “Families can be a great responsibility.”

  Picard nodded sympathetically. “They can indeed.”

  Simenon looked around at his comrades, who—until his progeny hatched—were the only real family he had. “And once in a while,” he found himself adding in a wildly uncharacteristic display of generosity, “something of a comfort.”

  Ben Zoma looked at him as if he had grown another head. “I must be dreaming. Was that an expression of gratitude I heard? From our chief engineer?”

  “I believe it was,” said Greyhorse, joining in.

  The Gnalish made a sound of dismissal. “Don’t get too accustomed to it, either of you. You’re not likely to hear it again.”

  “Now that,” said Ben Zoma, feigning relief, “is the Phigus Simenon we’ve come to know and love. For a minute there, I thought you’d been exchanged for your evil twin.”

  That drew a few chuckles from the others.

  Enough banter, Simenon thought. And enough time spent risking his skin in primitive forests. He longed for the civilized simplicity of his life back on the Stargazer.

  Not that he would give his colleagues the additional satisfaction of hearing him say that. He was grateful, yes—but he had already expressed his gratitude far too extravagantly.

  Assuming his trademark scowl, he said, “Shouldn’t someone be contacting the ship for a transport about now? Or would you like to run that course again just for the hell of it?”

  As no one seemed eager to do so, Picard agreed to make the call.

  Commander Wu arrived in the transporter room just in time to see Ensign Jiterica materialize on the hexagonal platform.

  She turned to the operator on duty, and said, “Good work, Mr. Refsland.”

  He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “Thank you, Commander.”

  Wu knew it wasn’t easy to transport a Nizhrak—particularly one in a force field-reinforced Starfleet containment suit. However, Refsland and the other transporter operators would have to get used to it.

  Jiterica had proved for the second time in as many months how valuable she was to this ship and crew. Captain Picard would be a fool to let her get away, even if he had to build a special chair for her so she could join her fellow crewmen in the mess hall.

  “Commander,” said the ensign as she stepped down from the platform. The visage behind her faceplate looked surprised.

  Wu smiled at her. “I wanted to congratulate you as soon as I could. What you did out there was . . .” She couldn’t find the words. “You should be proud of yourself, Ensign. I know I am.”

  Something amazing happened then. Jiterica smiled.

  “Thank you,” she said in her tinny, mechanical voice. “I am pleased to hear you say that.”

  Wu was about to tell her that she hoped to say it a lot. Then she remembered that that wouldn’t be the case—not with her rejoining Captain Rudolfini on the Crazy Horse.

  Just then, the doors to the transporter room opened again and someone else came in. Glancing over her shoulder, the commander saw that it was Ensign Paris.

  He was grinning like a hyena, looking nothing like the doubt-ravaged young man who had poured his heart out to Wu in Picard’s ready room. It was only after he saw the second officer standing there that he assumed a more professional demeanor.

  “Commander Wu,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind my coming here. I just wanted to make sure Ensign Jiterica got back all right.”

  Wu understood. She would have given into the same impulse if she had just risked her life with someone.

  “Actually,” she said, “I’m glad you’re here, Ensign.”

  Paris became concerned. “You are?”

  “Yes. I was just telling Ensign Jiterica what a wonderful job she did—and the same goes for you.”

  He seemed to take the praise in stride. “I appreciate that, Commander. But . . .” He shrugged. “I would never have had the chance if someone hadn’t had more confidence in me than I had in myself.”

  Wu felt a lump grow in her throat. She shook her head until it went away. “Don’t flatter me, Mr. Paris. Any commanding officer worth her salt would have had confidence in you.” She turned to Jiterica and added, “In both of you.”

  It was a pity that she was leaving, the commander reflected. It would have been fun to watch these ensigns grow—both as people and as professionals.

  “See you on the bridge,” she told them, and l
eft them to each other’s company.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  PICARD EMERGED from the turbolift and took in his bridge at a glance. The Asmunds were at their usual posts. Paxton was at communications. And Dubinski appeared to be instructing Ensign Nikolas in the proper use of an engineering console. It was good to be home, the captain thought.

  Nikolas was the first to glance his way. “Captain on the bridge,” he announced dutifully.

  Picard saw everyone present come to attention, the ensign included. “As you were,” he told them.

  As his officers resumed their duties, he turned to Kastiigan, who was working at the science console. “Do you know where I can find Commander Wu?”

  The Kandilkari jerked his head in the direction of the captain’s ready room. “I believe she’s in there, sir.”

  “I see,” said Picard. “Thank you, Mr. Kastiigan.”

  “I’m glad to be of service, sir,” the science officer told him, and returned to his work.

  Crossing the bridge, the captain waited outside his ready room doors for a moment—as a courtesy to Wu. When they slid aside, he walked in and saw his second officer standing behind his desk.

  “Welcome back,” she said.

  He smiled. “It’s good to be back. I understand you had a little excitement in my absence.”

  “A little,” Wu told him. “But nothing we couldn’t handle, thanks to the crew. And in particular, thanks to Ensigns Jiterica and Paris.”

  The captain was pleased to hear it.

  “They demonstrated valor and resourcefulness,” his second officer continued. “I couldn’t have been prouder of them.”

  It was high praise. “I look forward,” he said, “to reading about it your report.”

  “Which will be available for your inspection first thing in the morning,” she assured him.

  If Picard had been the second officer, he would taken the opportunity to leave the room at that juncture. However, Wu didn’t show any intention of leaving.

  He was about to ask why when she said, “I have a request, sir.”

  He shrugged. “What is it, Commander?”

  Wu hesitated. “If it’s all right with you, I would like to rescind my request for a transfer to the Crazy Horse.”

  At first, the captain thought he had heard incorrectly. “You want to stay?” he asked, just to make sure.

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  Without question, he was pleased with the decision. But he had to admit to a certain curiosity. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “what made you change your mind?”

  Wu smiled. “I’ve given it some thought—and I’ve concluded that I can do more good here than on the Crazy Horse. With certain crewmen in particular, you understand.”

  Picard looked at her. Given the way she had talked about Paris and Jiterica, he had a feeling he knew who those crewmen might be. But he was a bit puzzled.

  Do more good?

  The Nizhrak had been disoriented and isolated from the rest of the crew from the moment she had come aboard. It was clear that she had needed a helping hand from someone. But Paris didn’t seem to have needed any such help. He had appeared comfortable on the Stargazer from the beginning.

  No doubt, Picard would gain a better understanding of the situation once he read his second officer’s report. “Have you apprised Captain Rudolfini of your desire to stay with us?”

  “Not yet,” said his second officer. “I’d like to do that now, if it’s all right with you.”

  “It is,” Picard told her.

  After Wu left his ready room, he sat down in his chair and leaned back contentedly. Not only did he get to keep a good officer, he wouldn’t have to pore through personnel files searching for her replacement.

  It was shaping up to be a very pleasant homecoming. Very pleasant indeed.

  Ulelo was sitting in the mess hall, eating by himself because he couldn’t see any opportunities for intelligence-gathering among the junior-grade crewmen seated around him, when a tray full of food landed next to his own.

  He looked up and saw that the tray belonged to Emily Bender. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said.

  The comm officer didn’t know what to make of her joining him. Stalling for time to think, he glanced at her plate. “What’s that?”

  Emily Bender smiled accusingly. “Chicken and rice. I’m sure you’ve seen it before.”

  He had, in fact. “It just looked different,” he explained—rather lamely, he thought.

  She didn’t respond to his excuse. Instead, she dug her fork into her chicken and rice and said, “When we spoke in my quarters, I turned down your offer of friendship. But I’ve had some time to think about it.”

  Ulelo didn’t know what to say. The best he could do was “Oh?”

  “And I think I’d like to be your friend after all.”

  “My... friend.”

  “Yes.” She looked up at him. “If that’s what you want, of course.”

  Ulelo frowned. He didn’t know the answer to that question.

  It was critical that he put his mission above all else—and without question, a friend could complicate that mission. That was why he had been careful to keep all his acquaintances on the ship at arm’s length.

  But mere acquaintances left his need for companionship unfulfilled—and mission or no mission, a man still craved companionship. Emily Bender would fill that need if he let her—if he could cope with the idea of her getting closer to him but not too close.

  “Yes,” Ulelo found himself saying. “It’s what I want.”

  He only hoped he wouldn’t come to regret it.

  Vigo found Kastiigan in the science section, where he was running a diagnostic on a sensor bank.

  “Ah,” said the Kandilkari, favoring him with a glance. “I see you’re back from your away mission. I heard it went well—though regrettably, no one got the opportunity to perish for his comrades.”

  “Er . . . that’s right,” Vigo agreed. But he hadn’t come here to speak of his adventures on Gnala or how close they had come to perishing. “I was hoping we could talk for a moment.”

  “Of course,” said Kastiigan. He gave the weapons officer his full attention. “What about?”

  “It’s . . . about your talk of dying.” Vigo searched for some diplomatic way to make his point, but finally had to settle for the direct approach. “I find it disturbing.”

  Kastiigan looked surprised. “Disturbing...?”

  Vigo nodded. “You have to understand... we Pandrilites never speak of such things.”

  The Kandilkari’s brow furrowed. Clearly, he was making an attempt to understand his colleague’s feelings in the matter. Finally, his purple eyes brightened.

  “I see what you mean,” he said.

  Vigo smiled. “You do?”

  “Of course. Talk is of no value. All that matters is what one does—and to this point, I have not been aggressive enough in my struggle to perish for the good of my comrades.”

  The Pandrilite shook his head, horrified. “That’s not—”

  “No,” said Kastiigan, holding up a hand for silence, “there’s no need to elaborate. You have made your point most eloquently. When I perish, it will be with your friendship and kindness foremost in my mind.”

  “You don’t understand,” Vigo started to tell him.

  But before he could get all the words out, he was interrupted by the captain’s voice coming over the intercom system. “Picard to Lieutenant Kastiigan.”

  The science officer looked up. “Aye, sir?”

  “These readings you took of the sinkhole are quite remarkable. I’d like to discuss them with you in my ready room.”

  “Of course, sir. Kastiigan out.”

  “Listen,” said Vigo, still intent on clearing up the Kandilkari’s misapprehension, “I didn’t—”

  “Sorry,” Kastiigan told him, “duty calls.”

  And before the weapons officer knew it, his colleague was on his way out of the
science section. It occurred to Vigo that he could go with him, explain the matter en route.

  But by the time he decided to do that, it was too late. Kastiigan was out the door, down the corridor and out of sight, headed for the nearest turbolift.

  Vigo frowned. Perhaps he would get through to the science officer another time. But somehow, he had his doubts.

  Carter Greyhorse was lying in bed, trying to endure the assorted aches and pains he had accumulated on Gnala without the benefit of medication, when his door chimed.

  He swore beneath his breath. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat up and steeled himself. Then he got up, defying cramps in his quadriceps, his calves, and his lower back.

  “Be right there,” the doctor muttered, and began making his way from bedroom to the anteroom that stood outside it.

  The door chimed again.

  “For the love of heaven,” he sighed, “what is so urgent? I said I’d be right there.”

  The door had chimed a third time before Greyhorse made it to the center of the anteroom. Taking a deep breath, he gritted his teeth and stood up straight.

  Then he said, “Come in.”

  That’s when the doors parted and revealed the last person Greyhorse had expected to see there.

  “I heard about your adventure on Gnala,” Gerda said. She walked in and the doors hissed closed behind her. “It appears you acquitted yourself rather well.”

  Greyhorse had a feeling the navigator had only heard part of the story. Quite clearly, his comrades hadn’t told her how he held the team back by lagging behind.

  “I made a contribution or two,” he allowed modestly.

  Gerda didn’t respond. She just stood there, eyeing him with an intensity he had never seen in her before.

  “So... you’ve come to congratulate me?” he asked, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the way she was looking at him.

  The navigator’s lip curled. “More than that, Carter Greyhorse. Judging by what you accomplished on Simenon’s behalf, I believe you’re ready to attempt a new level of confrontation.”

  Greyhorse swallowed back his nervousness and looked at her askance. “I beg your pardon?”

  Gerda came closer. And as she did so, she raised her hands in a kave’ragh posture, elbows up and knuckles extended, her right hand coiled and poised to strike.