Day of Honor - Michael Jan Friedman [45]
The abendaar, meanwhile, were flooding the dry channel like a dark and malevolent riptide, tossing their triangular, tufted heads and beating the sand with their rock-hard hooves. The Doctor spared only a glance at them, but the sight wasn't encouraging.
He ran as hard as he could, his arms pumping, his feet digging into the riverbedwith all the rapidity he could muster. But as fast as the Doctor raced, as hard as he pushed himself, it was clearly not fast enough. The beasts behind him were gaining on him at an alarming rate, while the Phaelonians were gradually leaving him behind.
Come on, the Doctor urged himself. Accelerate. Get a move on, you laggard.
But he couldn't. In fact, it became more and more difficult merely to maintain the same pace. His physical limitations, never an issue before, were suddenly and shockingly brought to the fore.
This was a new experience for him, and not a very
pleasant one. The Doctor would have stopped altogether but for his determination to complete the holiday experience.
The snorting and pounding behind him was increasingly audible. Wretched animals, he thought. Didn't t.iey have anything better to do with their time than ru% down the premiere physician in the quadrant?
Gradually, the Doctor felt himself faltering. Slowing down, despite his desire to the contrary.
The abendaar, however, showed no signs of sympathy. If anything, their eyes seemed to get wilder, their chomping more furious, the roar of their progress ever more deafening.
The heat, meanwhile, was intense, almost tangible. It attacked him from within and without, seeming to rob him of energy.
As he plumbed himself for some reserve he hadn't yet tapped, he made a mental note to add more stamina to his program.
Thinking this, distracted by it, the Doctor stumbled-and nearly pitched forward in the riverbed. But somehow, he caught himself and kept on.
How much longer could this go on? he wondered. How much longer could he push his holographic form to its limits?
Then the Doctor saw them. Up ahead, in the distance. Two crowds of Phaelonians, one on each side of the riverbed.
Unlike the runners, these people were dressed all in white. And some of them were kneeling along the banks, as if they wished to get as intimate with the action as possible.
By then, the Doctor was nine or ten strides behind even the slowest of the Phaelonian sprinters, and as.
many as fifteen behind the quickest. But he could see the leaders splitting off to one side of the riverbed or the other.
As they approached the crowds, those who were kneeling knelt even lower. Then they stretched their arms out toward the runners.
Abruptly, the Doctor figured out their intent. The white-garbed Phaelonians were going to lift their black-garbed brethren out of harm's way.
That is, he added, if they made it there in time.
At the moment, it looked as if every one of the native racers would do that. The lone exception was the Doctor himself.
Once more, he allowed himself a glance at the beasts pursuing him. Immediately, he wished he hadn't. They were even closer than he had imagined-fifty meters at best-and they were getting closer with each thunderous beat of their hooves.
Facing forward again, he set his sights on his potential saviors. As the first of the runners reached them, he was swept up out of the riverbed and embraced by the crowd. On the other side, another runner was pulled out of harm's way. And another.
The sprinters seemed exhilarated-intoxicated with their triumph. The Doctor longed to feel the same thrill, but he had a long way to go.
The abendaar behind him grunted and whined in their attempts to overtake him. He could smell their musky odor. He could even feel their hot breath on his neck.
Up ahead, most of the other runners had finished
their race, and the crowds on the banks were plucking more of them out of the channel every second. Only a handful of stragglers remained.
And even they had a lead on the Doctor.
He lifted his chin and thrust out