Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [36]
His rivals glowered at him. He glowered back, measure for measure.
“The fact remains,” Simenon went on, “that it’s in the Assemblage’s power to grant my request—to give me the help I need to compete on an even footing. Anything less would ensure my defeat.”
The High One looked pensive. “What you’re suggesting is unprecedented, Simenon. But you’re correct in your contention that all competitors should have an equal chance to win.”
“High One,” the giant spat, “this is—”
The councillor whirled and hissed, imposing silence on the speaker. “You will address us when you’re given permission to do so.”
The giant inclined his head in contrition. “Of course,” he said. “I meant no disrespect.”
It was then that someone new entered the chamber through its only door. As Simenon was facing the Assemblage, he couldn’t turn to see who it was. It was only after the newcomer had sat down alongside the other Gnalish that the engineer caught a glimpse of him.
And cursed in the privacy of his mind.
“I would like to speak,” said the newcomer.
The High One nodded. “You may do so.”
Simenon sighed. He hadn’t prepared for this possibility, though in retrospect he realized he should have.
“I’m Lennil Ornitharen,” the newcomer told the Assemblage. “Phigus Simenon’s cousin. Despite his claim to the contrary, he doesn’t have to recruit offworlders to help him in the ritual. He has living kin on this world. He has me.”
The councillors muttered beneath their collective breath and exchanged meaningful glances. Only the High One withheld comment until he could present Simenon with the obvious question.
“Is it possible you have a cousin, after all?”
The engineer heaved a sigh. “Ornitharen is my cousin, yes. But he’s my second cousin. And believe me, I’m grateful for his offer of assistance, which—as you know—extends above and beyond the mandate of our customs and traditions.
“However, I decline to include him in my entourage, which the ritual laws limit to six companions—not as a matter of affection, but as a practical matter. I know from experience that Ornitharen isn’t made for physical exertion. He pales in comparison even with other Gnalish of my subspecies, whereas my human and Pandrilite friends are hardy examples of their kind.”
He regarded his cousin with an expression of regret. “I don’t have the luxury of worrying about his feelings, High One. I’ve got to think about survival—-not only my own, but that of my bloodline.”
Ornitharen began to protest the decision, but the High One stopped him. “Simenon is the generational leader of your clan. You lack the standing to argue with him.”
If the look on Ornitharen’s face was any indication, he wasn’t happy about the High One’s remark. Nonetheless, he managed to remain silent, bending to his cousin’s will.
Apparently satisfied with Ornitharen’s response—or rather, his lack of one—the High One told Simenon, “We of the Assemblage must weigh what we have heard here. We will let you know when we’ve come to a decision in this matter.”
The engineer would have preferred an answer then and there—but only if it was the right answer. As he had indicated to the Assemblage, the wrong one would ensure his defeat.
“I wait patiently,” he told the High One, “trusting in your wisdom.” As if he had a choice.
McAteer regarded the Bolian seated on the other side of the black plastic table. Like all Bolians, he had light blue skin and a ridge that ran from the nape of his neck to somewhere under his chin.
His name was Shalay. He was the second officer on the New Orleans, a starship that had once been a state of the-art prototype and was now far from it.
By human standards, the fellow was quite handsome, quite charming. No doubt, he did well with the ladies. And if the admiral’s reports were accurate, Shalay was prepared to make a career move.
“You know,” said McAteer, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Shalay. I’ve heard good things about you.”
Truthfully, Shalay’s file hadn’t contained anything spectacular.