Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [40]
Greyhorse didn’t read Gnalish, so he had no idea what sort of wisdom the glyphs were meant to impart. However, he was intrigued by the patterns that seemed to emerge for him.
In fact, the more he looked for them, the more they seemed to reveal themselves to him. And the more they revealed themselves, the more he got the feeling that he had seen them somewhere before.
It can’t be, the doctor told himself. I’ve never set foot on Gnala before. And I’ve never seen anything of Simenon’s that might have borne these markings.
But he had seen them somewhere. He was certain of it.
Greyhorse had to stare at the stone for some time, kneeling before it and examining it in the moonlight, before he realized why the markings seemed so familiar. They were reminiscent of a genetic data map he had helped to compile back in medical school.
The doctor recalled it as if it were yesterday. He and his classmates had been given tiny batches of cellular material that belonged to an eel-bird, a denizen of the fifth planet in the Regulus system, and were asked to identify each of the creature’s genes by its unique sequence of purine and pyrimidine bases.
He had learned more from that simple exercise than almost any other facet of his medical education, perhaps because the professor involved was so passionate about his work. He had promised his students that they would never forget what eel-bird genes looked like—and, in fact, Greyhorse had never forgotten.
He nodded to himself now as he gazed at the markings on the moonlit stone. Yes, he told himself, there is a remarkable similarity to that eel-bird map.
Was it just a coincidence—or something else? After all, the ritual in which he and his companions were about to take part would determine whose traits would survive in the Gnalish gene pool and whose would be lost to the pool forever.
Could Simenon’s ancestors have understood the concept of genetics—and not just at the relatively superficial level of common sense? Could they have had the wherewithal to track the makeup of the species from generation to generation?
The medical officer sat back on his haunches and ran his fingertips over the markings. They were sharp-edged enough to have been carved just the day before. But this was an ancient complex according to Simenon, one that had been used for thousands of years. More than likely, the stone was as ancient as the rest of it.
And if that were so...
Greyhorse frowned. The Gnalish hadn’t climbed the ladder of technological development any more quickly than his forebears on Earth. If anything, Simenon’s people had been a little slower. To suggest that they’d enjoyed a grasp of advanced genetics thousands of years ago didn’t seem likely.
But then, things weren’t always what they seemed. A good scientist had to keep an open mind.
Greyhorse resolved to ask Simenon about the stone in the morning. Maybe he could shed some light on it.
Standing, the doctor stared at it some more, tilting his head so he could appraise it from another angle. Now that he knew where to look for the patterns, they were hard to miss.
Just then, a chill invaded the alcove—a sharp breath of unexpectedly cold air. It reminded Greyhorse that it was time he got back to the sleeping chamber. He would need his strength if he were going to be of any help to his colleagues in the morning.
And he had to be of considerable help to them if he were going to impress Gerda with his accomplishments.
With some reluctance, Greyhorse left the stone behind. Then he made his way back around the perimeter of the sanctum, Gnala’s moon diligently lighting his way.
As Errigo Shalay entered his captain’s ready room, he saw that she was intent on her monitor.
“Have a seat,” said DeMontreville, a stern-looking woman with a square jaw and short, dirty-blond hair.
Shalay sat down opposite his superior and watched her eyes move back and forth in the glare of her screen. A message from Starfleet, he thought. It