Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [42]
Unfortunately, each pack was more or less decimated in the struggle. Few males emerged from the struggle whole and even fewer reached a ripe old age.
As time went on and civilization took hold on Gnala, the impulse to fertilize was channeled into other pursuits. It became less of a biological imperative and more a matter of personal pride. Finally, a couple of thousand years earlier, the ritual began to resemble its current, considerably less bloody form.
Not that Gnalish didn’t get hurt in the course of the ritual; they did. And on occasion, their injuries were fatal. But at least most of them survived to tell the tale.
On the other hand, as Simenon had told them, those who lost the race sometimes didn’t wish to survive. That was because each Gnalish male had one chance and one chance only to succeed in the ritual—and the prospect of never seeing one’s progeny walk the earth was sometimes too much for them to bear.
So if Simenon seemed grim and fidgety, he had a right to be that way. In a sense, countless generations of his bloodline were depending on him—both those who had come before him and those who might come after. Picard didn’t envy him that burden.
And to complicate the matter, Simenon wouldn’t be racing against his equals. He would be racing against representatives of Gnala’s two other subspecies, the Aklaash and the Fejjimaera.
In this case, they were the Gnalish who had spoken against the engineer in the Great Hall. Kasaelek, the pale-skinned giant at whom the elder had hissed, was a product of the towering subspecies called the Aklaash. The light-and-dark specimen was Banyohla, who represented the small, slender Fejjimaera.
Simenon had outlined the other subspecies’ advantages for his colleagues. The captain recalled his engineer’s words as if he had spoken them only moments earlier.
“The Aklaash are big and unspeakably strong and they tend to fare well in the ritual, which is why they’re easily the most populous subspecies on Gnala.”
“I see. And the Fejjimaera?” Picard had asked.
“They’re smaller than I am, but a hell of a lot quicker. Also, they have a considerable talent for camouflage.”
“And do they fare well in the ritual also?”
“Almost as well as the Aklaash, as a matter of fact. Finally, there’s the subspecies to which I belong—the Mazzereht. We perform the worst of all, and by a wide margin.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the captain had said.
Simenon had frowned. “So am I. But there’s no way around it. Strength and speed are big assets in the wild.”
“But if your subspecies has survived at all, Nature must have given it some assets of its own.”
“She did,” Simenon had told him.
“And what are they?”
“She gave us... brains.”
Simenon hadn’t said it with any real optimism. Clearly, for the purposes of the ritual, he would have preferred that his people possess some more physical attribute.
Nor could Picard blame him.
He regarded Simenon now. The engineer’s eyes were hard and alert, the eyes of a being about to meet the challenge of his life. And not just a challenge, but a test of his ability to survive.
The captain and the others could help him here and there. They could lend him support in his struggle. But ultimately, the test was Simenon’s to pass or fail.
“Well?” Ben Zoma asked, inadvertently breaking into the captain’s reverie. “What are we waiting for?”
The first officer had finished getting dressed and seemed eager to get going. They all seemed that way—even Dr. Greyhorse, though he still looked a little bleary-eyed.
Picard looked back at Simenon. “Are you ready?” he asked as gently as he could.
The Gnalish scowled at him. “I’d better be, hadn’t I?”
Chapter Thirteen
AS PICARD AND THE OTHERS ISSUED from their sleeping chamber in the thin morning light, a white-robed Elder and two of his Aklaash bodyguards were already waiting for them.
“You will follow me,” said the figure in