Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [44]
Joseph grunted. “This from the guy who shoves sturrd down his throat? I’ll take worm waste over that stuff any day.” And to prove his point, he began munching on one of his crackers.
Picard tried one of his own and found it wasn’t nearly as bad as Simenon had made it sound. Besides, they were going to be in the woods for some time, and he would sooner trust a cracker than something he found growing in the wild.
Another black-robed guard came by and gave each of them something else—not food this time, but a tapered wooden club about a meter long and a belted sheath to go with it. The captain turned the club over in his hands.
Then he glanced at Simenon. “This is a tellek?”
The engineer nodded. “The only weapon any of us is allowed.”
Simenon had described it to Picard and the others the night before. It had sounded formidable. But now that the captain held it in his hands and saw how light it was, he was a good deal less confident about its effectiveness. Nonetheless, he put on the belt and stuck the tellek in its sheath, and watched his companions do the same.
For a few minutes, they ate their crackers and watched Gnala’s sun come up through the branches of the densely packed forest. Then one of the white-robed ones made his way to the center of the clearing and raised his bony hand.
“Come on,” said Simenon.
He led the way to a narrow trail radiating from the clearing—one of three distinct pathways through the woods that began just a few meters apart. Kasaelek approached the trail on their left. Banyohla approached the one on their right.
The Assemblage’s representative said something slow and rhythmic, something that seemed to find willing accompaniment in the soft plaint of the morning breeze. Picard’s universal translator had a devil of a time making any sense of it.
But then, he didn’t have to understand the words. All he had to do was watch for the fall of the elder’s hand, because that was the gesture that would signal the start of the race.
The captain glanced at Simenon. He looked like a Markoffian sea lizard, coiled and ready to strike.
As Picard thought this, the elder in the white robe stopped singing. His hand fell like a dying bird. And the captain plunged forward alongside Simenon, for the ritual had begun.
Gerda Asmund was checking her monitors for unexpected obstacles on the course she had plotted when her sister spoke up.
“All right, what is it?” asked Idun, who was sitting beside her at the helm console.
Gerda glanced at her. “What do you mean?”
“Your expression,” her sister said knowingly. “You seem concerned about something.”
The navigator frowned. Was it that obvious?
“I was wondering how the captain and the others were faring on Gnala,” she said. It was the truth, more or less.
“They’ve been in my thoughts as well.” Idun made a sound of disgust, loud enough only for her twin to hear. “They should have taken us with them.”
“They couldn’t,” Gerda reminded her. “The ritual in which they’re participating is restricted to males.”
Her sister dismissed the idea with a sound of disgust. “If it were a Klingon ritual, there would be no such restriction.”
Gerda nodded. “True.”
Klingons were more egalitarian than most other species in that regard. When it came to fighting, to killing and being killed, males and females were on the same footing.
“Nonetheless,” said Idun, “they will acquit themselves well—I am certain of it. The captain is a brave and clever individual. Likewise, Ben Zoma and Simenon.”
“What about the others?” Gerda asked.
Her sister shrugged. “What Joseph lacks in experience he makes up in determination. And Vigo... few humanoids have his strength.”
She had failed to mention only one member of the party. What’s more, Gerda understood the omission. Despite Greyhorse’s size and the handful of lessons she had given him, he wasn’t much of a fighter.
Then why had she tutored him in the martial arts? Why had she spent precious hours with him in the gym when she could have been honing her own fighting skills or studying her navigation charts?
Yes, she thought.