Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [54]
“No one’s trying harder than I am,” Greyhorse wheezed.
“I didn’t say you weren’t trying,” Simenon shot back. “All I’m saying is that—”
He stopped in midsentence as something dark darted across the path and leaped into his backpack. Muttering a curse, the Gnalish reached for the pack, but he was too late.
Whatever it was had emerged with Simenon’s package of extra crackers and was dragging it off into the forest.
“Stop it!” the Gnalish cried.
Picard, who was closest to it, managed to head the thing off. It was then that he got his first good look at it.
The creature was small and slender with black, matted fur, a long reddish tail, and tiny paws. Picard would have sworn it was a Terran rat if not for the high, bony ridge in the center of its skull.
It stopped and looked at him for a second with its black, oval eyes, as if it were wondering what kind of smooth-skinned monstrosity had wandered into its forest. Then, with blinding speed, the creature whirled and darted back toward the path, still dragging Simenon’s cracker package along with it.
By then, the others had come after it as well. But when the thing scampered back into their midst, it made them spin and dance with the awkward determination of Tellarites at a Regency ball.
“It’s behind you!”
“Over there!”
“No,” said Picard, pointing to the thing as it scurried past him, “over there!”
Every time the creature made a move to elude them, someone blocked its escape route. And after a while, their efforts began to take a toll on the rodent. It moved less quickly and unpredictably, became easier to track with one’s eyes.
It still could have slipped into the brush and eluded its pursuers if it had relinquished its hold on their food supply. But having come this far, the creature seemed reluctant to part with its prize.
Finally, Picard and his officers surrounded it, blocking its escape at every turn. At that point, it was just a matter of retrieving the package of crackers.
“Stay where you are,” the Gnalish snapped. “I’ll get it.” And he moved in to recover what was his.
“Feel free,” said Ben Zoma.
“It’s all yours,” Joseph told him.
Hunkering down low, Simenon eyed the rodent. Then he advanced on it with a hunter’s purposefulness. “I’ll teach you to steal my food,” he said softly.
“You can teach him to steal mine, too,” Greyhorse remarked dryly.
The rodent didn’t move a muscle. It just sat there on its hind legs, its furry, ridged head tilted to one side, watching the engineer as if mesmerized by him.
“That’s right,” Simenon hissed approvingly. “Just stay there one moment longer, you filthy duwiijuc—”
Suddenly, he darted forward and grabbed for the creature. But as he did so, the rodent darted forward, too—right between the Gnalish’s legs. And before Simenon could do anything about it, the thing had grabbed hold of his tail.
A cry of rage and indignation boiling up from his throat, the engineer switched his appendage back and forth in an attempt to dislodge his tormentor. But it didn’t work. The rodent hung on as if its life depended on it—and maybe it did.
Cursing like a drunken Klingon, Simenon bent over and tried to reach for it through his legs. But that didn’t work very well either. The rodent managed to remain just out of reach.
By then, everyone was laughing so hard it hurt. They couldn’t help themselves. The only exceptions were Greyhorse, who never laughed, and of course Simenon himself.
Finally, Picard couldn’t stand it any longer. “Stay in one spot,” he told his engineer, “and I’ll get it off.”
“Easy for you to say!” Simenon hissed. “You haven’t got a duwiijuc eating you inch by inch!”
Nonetheless, he managed to remain still until the captain could grab the rodent by its furry torso. Trying not to get bitten himself, Picard pulled the creature off Simenon’s appendage. Then he flung it into the crimson brush.
As soon as Simenon was free of the thing, he brought