Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [56]
Even a pod would have been too much, the engineer said. But then, even the smallest one weighed nearly a metric ton. And there wasn’t anything lighter than a pod. . . .
Or was there?
Wu’s eyes snapped open.
Could they send in a probe with instructions for the scientists? Maybe one they had stripped of its instruments and propulsion capabilities, to reduce the mass their tractor beam had to handle?
For a moment, it sounded as if it might work. Then the commander thought about it some more and her heart sank. Sure, they could send in a probe. But what would it do when it got there? How would it gain access to the interior of the Belladonna?
Probes couldn’t open hatches. Probes couldn’t canvass the research ship for survivors among the crew regardless of where they might have decided to gather.
Only a rescue team could do that. And no rescue team Wu had ever heard of could survive in a radiation-shot environment full of fierce, bone-crushing graviton waves.
All of a sudden, it came to her that she was wrong about that. Dead wrong. There was such a rescue team. And it was waiting for her in blissful ignorance on a lower deck of the Stargazer.
Chapter Seventeen
PICARD WAS JOGGING side by side with Simenon, the rest of their party a bit behind them, when he remarked that the trees ahead of them seemed to be thinning.
“You’re right,” the Gnalish observed.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later that Picard saw the reason for it. That was when he found himself standing at the brink of a narrow but remarkably deep crevasse that appeared to cut the wild tangle of forestland in half.
Fortunately, there was a way at hand for the group to make their way across the half-dozen meters of treeless space. But it wasn’t one that inspired a great deal of confidence.
“A bridge,” said Greyhorse, a lock of his dark hair lifting in the swirling winds that held sway here.
“If one can call it that,” Ben Zoma added.
To Picard, it looked more like a quartet of thick, scarlet ropes, two above and two below, with the latter supporting a series of short, wooden planks and the former serving as crude handrails. There were also a few short lines that connected the upper ropes with the lower ones.
“Looks old,” said Vigo.
“And rickety,” Joseph added.
“It was built some time ago,” Simenon confirmed.
“Decades?” Greyhorse asked.
“Centuries,” the Gnalish told them.
Picard looked at him, an expression of surprise on his face. “And it’s still standing?”
“It was built to last,” Simenon explained. “Also, it’s maintained on a regular basis.”
“What’s regular?” Joseph asked.
“Every few weeks,” the engineer replied.
“So it should be safe,” the captain concluded, though he didn’t sound as sure of himself as he might have intended.
“Should be,” Simenon agreed.
“You think it can hold me?” Vigo asked.
“If it can hold an Aklaash,” the Gnalish reasoned, “I would think it can hold a Pandrilite.”
Joseph looked at him. “How do you know it can hold an Aklaash? I thought this route was just for Mazzereht.”
“This time it’s for Mazzereht,” Simenon told him. “Last time, it might have been for a party of Aklaash, or Fejjimaera. The routes are doled out at random.”
“Hey!” said Joseph. He was standing on the brink of the ravine and pointing to something far to their right. “There’s another bridge down that way. Maybe it’s sturdier than this one.”
“It’s not,” the engineer assured him. “And even if it were, we couldn’t use it.”
“Why not?” asked Greyhorse.
“Because,” said Simenon, “that’s the one the Fejjimaera are going to use. We’ve all got to cross the ravine somewhere. The Fejjimaera are going to cross it down there.”
Ben Zoma grunted. “So we’re stuck with this bridge.”
“In a manner of speaking,” said the Gnalish, “yes.”
As he said that, the wind whistled a little more insistently and the bridge swayed drunkenly under its influence. Seeing it, they all fell silent—Simenon included.
“Listen,” said Picard, breaking the spell, “it’s not as if we have a lot of choice in