Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [60]
Simenon was glad that Picard was taking the time to prepare for his effort. It gave the Gnalish some confidence that his captain might actually survive it.
Next, Picard turned his back on the chasm and walked back into the depths of the forest, brushing aside the odd branch as he retraced the steps their team had taken to get here. By Simenon’s reckoning, the man was nearly thirty meters from the group before a tree trunk that had fallen across the trail prevented him from going any farther.
Turning around, the captain regarded the chasm again. He took a breath and let it out slowly. Then he said, “Would someone be so kind as to get those branches out of my way?”
Even with his side aching and his right arm all but useless, Simenon was able to pull a branch back and hold it there. Each of his comrades did the same thing, clearing all obstructions from Picard’s path.
Simenon saw the captain’s brow furrow. He half-expected Picard to finally yield to reason and admit that the feat was too much for him.
But as he was thinking this, he saw Picard lower his head and launch himself forward. Arms pumping, legs churning, he pelted past the Gnalish a good deal faster than Simenon would have ever predicted, the heels of his heavy-duty boots tearing up the spongy ground and throwing up bits of it in his wake.
The captain gained speed all the way to the near edge of the chasm, then sprang suddenly into the air. For a moment, he rose like a big, dark bird, arms and legs cycling ferociously. Then, as his momentum died, he began to lose altitude.
“Come on,” Simenon heard someone say.
Come on, he echoed silently.
For one heart-stopping fraction of a second, the engineer was sure that Picard would fall short of the other side. Then the captain tucked his legs beneath him and threw his arms forward, giving himself the added impetus that he needed.
Simenon cheered inwardly when he saw Picard’s heels hit the ground just past the sheer drop of the ravine. The captain had surprised him. He had done it.
But as Simenon watched, horrified, it became clear to him that there was something wrong. The captain was still in jeopardy after all.
He seemed to be struggling to keep his weight forward on the spongy, uncertain turf. And little by little, he was losing the battle. Before the Gnalish’s disbelieving eyes, Picard staggered back just half a step—but half a step was all it took to send him sliding toward the depths of the crevasse.
“No!” Simenon cried out.
And somehow, as if in response to his anguished cry, the captain stopped falling.
Apparently, he had latched onto something before he could be swallowed by the abyss. As pieces of turf and debris spiraled down into the crevasse and were lost to sight, the Gnalish saw that it was a protruding root that had saved Picard’s life.
“Hang on!” Ben Zoma shouted. “I’ll be right there!” And he darted back into the depths of the forest to get the same kind of running jump the captain had gotten.
“No, you won’t!” Picard bellowed back at his first officer. Then, still dangling from the errant root, he added in a voice full of forced calm, “Stay where you are, Number One. I can do this on my own.”
Ben Zoma didn’t look happy about it, but he returned to the brink of the crevasse. Then he stood there with Simenon and the others, watching as the captain swung a leg over the edge of the cliff and—finding a dependable handhold hidden under the lip of turf—laboriously wrestled himself to safety.
For several seconds, Picard lay on his back on the spongy ground, breathing deep draughts of air. It occurred to Simenon that he might have injured himself in his climb.
Just what we need, the Gnalish told himself.
“Are you all right, Captain?” Greyhorse called, obviously thinking the same thing.
“I’m... fine,” Picard called back, gasping between words. “Couldn’t ...be better.”
Slowly, he rolled over onto his belly, pushed himself up, and got to his feet. Then