Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [61]
“Toss it over,” Picard said.
Vigo, the strongest of them, was the one who tossed it. Even so, it took him three tries to reach the captain.
Picard secured the end of the bridge temporarily with a few of the heaviest rocks around. Then he found a big, dead tree trunk in the brush and rolled it on for good measure.
Unfortunately, what was left was no longer something one could walk all the way across. The line of the handrails converged with the bridge’s floor by the time they reached the captain’s side of the ravine, making it necessary for Simenon and the others to crawl across.
But at least there was something to crawl on. If not for the captain, there wouldn’t even have been that.
As before, Simenon figured he would be first to use the bridge. After all, he was the reason they were all out here. But before he could take a step onto the wooden planks, Ben Zoma stopped him.
“Let me,” he said.
The engineer’s first impulse was to protest. But when he thought about it, he had to admit that it made sense. If the bridge failed them again, Ben Zoma could save himself. It would be a lot more difficult for a Gnalish with bruised ribs and strained muscles in his arm.
Simenon held his breath as the first officer made his way across the span. But it actually swayed less than when it was whole, and Ben Zoma passed the halfway point without anything catastrophic happening. A couple of moments later, he reached out for Picard’s hand and joined the captain on the other side.
“Vigo’s next,” Picard said.
Again, a rational approach. The weapons officer was heavier than any of them, though Greyhorse ran a close second. If the bridge could hold Vigo’s weight, it could hold anyone’s.
Picard’s construction methods passed that test, too. As Vigo completed the crossing, the captain nodded approvingly. “Now the rest of you. One at a time, of course.”
Simenon wouldn’t have had it any other way. He went next, using his tail to support and steady himself in place of his right arm. Then came Joseph and a shaky-looking Greyhorse.
Once the doctor was across, Simenon was ready to get going again. But Joseph knelt by the end of the bridge and lingered there.
“What is it?” Picard asked him.
The security officer held up the end of one of the ropes where it stuck out from beneath a rock. “Take a look at this, sir.”
The captain came over to inspect the rope-end more closely. So did Simenon, his curiosity aroused.
“It’s not frayed,” Joseph pointed out to them. “It’s been cut.”
Simenon could see that the man was right in his assessment. The end of the rope had been neatly sliced.
Greyhorse frowned. “It looks like someone didn’t want us crossing this bridge.”
“Or winning the race,” Vigo added.
Picard turned to Simenon, his expression a stern one. “Who do you think it might have been?”
The Gnalish was at a loss. “I have no idea. “Kasaelek’s party, Banyohla’s... who knows?”
“These might tell us something,” said Joseph.
He had hunkered down next to a patch of dried mud—a rare patch, given the ubiquitousness of the spongy ground cover on which they had made most of their trek.
“What are they?” asked Vigo.
The group gathered around the security officer now. “Footprints,” he said. He looked up at Simenon. “And they’re recent, by the look of them.”
Simenon moved to the spot and placed his foot beside one of the prints. Then he shook his head. “Unfortunately,” he told Ben Zoma, “these are my size. They must have been left by the Mazzereht party that came through here last cycle.” A cycle was about the length of a Terran week.
“And a party of Mazzereht wouldn’t have sabotaged the bridge,” Greyhorse noted. He glanced at the engineer. “Would they?”
“Of course not,” Simenon said. He stared at the prints for a moment longer, then turned to the bridge and considered that as well. It had to be one of his competitors.
But which one?
“It’s a mystery,” Ben Zoma said.
Simenon nodded. “A mystery indeed.”
He turned to the trail ahead. It led through another