Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [74]
A pair of doors parted, revealing a corridor. Moving out into it, the ensign scanned its length in either direction. There was no evidence of any living humanoids.
But the Stargazer’s scan had indicated a number of survivors. Since Jiterica’s personal sensors didn’t have the range to locate them, she picked a direction at random and set out in search of the Belladonna’s crew.
Not much longer now, Simenon thought as he pelted over the dark, spongy ground, barely able to feel his legs.
A couple of kilometers at most, he promised himself. Just a couple of kilometers. Then the ritual would all be over, one way or the other.
His friends were all around him, ahead and behind, coping with varying degrees of exhaustion. Their breath rasped in their throats and they grunted every so often, evidence of how hard they were struggling not to let him down.
Simenon hadn’t seen any sign of the Aklaash or the Fejjimaera since he left them on the stone wall, but he had a feeling they weren’t far behind. If he stopped and listened, he would probably hear them thrashing through the woods on an unseen trail, desperate to close the distance between Simenon’s party and their own.
All the more reason to keep going, he told himself. To fend off any thoughts of slowing down for a moment, no matter how tempting they might be. To ignore the savage throbbing in his banged-up ribs and the ache in his damaged arm.
Funny, Simenon thought. In the end, his intellectual superiority over his competitors hadn’t made the slightest bit of difference. The only smart thing he had done was refrain from arguing too much when he found Picard and the others standing on that transporter pad. If not for them, he would have lost this race a long time ago.
Suddenly, he felt something sticky on his face. He brushed it aside with his good hand. Then he felt it again. And again.
Sedgmaya, Simenon realized with disgust. Ugly little creatures not much bigger than one of his fingers. They stretched their secretions from tree to tree to catch insects, in the manner of Terran spiders.
Actually, he was lucky. Fully spun sedgmaya webs would have been a lot heavier—heavy enough to wrap themselves around him and slow his progress along the trail. Obviously, it had rained in the last few days, forcing the slimy little beasts to begin spinning new webs.
No, Simenon thought, even in the midst of his exertions. That can’t be right. If it had rained, he wouldn’t have seen those footprints back at the bridge.
Or maybe it had rained, he allowed, and the footprints weren’t as old as he thought—not even as old as the last ritual. If that were so, someone other than a ritual runner had left them there—having snuck into the forest without anyone noticing and sabotaged the bridge.
But who? Other than one of Simenon’s rivals, who would have had something to gain if he fell into the chasm? Who would have benefited if he had died or couldn’t finish the race?
And then it came to him, like a bolt of lightning in a vast summer sky.
Anger rose into his throat and threatened to choke him. No, he insisted. I can’t afford to think about this now. I need to concentrate on reaching the clearing.
“Damn!” said Ben Zoma, who was running just ahead of Simenon.
“What is it?” the Gnalish demanded.
The first officer jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s the Aklaash,” he said with uncharacteristic solemnity. “They’re making a race out of it.”
Simenon didn’t want to look at them. He knew it would only slow him down. But he looked anyway—and his heart sank.
He could see the Aklaash moving through the scarlet trees, showing not the least sign of fatigue, their long strides devouring the ground in gulps. Slowly but surely, they were catching up. And Simenon’s party still had at least a kilometer to go before it reached the finish line.
The Gnalish darted a glance back over his shoulder at Greyhorse. As usual, the doctor was bringing up the rear. Simenon swore beneath