Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [75]
An inexcusable ignorance of his physical conditioning, the Gnalish thought. A complete and utter failure to question whether Greyhorse would be an asset or a liability.
He knew the answer to that question now, though, didn’t he? Unfortunately, it was a bit too late for him to do anything about it.
Just then, Simenon saw Vigo move to the side of the trail and fall behind. What now? he thought. Had the weapons officer chosen that moment to pull up lame?
Then he realized that Vigo wasn’t hurt, after all. He had just dropped back to join the doctor. Pulling Greyhorse’s arm over his right shoulder, the Pandrilite threw his own arm around the doctor’s middle and started forward with him.
What’s more, Greyhorse didn’t utter a protest. He had run out of steam and he knew it. With Vigo helping to support him, the two oversize beings lumbered toward the clearing.
And they still had a lead on the Aklaash. As long as they maintained that, they couldn’t lose.
The muscles in Simenon’s legs burned like fire. His throat hurt so much he couldn’t swallow. But he was close to the end, just a few minutes away from it. He could endure anything—any pain, any suffering.
Especially if it meant avoiding a lifetime of regret.
Then he saw it—the clearing. The eggs, he thought, his primal instincts coming to the fore. He could feel them somehow, a presence that drew him on unerringly.
But the Aklaash must have sensed the egg cache, too, because they began to close the gap more quickly. Simenon could hear them cursing each other, taunting each other, inciting their comrades to demand more and more of themselves.
The engineer’s heart pounded in his chest, spurred by anxiety as much as by the nearness of the eggs. He would never have believed he could run so far or so fast, especially after the beating he had taken in the crevasse. But he was doing it. He was dredging up every last bit of strength as he closed in on the clearing.
The trail rose, dipped, and rose again. Simenon could hear the Aklaash, their voices cracking like whips. He didn’t have to look back again to know that they were gaining ground, driving toward the finish line with all the power they could muster.
But Vigo was a powerhouse, too. And he was using his strength to propel Greyhorse along faster than the doctor could ever have managed on his own.
Come on, Simenon thought. Come on...
The clearing was right in front of them now. He could see the white robes of the Elders, waiting to proclaim a victor. He could see the black robes of their bodyguards, there to make sure that all transpired in accordance with the law.
The Aklaash started cheering as if they had already won. But Simenon resisted the temptation to cast another glance in their direction. He would see them soon enough.
The trees parted before him and the path widened, giving him a better view of those who awaited him. His breath was coming in sobs now, in strangled groans, his lungs incapable of taking in enough air to meet the demands of his straining body.
A little farther, Simenon told himself, his mouth dry as dust, his eyes starting to lose their focus. For your brothers. For all those who came before...
And with that thought burning in his brain, the Gnalish burst into the sacred clearing.
He wasn’t alone, either. There were bodies plunging past him on either side. Human bodies. Three of them.
Falling to his knees, Simenon turned and looked for his last two comrades. They were close, closer than he had thought they would be, Greyhorse’s arm still slung across Vigo’s massive shoulders as they lumbered forward.
But the Aklaash were close, too. They raged toward the clearing down their separate trail, a juggernaut of muscle and bone, the evolutionary apogee of Gnalish strength and endurance.
Run! Simenon thought, urging his comrades on. For love of the gods, run!
Wheezing and gasping every bit as badly as Greyhorse, Vigo all but carried the doctor into the clearing. At the last moment, the two of them stumbled and