Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [81]
Kasaelek was still dazed, but not to the point where he couldn’t understand his comrade’s instructions. Delving into a pocket of his own, he felt around for a moment. Then he drew his hand out and showed the elders a white stone with black etchings.
The insadja’tu, Picard thought. Little more than a pebble. And this would decide the outcome of the ritual?
They had come so far, gotten through so much. They had won by every reasonable standard. It wasn’t fair for Simenon’s bloodline to be ended forever on a mere technicality. At least it seemed that way to his Terran mode of thinking.
But that weren’t on Earth, the captain had to remind himself. They were on Gnala, and what seemed like a mere technicality to him here may have made perfect sense to Simenon’s people.
“I have no choice,” the elder said, “but to award Kasaelak the victory. That is, if he can transcribe the glyphs that appear on his insadja’tu without error.”
Kasaelak laughed despite the bludegeoning he had endured. Clearly, he didn’t believe he would have any trouble doing what the elder had suggested—not when he had his little white stone for reference.
Simenon’s head drooped and he looked away. It didn’t seem he could bear to watch.
Nonetheless, the Aklaash moved into the center of the clearing, where he found a patch of soft, dark ground unconcealed by the spongy stuff. Then he pulled out his tellek and used it to make a line.
“Wait a minute,” said Greyhorse, who was standing next to the crestfallen Simenon. “That’s what the insadja’tu is for? So you can draw glyphs in the ground?”
“That’s what it’s for,” the engineer confirmed.
“What if you could draw the glyphs without the stone?” asked the medical officer.
“What if I could fly?” Simenon rasped bitterly. “Without the stone, I can’t do a thing.”
For the first time, Picard saw Greyhorse become angry. “Answer me, damn you,” said the doctor.
Surprised, the engineer looked up at him. “The law of ritual calls for a drawing. That’s it. But—”
Greyhorse didn’t let him finish. Limping out into the center of the clearing, he stopped in front of where Kasaelak was kneeling.
“Get out of my way,” the Aklaash growled, an unmistakable promise of violence in his voice.
But the chief medical officer didn’t answer him. He spoke to the elders instead. “I stand for Simenon,” he said.
The foremost elder regarded him. “In what capacity?”
“In this capacity,” Greyhorse told him.
With difficulty, he lowered himself to his knees alongside another open patch of ground. Then, looking as humble and miserable as Picard had ever seen him, the doctor took out his own tellek and began to draw. And as the captain watched—as they all watched—Greyhorse began to produce a set of glyph-like lines.
Simenon’s eyes narrowed as he looked on. “They’re the ones on my insadja’tu,” he muttered. He turned to Picard. “But how does he—?”
The captain shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Clearly, however, Greyhorse knew what he was doing. Though he worked intently and exercised great care, he didn’t stop even once. He inscribed glyph after intricate glyph as if he had known them from the moment of his birth.
Ben Zoma chuckled. “Amazing.”
“It is indeed,” Picard agreed.
“This is an outrage!” Kasaelak growled, his ruby eyes full of fury. He got up and charged the elders, stopping just in time to keep from bowling them over. “You gave me the victory!”
“We gave you the opportunity to inscribe the glyphs,” said one of the elders, unruffled by the Aklaash’s display. “But only because Simenon could not. Now, it seems, he can.”
“But that’s not Simenon!” Kasaelak snarled, pointing a thick, long-nailed finger at Greyhorse. “That’s an offworlder! Bad enough he was allowed to accompany the Mazzereht on his journey. But to let him inscribe glyphs in our sacred ground... that is beyond reason!”
The elder shook his head from side to side. “We have already determined that the offworlder may stand for Simenon—not just in one aspect of the ritual, but in all of them.”
Kasaelak sputtered with anger,