Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [82]
Too late, Picard saw the Aklaash lower his head and go after the doctor. All he could do was cry out a warning. But Joseph wasn’t too late. He bolted for Greyhorse as well, embarking on an intercept course with the powerful Kasaelak.
For a moment, Picard wasn’t sure which of them would reach the doctor first. Then, with a desperate burst of speed that surprised the captain, the security officer interposed himself between Greyhorse and Kasaelek and took the brunt of the attack.
Aklaash and human rolled across the clearing in a tangle of arms and legs. Predictably, the larger and stronger Kasaelek got to his feet first, intent on doing further damage to Joseph.
But someone intervened. Not Vigo, who was best equipped to have done so. Not Picard or Ben Zoma or Simenon or any of the black-robed Aklaash who stood at the edges of the clearing.
Someone else got to Kasaelek first, tackling him at the knees and toppling him, and then leaping on top of him to deliver a crude but enthusiastic right to the Gnalish’s jaw.
It was Greyhorse.
Before Kasaelek could shrug off the blow, the Aklaash guards surrounded him and pulled him to his feet. And Greyhorse backed off, holding his right hand with his left.
“Are you all right?” Picard asked as he joined him there.
The doctor frowned as he inspected his hand. “As if tracing those glyphs wasn’t already difficult. Now I’ll be doing it one-handed.”
The captain glanced at the elders, who didn’t look very happy with Kasaelek’s behavior. “I think you’ll be granted a certain amount of leeway,” he said.
It turned out that Picard was right. Greyhorse was given all the time he needed to complete the glyphs on Simenon’s insadja’tu—time enough to describe where he had seen them before and how they came to be planted so firmly in his mind.
For all the captain knew, they might all have been perfectly accurate. Or then again, they might not have been. All that was important was that the elders accepted them.
Maybe by then, they had recognized that Simenon had earned his posterity many times over.
Finally, the engineer was officially declared the victor. But he didn’t celebrate. More than anything, he looked relieved.
“As my teammates,” he told Picard and the others, “you can stay and watch me inseminate the eggs.” But his tone and his expression indicated that he would rather they didn’t.
“I don’t think so,” the captain said.
Ben Zoma smiled. “Maybe some other time.”
So Picard and his officers left the clearing, walked back into the scarlet woods and waited. And when Simenon came to get them a short time later, it was after he had done his part—injuries and all—to add to the longevity of his bloodline.
Wu couldn’t wait any longer.
According to Kastiigan’s sensors, the Belladonna had slipped into the sinkhole almost to the point where it would be futile to try to drag her out again. If they were going to try to stage a rescue, they would have to do it now.
But the Stargazer couldn’t do it alone. As long as the scientists on the research ship had recognized the urgency of their situation and gotten their engines ready, they had a chance. If they had failed in that regard, perhaps because the impulse drive was just unsalvageable at this point, the Belladonna and all hands would be lost.
It was that simple.
Wu turned to Idun. “Helm, take us within a hundred kilometers of the accretion bridge.”
The helm officer did as she was told, her fingers moving nimbly over her controls. Almost instantly, the plasma stream began to loom larger on the forward viewer. After a while, all Wu could see from one side of the screen to the other was brilliant, red-gold turbulence.
Paris had returned from the brink of that chaos with his shuttle safe and sound. But Jiterica was still trapped inside the accretion bridge along with the people she had tried to save. Wu prayed that the ensign’s efforts there had paid off.
Finally, Idun turned to her. “One hundred kilometers,