Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [85]
“Phigus?” said his cousin Ornitharen as he poked his scaly head in.
“Yes,” Simenon said, “I’m in here.” He gestured for Ornitharen to come in and join him.
Ornitharen took a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure which room it was. Those Aklaash in the black suits don’t give very good directions. If I hadn’t been here in the Northern Sanctum just the other day, I never would have found you.”
“I’m glad you did,” said Simenon.
His cousin frowned at him as if realizing something for the first time. “You look terrible, Phigus.”
The engineer grunted. “I feel terrible.”
Ornitharen looked sympathetic. “You lost the race, didn’t you?”
Simenon shook his head. “Actually, I won.”
“You won?” his cousin echoed wonderingly.
“Yes. Fertilized the eggs and everything. Our bloodline will go on at least another generation.”
Ornitharen grinned. “That’s . . . that’s incredible. I’m so happy for you. For us, I mean.”
“I knew you would be.”
His cousin looked at him askance. “Something’s wrong.”
“What makes you say that?” Simenon asked.
“You should be happier about this. What’s going on?”
Simenon frowned. “Someone sabotaged the vine bridge at the crevasse.”
Ornitharen gazed at him wide-eyed. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“But who—” Ornitharen thought about it for a moment. “You mean Banyohla? Or Kasaelek?”
“Neither of them.”
“Then who, Phigus?”
Simenon looked at him. “You, Ornitharen.”
His cousin looked hurt. “You must be insane. What would make you say such a spiteful thing?”
The engineer’s frown deepened. “There’s no longer any point in feigning innocence, Ornitharen. I found Mazzereht-sized footprints near the bridge and had them compared with yours on a hunch. They turned out to be a match.”
“Then the records people made a mistake,” Ornitharen insisted.
Simenon shook his head. “There’s no mistake. It was you who was trying to kill me. And the more I think about it, the more I believe you had a hand in my brothers’ deaths as well.”
“But why would I do that?” asked his cousin.
“That’s what I asked myself,” said Simenon. “Why would Ornitharen try to kill me? What could he gain by spilling my blood? And then I came up with the answer.”
Ornitharen remained silent.
“I was the progenitor,” the engineer told him, “the one whose seed would carry on our line. But you didn’t like that situation, did you? You wanted it to be your seed. And if I were dead, it would be you running in the ritual instead.”
Again, his cousin failed to respond to the accusation.
“You can save us all some trouble,” said Simenon, “and admit what you’ve done. You’re going to be found guilty in any case.”
Ornitharen glowered at him for a moment. Then he made his reply, his voice dripping with resentment.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be second-best, Cousin—to know you’ll always be second-best? Do you know what it’s like to have to kowtow to a sedgmaya who doesn’t give a colunnu feather about your family’s affairs?”
Simenon shook his head. “If you weren’t happy with me, you should have brought it up a long time ago. We might have been able to work something out. As it is . . .” He shrugged. “It’s a bit too late for that.”
Ornitharen spat at his feet. “Had I been born a week earlier, it would have been me racing Kasaelek and Banyohla.”
“I might have been content with that,” said Simenon, “if it meant my brothers would still be alive.”
His cousin didn’t say anything more. He just glared at the engineer one last time and left the room for the corridor outside, where the black-garbed Aklaash were waiting to take him into custody.
For a little while, Simenon remained alone, contemplating the lengths to which people will go when they’re thwarted in their ambitions. Then there was a knock at the still-open door.
“Come in,” he said.
Picard led Simenon’s other colleagues into the room. All five of them.
“You and your cousin appear to have completed your business,” the captain observed.
“They’re taking him away?” Simenon asked.
“Yes,” Picard confirmed.
The Gnalish heaved a sigh. “Families can be a great responsibility.”
Picard nodded sympathetically.