The Farther Shore - Christie Golden [4]
After a couple of minutes she realized she no longer [11] heard any sound at all behind her. She kept running for another moment or two, then decided to risk a backward glance.
There was no sign of the grikshak.
Torres slowed and gasped for breath, glancing around for any trace of it circling to approach from another direction. She saw nothing.
Her breathing slowed. Carefully, grabbing up more stones as she saw them, she retraced her steps. She tensed as she heard a thrashing sound up ahead, but kept moving.
The grikshak flailed frantically on the earth, churning up huge clumps of bushes and grass in its death throes. Its mouth was open and its forepaws clawed its own face to ribbons as it tried futilely to extricate the stone Torres had shoved deep into its trachea. The struggle reached a crescendo and then the massive animal lay on the earth, shuddering only slightly, until with one final twitch, it lay still. Blood and saliva slowly trickled from its sharp-toothed mouth.
Torres stood and looked at it for a long time. Doubtless had a full-blooded Klingon killed the creature, he or she would be whooping and dancing in triumph. She felt no sense of giddy pleasure. She actually felt sick to her stomach at what she had just done, even though she had been fighting for her life. Still and harmless in death, the grikshak looked beautiful to her. It was only doing what instinct told it to do—find food and stay alive, just as she was.
Slowly, she walked up to the creature, and on impulse, dropped down beside it and placed a hand on its bloody head.
[12] “I thank the spirit of the grikshak,” she said aloud, feeling that what she was doing was both foolish and appropriate. “I will use its flesh for sustenance, and its hide as protection from the elements.”
She would need a sharp stone to cut it open.
Chapter 2
LIBBY WEBBER was beginning to think her plan wouldn’t work.
It had seemed so easy, so foolproof. Each step would lead naturally to the next, and the final step would get her what she wanted. Except it just wasn’t working out that way.
She’d done her research on Trevor Blake. The first thing she noticed while perusing his file was how ordinary he looked. There was almost nothing at all distinctive about him. He was Caucasian, age thirty-seven, of average height and weight. His features weren’t homely, but neither were they handsome. His profile stated that his eyes were hazel, but she couldn’t really name the color even though she’d intently scrutinized the image. His hair was ... brown. Not dark brown, or light brown, or walnut or mahogany or even mousy [14] brown. Just plain brown. He wore nondescript civilian clothing. He was completely, utterly overlookable. Which, she mused, would ironically make him the perfect spy, had his temperament been suitable.
But it was clear from the moment she began reading his bio that he was destined for science. He suddenly seemed much less ordinary to her as she read his list of accomplishments. He’d been breaking through scientific barriers since he was a young man, and the list of his achievements just kept going. Until, abruptly, it stopped four years ago. Libby assumed this was when Covington had commandeered him for Starfleet Intelligence. This bio had been cleared for a very high level; obviously, what Covington had him working on now was top secret.
She determined where he lived and began to shadow him. He was, not surprisingly, as predictable as clockwork. Every morning at 7:45 precisely, he left his small apartment carrying a briefcase and walked the three blocks to the official, public headquarters of SI. He worked until exactly noon, at which time he left and walked two blocks to a small outdoor café called The Stop Spot. It was a serve-yourself