“And quetzals are supposed to be so smart? Come on. Share a little of that TriNA back and forth and think this through. It’s my body, but all of our existences. Being my body, I get the final vote on how I’m going to live in it. What the rules are under which I will continue to live in it. So, Demon, the choice is yours. We can all survive together, or not at all.”

Silence.

“Guess we find out how intelligent you really are.” Dek carefully inspected the thick bundle of roots ahead of him. The twisted knot of them, many as big around as oil drums, was bounded on either side by monstrous boles of forest chabacho that rose majestically up into the soaring canopy, the trunks five or six meters in diameter. From the way the root mat squirmed, it indicated that something had passed this way not too long ago. Given the faint balsamic vinegar odor that remained, Dek figured he knew what it was.

Well, not exactly. He just had quetzal memory, nothing with a name. Just a hazy image of a creature. Long. With sleek sides and three sword-like pinchers. Something quetzals feared. Something that, like the treetop terror outside of Tyson, had rid this area around Two Falls Gap of quetzals.

Other than it was dangerous—and scared Demon and Rocket half to death—Dek only knew it came from the river. That this was the extent of its range.

What better way to take control of his body and mind than to bet it all on one roll of the dice? Either he’d win, or they’d all lose. Simple as that.

With a bound, Dek leapt onto the lowest of the thick roots, using his Holland & Holland for balance he scrambled his way up. Unlike outside Tyson, he had good wind now. His muscles, pushed during the months he’d been on the ground, were back. Not to mention that quetzal TriNA was working its transformation, improving the efficiency of each muscle fiber.

At the top of the slowly contorting pile, Dek peered over into the confusion of interlaced roots beyond. He could see the track of the thing, straight across the root mat.

“Let’s go get it.”

Demon tried to turn his limbs into lead. That weird feeling he used to get in dreams when he needed to run, only to find his legs grown impossibly heavy and slow to move. Where each step became a slow-motion struggle.

“Not a chance,” Dek growled, jaw clenched. “A little help here, Rocket?”

He made the commitment, leaped off the root, trusting he’d have control when he thumped onto the next root down. He did. Demon wasn’t as stupid as he’d let on. Spilling into the roots would have been just as lethal as being eaten by whatever lay at the end of the trail.

Victory. At least, a small one.

Dek smiled.