He couldn't stand up and shout a warning. If he tried that, one of the fanatic Jockeys was sure to clamp an Asphixion pad over his face, and, with him, they might not be considerate enough to remove it.
Only a treacherous, self-seeking rat would even think of exposing these poor misguided people and betraying his own race to some extra-terrestrial viruses.
Malloy's elbows slipped out from under him and he went face first into the mud.
He forced himself to keep from spluttering and lifted his head. Where had that idea come from?
For one adrenalin-charged moment, he thought he had finally acquired a Rider.
But no. A Rider would hardly urge him to carry out an attack against the citadel of existence to its own kind. It had to be something simpler, more elemental than that.
The voice had been his own conscience crying out against treason.
He followed the probable train of circumstances if he heeded his conscience.
He would most probably be killed in this useless attack. He doubted that this was the only breeding chamber for Riders, or, that if it were, the Riders safely in human bodies couldn't transplant part of themselves and start new cultures.