Star Trek by Kevin Killiany Page A

the planet. Having heard this sort of logic before in the histories of dozens of worlds that made up the Federation, Pattie was braced for the leader’s solution. Still, it had been a shock to actually hear it.
    â€œSonandal will lead us to the forest,” Solal had explained, then amended: “Those of us authorized to use weapons. We will eradicate the infestation of mimicking tree dogs. Once the animals contaminated by interacting with people are removed, there will be no cause for confusion. In the future, colonists will be careful to avoid tree dogs to prevent similar problems.”
    That had been yesterday.
    Solal had left before Pattie could rebut any of the horror he’d spewed, apparently unaware of his madness. Pattie had come closer to wanting to commit violence then than she could ever remember. She’d wanted to shake him until his brain rattled, force him to see the stupidity of his racism.
    Today from first light she’d been treated to the sight of disgruntled technicians repairing equipment. Evidence, she was sure, of Corsi taking a hand on behalf of the tree dogs, or whatever the indigenous people of Zhatyra II called themselves.
    But she knew sabotaging equipment—while it might distract the colonists from their goal for a while—was not going to be enough. She hoped the techs would take their noon meals elsewhere and that Solal would come for their usual lunchtime discussion.
    Technically the letter of the Prime Directive dictated that she do nothing. But she could not sit by and not try to help. She could not reveal who or what she was, of course. That would do far more harm than good. But she had to try and reach Solal, loyal follower that he was, and try to make him see the crime that was about to be committed.
    She might do nothing more than get herself killed as another tree dog, but she had to try.
    At last the technicians left. And Solal, carrying his usual lunch, came in, exchanging greetings with the others in passing.
    Pattie remained silent as he retrieved her combadge from its hiding place and dragged his chair over. After three days of her refusing anything but distilled water he had stopped offering food.
    â€œSolal,” she asked when he was comfortable. “What am I?”
    Solal smiled with what Pattie recognized from years among humanoids as a condescending smile. She knew his answer before he opened his mouth.
    â€œYou are a talking animal,” he answered. “A very clever and charming one.”
    â€œAnd why are you studying me?”
    Gesturing with his cheese, Solal said, “Because if I can learn how and why you imitate people, we can avoid problems like we are having with the tree dogs.”
    â€œSolal,” Pattie repeated firmly, making sure his eyes were on her, “how do I imitate people?”
    â€œYou talk,” he began—and stopped, looking down at her combadge.
    â€œYes, I talk,” she said. “Expressing ideas that did not come from you, speaking a language you do not understand but which is made plain to you by a technology you have never seen before.”
    Solal did not look up from the combadge.
    â€œSolal, how do I imitate people?”
    The young Smaunif looked up at last and met her gaze. His eyes were full of something too confused and subtle for Pattie to read. She wished the lad had antennae so she could better judge his mood. She couldn’t tell if he was on the verge of a breakthrough or racial violence.
    â€œYour gliders landed in a very primitive region of the world you call New Smau,” she said, making sure he tied the unknown technology in his hand to this world and no other. “The people here do not use tools as we do. They do not believe animals should be hunted for food.” That was a guess based on his description of their reaction to hunters. “But the native people you call tree dogs are not animals. They are people. They have a right to live their lives the way