Star Trek by Kevin Killiany Page B

they want to live.”
    â€œLike the Smaunif?” Solal asked.
    â€œIf you mean a culture on your world that chooses to live simply,” Pattie said. “Then, yes. Like the Smaunif.”
    Solal’s eyes focused elsewhere. Some point of infinity between his chair and Pattie’s cage.
    â€œSolal,” she said, trying to find the right balance between gentle and firm, “Sonandal is about to make a terrible mistake. Many innocent and harmless people will die because he does not have all the information he needs to make a responsible choice.”
    At least she hoped that was true. It was quite possible the Smaunif leader knew exactly what he was doing in slaughtering the locals. But she didn’t want to confuse Solal further by raising the possibility his personal hero was evil.
    â€œSolal, please give me my combadge and let me out of this cage. We need to help Sonandal. If we do not, he may become responsible for a tragedy. And we will carry the responsibility of not having done what we could have to prevent it.”
    The Smaunif’s face suddenly contorted and Pattie started in sudden fear, fighting the reflex to ball. Solal’s body heaved, shuddering with silent sobs.
    â€œWhat?” Pattie asked, belatedly recognizing grief, feeling the first stab of dread. “What is it?”
    â€œThis morning,” Solal gasped between spasms. “They left to kill the tree dogs this morning.”

Chapter
16
    C orsi could not move.
    The K’k’tict had not appreciated her act of sabotage the night before. Though conceding she had harmed no one, Copper—his eyes now unbandaged and clear—had condemned the hurtful intent of her actions. And the general consensus concurred. Now, aware of her violent nature and knowing she wanted to help, K’k’tict hemmed her in on every side. Held gently immobile, she could see all that was happening but could do nothing about it.
    The Tznauk’t had chopped their way through the last meters of woods and underbrush under the watchful eyes of the K’k’tict. A hundred meters away, concealed among the root columns, it was impossible for Corsi to gauge what they were thinking.
    What she could see, above the heads of the assembled K’k’tict, was the woodsmen clearing the last of the underbrush with a curious thoroughness, scraping the ground to create an unobstructed path a dozen meters wide. As they dragged the last of the vegetation away, back toward their base camp, a hundred or more Tznauk’t parted to let them pass.
    These were different from the woodsmen. They carried crossbows, with loaded quivers over their shoulders and heavy swords at their belts. When the last of the deforesters were through, the armsmen had closed ranks and advanced, all deadly business as they approached.
    Looking in from the bright sunlight, they could not clearly see what awaited them. That changed when they stepped across the shadow line.
    They stopped abruptly.
    A thousand K’k’tict stood in neat ranks, filling the fern-carpeted boulevard between the giant banyan trees from side to side.
    Whatever the invaders had expected, this was not it. They hesitated visibly, unnerved by the sheer number of K’k’tict. Or perhaps by the calm with which the natives stood, not a weapon or closed fist among them.
    The Tznauk’t in the center of the first rank, larger than most with a thick helmet of bright red hair, stepped forward into the open space between the two groups. Corsi could not read his expression, but his body language had nothing of bravado or victory about it. He seemed businesslike, weary but resolved, facing a job, not a battle.
    He turned his back on the K’k’tict and addressed his own men. Nothing rousing. Flat instructions. The troops decocked their crossbows and slung them.
    Corsi’s moment of hope died as they drew their swords.
    The leader, sword in hand, turned again to the