creatures had been
sacrificed to some deity, living or imagined? The thought
gave him a chill, even though he knew through his studies
that many species-including his own-had at one time
performed such rituals.
Unbidden, the moment of sacrifice flashed through his
mind: a priestly knife held high, plunging, gouts of blood
spraying a feathered spasm, then stillness, great wings
forever closed. He shook his head to clear it of such
disturbing thoughts and began to search for the next blue
spire, the marker for the next site.
He couldn't find it.
Perplexed, he turned toward Tuvok, who was also scanning
with both eyes and tricorder, his dark forehead furrowed.
"I don't get it, sir," said Harry. "It doesn't seem like
this should be the end of the line-there's nothing
particularly special about this site."
"Agreed, Ensign. It may be that the location of the final
site is hidden, protected in some way in order to provide a
defense against defiling or looting."
Harry looked around. No clues presented themselves. The
green slime of the ground was unmarked; the flora dense and
solid. It was as though the trail simply ended. And yet he
knew there must be more. The trail had been so clear, so
explicit.
And then the thought struck him, like a spoken voice in
his mind: "For anyone on the ground. his The trail could be
followed by anyone on the ground.
But these were beings capable of flight. The markers of the
final location might be visible only from the air.
"I've got it, sir," he said excitedly.
"There must be a pattern that can be seen from the air, not
the ground." Tuvok understood immediately. "That would be
logical, Ensign. Proceed with that hypothesis."
"I'm going to enter the coordinates of every marker we've
encountered. The tricorder will able to extrapolate an
aerial view."
Excited now, he plunged into the overgrown thatch of the
vegetation that surrounded them.
Jal Sittik emerged from the Kazon shuttle and moved
eagerly into the hot sunlight.
Today would be the day he would achieve greatness. He took
a deep breath, drawing warm air into his lungs, feeling
them expand and imagining they were drawing power into his
body--power that would, on this day, cause him to achieve a
great triumph: victory over the puny Federations.
Jal Sittik put his hands on his hips and faced into the
sun, filling his lungs with strength, summoning his
virility so that his men could look on him and derive
strength from him, and bless their good fortune in being
part of his great destiny.
He knew that he struck a fine figure for his men to
witness. The adornments in his hair were impressive: for
each of his kills, he had woven a Behrni stone into a lock
of hair. By now, his head was crowned with a mass of the
veined green stones.
After today, there would be more. He thought of the glory
that would soon be his as his eyes scanned the strange,
alien landscape. His Maje would reward him handsomely. He
would sit at the right side of his leader, whispering into
his ear, counseling him on matters of battle and intrigue.
Other men would envy him, jealous of his strength and
courage, and would urge their sons to emulate him. And,
finally, he would erase the humiliating-and completely
unwarranted-stigma that had attached itself to him
following an ugly little encounter with the Nistrim.
Memory of the incident still burned within him, like a
burning coal that retains heat, able to sear flesh for
hours. How could he be faulted because a young man took
foolish risks in order to earn a name? He was a warrior,
not a nursemaid. And if young Hekkar chose to make what
amounted to a suicide run on a Nistrim encampment, how
could Jal Sittik be held responsible?
Maje Dut, however, saw the incident differently. Sittik
had been severely treated, held in chains for two weeks;
the wounds to his wrists and ankles were just healing, and
he would carry the scars forever. Proudly, of course.
He was certain
sacrificed to some deity, living or imagined? The thought
gave him a chill, even though he knew through his studies
that many species-including his own-had at one time
performed such rituals.
Unbidden, the moment of sacrifice flashed through his
mind: a priestly knife held high, plunging, gouts of blood
spraying a feathered spasm, then stillness, great wings
forever closed. He shook his head to clear it of such
disturbing thoughts and began to search for the next blue
spire, the marker for the next site.
He couldn't find it.
Perplexed, he turned toward Tuvok, who was also scanning
with both eyes and tricorder, his dark forehead furrowed.
"I don't get it, sir," said Harry. "It doesn't seem like
this should be the end of the line-there's nothing
particularly special about this site."
"Agreed, Ensign. It may be that the location of the final
site is hidden, protected in some way in order to provide a
defense against defiling or looting."
Harry looked around. No clues presented themselves. The
green slime of the ground was unmarked; the flora dense and
solid. It was as though the trail simply ended. And yet he
knew there must be more. The trail had been so clear, so
explicit.
And then the thought struck him, like a spoken voice in
his mind: "For anyone on the ground. his The trail could be
followed by anyone on the ground.
But these were beings capable of flight. The markers of the
final location might be visible only from the air.
"I've got it, sir," he said excitedly.
"There must be a pattern that can be seen from the air, not
the ground." Tuvok understood immediately. "That would be
logical, Ensign. Proceed with that hypothesis."
"I'm going to enter the coordinates of every marker we've
encountered. The tricorder will able to extrapolate an
aerial view."
Excited now, he plunged into the overgrown thatch of the
vegetation that surrounded them.
Jal Sittik emerged from the Kazon shuttle and moved
eagerly into the hot sunlight.
Today would be the day he would achieve greatness. He took
a deep breath, drawing warm air into his lungs, feeling
them expand and imagining they were drawing power into his
body--power that would, on this day, cause him to achieve a
great triumph: victory over the puny Federations.
Jal Sittik put his hands on his hips and faced into the
sun, filling his lungs with strength, summoning his
virility so that his men could look on him and derive
strength from him, and bless their good fortune in being
part of his great destiny.
He knew that he struck a fine figure for his men to
witness. The adornments in his hair were impressive: for
each of his kills, he had woven a Behrni stone into a lock
of hair. By now, his head was crowned with a mass of the
veined green stones.
After today, there would be more. He thought of the glory
that would soon be his as his eyes scanned the strange,
alien landscape. His Maje would reward him handsomely. He
would sit at the right side of his leader, whispering into
his ear, counseling him on matters of battle and intrigue.
Other men would envy him, jealous of his strength and
courage, and would urge their sons to emulate him. And,
finally, he would erase the humiliating-and completely
unwarranted-stigma that had attached itself to him
following an ugly little encounter with the Nistrim.
Memory of the incident still burned within him, like a
burning coal that retains heat, able to sear flesh for
hours. How could he be faulted because a young man took
foolish risks in order to earn a name? He was a warrior,
not a nursemaid. And if young Hekkar chose to make what
amounted to a suicide run on a Nistrim encampment, how
could Jal Sittik be held responsible?
Maje Dut, however, saw the incident differently. Sittik
had been severely treated, held in chains for two weeks;
the wounds to his wrists and ankles were just healing, and
he would carry the scars forever. Proudly, of course.
He was certain
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