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By Root 591 0

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 some members of his squad had given the Maje a flawed report of the incident. Miskk, for one, could be counted on to color the story so that Sittik would emerge in the worst possible light. Miskk was a sycophant, shamelessly willing to exploit the fact that young Hekkar was the Maje's nephew and that his death would understandably leave the irascible Dut in a vengeful fury. Miskk would learn that betraying Jal Sittik was a grievous mistake.

For today he would erase the memory of that prior mishap and replace it with triumph. Maje Dut would embrace him once more. Women would ache for his recognition. They would parade before him, dressed in provocative gowns, oiling and scenting themselves in their efforts to arouse him, desperate to be chosen by Jal Sittik.

But he would take his time. He would drive them into a frenzy of display by not responding to them. He would toy with them, pretending disdain, until they went to greater and greater lengths to capture his attention.

By the time he made his selection, there would be nothing the chosen woman would not do for him.

Sittik surveyed his men. They were edgy and keen for battle; he had whipped them to a furor of blood lust, and they were eager to enjoin the enemy. Several were young men who had not yet earned their names; they were particularly eager to distinguish themselves, preferably through killing their adversaries with their bare hands.

Power rippled through his veins; he could feel it, a palpable energy that was both mastery and desire. Erotic stirrings coalesced with the anticipation of combat, a potent narcotic that made him heady with anticipation.

"Today!" he shouted to his men, a promise of victory, and was rewarded with their resounding war cry. Was there anything more glorious, he wondered, than the comradeship of fellow warriors at the moment of battle? Then he struck out across the overgrown terrain, confident and eager.

Neelix had been successful in discovering any number of edible plants-tubers, fruits, and vegetables-that could be harvested and that showed no toxicity after tricorder scans. There was an entire grove of a spicy red fruit that was shaped like a sphere, had a pleasant, crunchy texture, and appeared abundant in nutritional elements. The grove was deep and thick, the gnarled trunks and thick leafy canopy shutting out almost all light. Nate LeFevre stood next to him, peering into the gloom. "The fruit might not be good in there," the rangy, redheaded crewman said. "No light's getting in. I doubt the fruit would ripen."

"No matter," replied Neelix. "We'll harvest what we can from the periphery, then move into the interior. If the fruit's no good, we don't have to pick it."

"I'd like to get as much as we can," proffered LeFevre. "That's the best food