"Thank you. Mister Data?"

The android peered at Riker over his shoulder. "Sir?"

"I want you to take charge of correlating and interpreting whatever information we dig up. We need a point man, and it appears you're the best equipped."

Data swiveled in his chair. He looked a little confused. "Point man, sir?"

"Coordinator," suggested Riker. If he hadn't been stretched so thin, he would have thought twice before using slang with his android officer.

"Ah," said Data. "Yes. Of course. I should have deduced as much from the context."

"No," said the first officer. "It was my fault." In the next breath, he arranged for a relief officer at the Ops console, so the android could move back to Science One. Then he gave the necessary orders to Fong and Wesley, so that Data could access the information they gathered as soon as it came in.

Finally, he sat back.

They weren't out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot.

But they were making progress.

The day after his interrogation by the Council, Conscription Master Boron'bak was transferred to Civil Service. Worse, he was demoted. He would be in charge of the police post at Tengla'var, one of the factory towns upriver from the capital.

To Dan'nor, it was neither a good sign nor a bad one. The Council might have been satisfied with a taste of Boron'bak's blood. Or it might simply have whet their appetites.

The following day, another high-ranking officer was toppled-the Central Defense liaison assigned to Fulfillment. Apparently, he'd been held accountable after all. And like Boron'bak, he was relegated to an obscure position with Civil Service.

Finally, Dan'nor's counterpart on the day shift was replaced. One night when he reported for duty, he found a new man finishing up. He said he didn't know what had happened to his predecessor.

After all that, Dan'nor thought that he would certainly be next. Strictly speaking, it was his mistake that caused all the trouble. The others had only laid the groundwork for it.

Nor did the passage of time do much to ease his insecurity. After a full five days had gone by, and nothing had happened to him, someone else might have believed the danger past. But not Dan'nor. He felt as if there were an ax dangling over his head, and the rope that held it there was slowly unraveling.

Then it came-the audience with his new superior. Normally, a simple computer memo would have been sufficient to announce a change in command. A personal audience could mean only one thing-the ax was about to fall.

In a way, it was a relief. The sooner he was transferred, the sooner he could work on getting his career back on track. With any luck, he'd get himself out of Civil Service after only a few years-maybe less.

But Dan'nor's expectations didn't take into account the identity of the new Conscription Master.

"You look surprised," said the man who had been the Fulfillment Facilitator on the day shift. "You expected, perhaps, that I'd been transferred out of Conscription? Rather than made Master of it?"

Dan'nor murmured a denial. But it didn't sound very convincing-not even to him.

"Come now," said the man. "I left early every evening and shirked my duty-ultimately contributing to your unfortunate error. And yet here I've been promoted, while everyone else associated with this fiasco has been banished to the factory towns. You're baffled-admit it."

Dan'nor frowned. "All right. I admit it."

The man smiled. He had coarse features for an officer-even coarser than Dan'nor's. But the compromising of his bloodline probably dated so far back that no one paid attention to it anymore. Recent impurities were considered much more despicable.

"It's really very simple, Tir'dainia. One of my relatives is... shall we say intimate with one of the councillors?"

Dan'nor grunted. "Very interesting." It also explained the man's ability to flaunt regulations with impunity. Why had he not suspected something like this before? "But," he added, "it is hardly any of my business."

The new Conscription Master learned forward. "Actually, it's very much your business. Without it, you wouldn't understand what I am about to tell you. You see, Tir'dainia, the Council was inclined to be lenient with you-at least by their standards. However, my relative's paramour swayed them toward a more severe punishment."

Dan'nor felt a sudden surge of anger-but he suppressed it. A confrontation with this man would only make things worse for him.

The Conscription Master leaned back again into his chair. "The reason? Because you reported me, Tir'dainia. Everyone else was willing to overlook my transgressions-but not you." He paused. "Perhaps I was foolish to take such chances. I can see that now. Without my ally on the Council, I would have been severely disciplined-which is what you must have expected when you made that report. Or didn't you give much thought to my fate?"

"I... I was only protecting myself," said Dan'nor. "Surely, you can understand that."

"Perfectly. And I trust that you will also understand-when I tell you the Council's decision." Again, a pause. "You're not going to Civil Service, Tir'dainia. You're being ousted from the Military altogether."

Dan'nor felt numb suddenly. The words seemed to hang in the air like smoke, incomprehensible and without mean, ing.

He thought he had been prepared for the worst. But this was a much more hideous turn than he ever could have foreseen.

"Why?" he finally asked-though it was little more than a rasping sound in his throat.

"Because a stint in Civil Service is only a minor setback for a clever lad like you. You might have wriggled your way back into the real Military someday-and resurrected the issue of my irresponsible behavior. By then, my relative might have fallen from her councillor's favor-and he might not have been inclined to protect me anymore. But with you out of the way, I will need no protection. There will be no one around with a reason to bring up the past."

Dan'nor licked his lips. "I won't bring it up either."

"Of course not. You won't have an opportunity."

"Don't do this to me," he begged.

The Conscription Master looked at him. "You mean... have pity?"

Dan'nor swallowed. "Yes. Pity."

The man's smile returned. "The same kind of pity you had for me-when you reported me?"

Dan'nor's throat was so tight it hurt. "Please," he said. "I'll do anything."

The Conscription Master looked away. "That will be all, Tir'dainia."

A strange thing happened then. Dan'nor's desperation seemed to harden into something else. And without thinking, he flung himself over the desk that separated them.

But he had only a second or two to vent his fury before the guards came in to restrain him.

When Commander Riker originally called Burtin up to the bridge, just about five days ago, he hadn't sugar-coated the situation. Not one bit.

"We're doing everything we can, Doctor. And there's still a good chance that we'll be successful. But for the time being, you're going to have to operate on the assumption that Doctor Pulaski isn't coming back." An eerie pause. "In the meantime, what's the status of Fredi's case?"

At the time, Burtin hadn't had much to report. Just that they were proceeding on the basis of Pulaski's hypothesis, trying to isolate the hybrid bacterium-if there was one.

Now, however, he had quite a bit to report. He wished only that Pulaski could be present to hear it too.

"Commander?"

"Is that you, Doctor?"

Riker sounded a damned sight better than he had the last time they spoke. Of course, that had been before the Klah'kimmbri dropped their energy mantle.

"It's me, all right. And I've got some good news. I found the bacterium that's afflicting our friend Fredi."

"Glad to hear it," said the first officer.

Burtin had expected a little more excitement-something along the lines of what he himself was experiencing. Then again, Riker no doubt had other things on his mind. Even with the mantle down, they still had to find the away team. And bring it back.

"Now," said the doctor, "we've just got to make sure that the antibiotic we usually use on this bacterium also works against the altered version. But my preliminary analyses indicate that it will."

"So Fredi's all but cured?" concluded Riker.

"It looks that way," said Burtin. "Also, I don't see any reason to hold the other survey team members any longer. They still show no signs of the disease-I'm going to lift their quarantine."

"Good news, Doctor. But don't let me keep you. I know you've still got a lot of work ahead of you."

It was a polite way of saying "go away," and Burtin took the hint-without taking offense as well. What the hell, he thought. On the frontier, that message would have come across in much less delicate terms.

"Burtin out," he said, making it official. His duty done, he decided to get back to the lab. See how the accelerated cultures were doing.

As he traveled the short corridor that led past Pulaski's office, he hit something with the toe of his boot. It ricocheted off the bulkhead and came to rest on the soft deck-covering right in front of him.

Curious, he picked it up. It took a moment before he recognized what it was.

A fragment of the Mondrifahlian good-luck charm-the one Pulaski had shattered shortly before she beamed over to the Mendel. Apparently, it had eluded her clean-up effort.

Burtin turned it over in his hand. A superstitious Mondrifahlian might have called the statuette's destruction an omen. A harbinger of evil to come.

But doctors weren't supposed to believe in omens. Halfway to the lab, he deposited the shard in a waste disposal unit.

Chapter Nine.

THE WAGON LURCHED, sliding him halfway across the board that served as a driver's seat. With a tug on the reins, he convinced the burden-beasts up ahead to make the necessary adjustment.

A couple of moments later, the wagon righted itself and he slid back to his original spot. "Careful up here," he cried, the sheer walls of the pass raining echoes upon him.

A cry from behind him: the next driver acknowledging his warning. As the echoes of that sound devolved on him too, he turned inward again. Dragged out his questions as if they were prized possessions, poring over them with undiminished zeal.

Was he a criminal? He certainly didn't feel like one. But then, that was now. How could he know what he was like before?

And was his name really Picard-or was that just a name that had been assigned to him? There was no way of figuring it out. He'd decided that some time ago.

It seemed to him that he should be able to reason his way out of the darkness-the oblivion into which fate had cast him. But to do that, he had to have a starting point. He had to have one thing he knew for the truth-just one.

Unfortunately, even that was denied him. All was speculation, conjecture-built on the speculation and conjecture of those around him, and theirs on that of others before them. There was no basis of certainty, no bedrock on which to build a viable hypothesis.

Such was the nature of their prison. Stronger than any wall, broader and taller than any tangible barrier to freedom. For without one's memory, how could one escape? Where would one go-in which direction? And how could it be determined that escape was even possible?

Picard had a sense, of course, that there were other places than this. Not actual memories, but vague impressions of more pleasant surroundings. That made sense; how could he think of this place as desolate unless he had something with which to compare it?

But where were these other places? Nearby? A couple of days' journey? Or too far away to even think about?

His meditation was interrupted again-this time by the sight of the silhouette that hung against the pale clouds up ahead, suspended between the dark jaws of the pass. Not one of those mechanical things; it was the wrong shape.

A marshal, then. He felt his spine straighten at the thought.

He had seen sky riders like this one only twice before-both times at a distance. The first one had paced the supply train only for a while and abruptly taken off. The second one had stayed somewhat longer-long enough, anyway, to torture the hindmost driver for his laggardness.

Picard had been too far up the line to really see what happened-much less do anything about it. There was a rippling effect-for a couple of seconds, no more. An anguished cry that lasted much longer than the assault itself, forced out as if through clenched teeth.

He hadn't seen the victim for some time after that; the example had spurred the other drivers to new levels of efficiency. And considering their position on a narrow ledge beside a steep drop, Picard couldn't help but be pushed along. But after dark, when they'd unshackled the burden-beasts and made camp, he searched the ranks of his companions until he'd found the object of the marshal's attention.

The being, small and wiry with a light brown fur over much of its body, was sitting with its knees clutched to its chest. Still shuddering, still staring as if its eyelids had been propped open. Nor did it look as if it would have welcomed an attempt at conversation-so he made none.

And that, he mused now, was another reason that escape was so difficult to contemplate.

As he neared the end of the pass, the sky opened up. And the marshal loomed closer-his sleek black sled glinting in the cloud-filtered sunlight.

Despite the awkward angle and the interposing bulk of the sled itself, Picard was able to get his first good look at a sky rider. All he'd been able to discern up until this point was that they were basically humanoid-and that they wore their hair long, tied up in a pigtail.

Now he could see how, in many ways, they resembled his own species. Two eyes, a nose, a proper mouth; long, narrow features set in a pale complexion beneath that dark, drawnback hair.

Suddenly, he felt that he'd seen that face before-or one very much like it. Where? In his former life?

Was that a clue, then? Something he could trace back to his own identity?

He set his mind to it, never taking his eyes off the marshal-not even as his wagon passed beneath the sled. But try as he might, he could recall nothing more.

Damn.

As he emerged from the pass-the first to do so-Picard saw that they had their work cut out for them. The long, winding ascent up the lee side of the mountain and the slow, careful progress through the pass had been only a prelude... to the difficult part of the journey.

What stretched before them was a long series of terraced ledges descending from left to right. Like a gargantuan set of stairs, seen from the side.

Each ledge was narrow-though some were narrower than others. And in every case, there was a considerable drop from a given stairstep to the one below it.

The wind howled out there, savage and unfettered. Picard slowed his beasts to a halt as he considered his options.

He'd been a little surprised at the way his companions had gradually deferred to himselected him as their de facto leader. Nor had the former leader-an angular individual with an angry red, leathery sort of skin-been reluctant to give up the position. Quite the contrary.

There were no benefits to being the first driver in the line-other than the knowledge that one had the trust of one's peers. Mostly, it was a burden.