But Picard had taken it up without hesitation. It gave him a measure of control over what happened to him. If he couldn't dredge up his past, at least he could take an active part in preserving his chance for a future.

In short, he felt safer abiding by his own decisions than someone else's.

The situation at hand was a good example. Of the three paths accessible to them, the most obvious choice was the one straight ahead. However, that one appeared to lose too much breadth just before it disappeared around the flank of the mountain.

The ledge immediately above it would give them more latitude, but it seemed to pitch this way and that, making the going tricky. If a driver was caught unaware when the path chose to tilt down slope...

The lowermost trail, on the other hand, started out fairly narrow. But it remained the same width as it went on-at least for as far as he could see-and the pitch was about as good as one could hope for. What's more, it was remarkably free of the detritus that popped up from time to time on the other ledges.

The only problem with the low trail was that some skill was required to get to it. The ground between this spot and the beginning of the ledge was steep and littered with loose stones.

Nonetheless, he concluded that it was worth the risk. Spurring his beasts on again with a flick of the reins, Picard concentrated on the terrain before him.

And tried to ignore the sky-riding marshal for the time being.

The wind was cold, cutting through his cloak as if it didn't exist. But as he left the sheltering pass behind, and the other wagons moved out to follow, the howling he'd heard at first seemed to dissipate-to become a sound like that of rushing water, felt in the bones as much as heard.

It took some time to negotiate the open slope, but it went well enough. Exercising caution, Picard told himself, even the least proficient driver among us ought to be able to handle it.

Finally, he was on the ledge, and the ride became much gentler. He was able to pick up the pace just a bit, despite the proximity of the precipice to his right. Then, after the first twist in the trail, he caught sight of what figured to be their ultimate destination: a squat, dark edifice that seemed to lurk in the folds of a particularly stark mountainside. Picard could barely make out tiny figures moving along the walls that girded the inner keep.

A sense of foreboding gripped him. Perhaps it was just the look of the place-so severe, so unadorned. But then, what had he expected in the midst of this wilderness?

Or was it more than the place's appearance? Something about the figures on the walls?

What were they watching out for, anyway? The supply train?

Or something else?

He would have plenty of time to ponder that. The edifice was a good day and a half away-maybe more, depending on how long it took to skirt the intervening vault of a valley.

The wind scoured the terraces, blowing a fine grit about in the air. Picard had to shield his eyes from it.

Worse, it seemed to infuriate the burden-beasts. They stabbed at the air with their long, majestic horns and shrieked in that ear-shattering pitch Picard had become familiar with.

Farther back, he could hear some of the other teams shrilling like his own. The drivers were no doubt doing their best to restore calm, but if anything the noises were growing louder.

Picard set his teeth. This was hardly the time and place for the beasts to become rambunctious. Not with the cliff so near and the drop so far...

Suddenly, the wind's rush was punctured by more than animal screams. There was a bellow from a throat that couldn't have been too different from his own-followed by the crack of splintering wood.

He whirled just in time to see one of the wagons flip halfway over in the direction of the precipice. The driver was thrown out into space with a strange, agonizing slowness-along with much of his cargo. But somehow he managed to hang on to the reins. Nor did he let go as his frenzied team tried to pull free of their twisted harness, dragging the wagon forward and scraping the driver along the cliff's edge.

Half a heartbeat later, Picard saw through a rising cloud of grit how the driver could be so tenacious: his arm was entangled in the reins. But for that, he would have been dead already, crushed against the next ledge below.

There were no second thoughts for Picard-only the fact of danger to someone who had followed him into these straits. Not that it had been his fault-nor did he blame himself, exactly. It was just that he had assumed responsibility for the others-and he didn't take that responsibility lightly.

Vaulting down from his wooden seat, he made his way past two other wagons, hugging the mountainside in order to avoid both the cliff's edge and the raging burden-beasts. By the time he'd reached the upended vehicle and come around it, he saw that others had beaten him to the spot.

But no one was doing anything, not even leaning over to lend a hand. In fact, they were backing off from the brink-before the weapon-wielding figure of the marshal, who was fighting the winds on his bucking sled.

"Out of my way," Picard shouted, shouldering past the other drivers. His eyes met those of the sky rider-briefly. Then, with determination flooding through him like an elixir, he knelt at the edge of the cliff and peered over.

The entangled driver couldn't look back up at him. He was struggling too hard to free himself from his bonds, which had cut deep into his arm. Every twist of the reins brought forth a strangled whimper.

"Back off!" cried the sky rider, struggling with the winds. His pigtail whipping behind him, he aimed his blaster at Picard. "You hear me? Leave him be!"

And without warning, he pulled the trigger. But at the very last moment, he turned his weapon aside-and instead of hitting the human, the ripple stream splattered against the frantic animals still harnessed to the overturned wagon.

Instantly, the beasts stopped shrieking. They collapsed-and Picard had the feeling that they would never get up again. He realized then and there that the blaster had more than just a pain setting.

"Dispose of those animals," shouted the marshal, looking back to Picard. "Salvage what you can of the wagon's supplies-and get this train moving again!"

"Certainly," cried the human, containing his anger at the beasts' unnecessary destruction. "After we get our comrade back up."

Without waiting for a response, he lowered himself carefully over the edge, using the twisted reins for support. Finding a foothold, he pushed himself out from the cliff face and reached down for the tortured driver.

The victim saw him but didn't dare reach up. If he let go of the reins with his free hand, all his weight would depend from his mutilated arm-and he couldn't endure that prospect.

Picard understood. It meant that he would have to lower himself a little further, grab the driver by his tunic or something. He began to work his way farther down.

Suddenly, there was another blast of that strange, light-bending beam. Picard couldn't help but flinch at it, and that almost cost him his hold on the reins. As it was, he lost his foothold. Desperately, he scrambled to find another while vertigo gripped him like an iron fist, threatening to squeeze the breath out of him.

Finally, he caught hold-steadied himself. And got his bearings enough to see what had happened. The driver below him was still dangling from his ensnared arm-but now he was limp, lifeless. His eyes stared up at the sky.

Picard found the marshal, glared at him with all the force of his boiling hatred. "Damn you!" he cried. "What kind of barbarian are you?"

He could see a crooked smile take shape on the sky rider's face. Then, abruptly, it disappeared.

"Climb," he said. "Now. Or you'll join your friend."

However, Picard was too caught up in the wave of his anger. "Answer me," he roared, the wind snatching at his words. "Answer me, you heathen!"

Coolly, the marshal leveled his blaster at him-again. But this time, Picard knew, the weapon wouldn't be turned aside.

Releasing the reins suddenly, he dropped. The blast hit nothing but the rock above his head as Picard snared the reins again, stopping himself a meter or so below his original position.

He and the corpse at the end of his life-rope spun dizzily together in the wind, the cliff face finally coming up hard against his shoulder. He fought for balance, tried to find the marshal again so he could attempt to dodge the next volley.

But when he located his antagonist, he saw that the sky rider's attention had shifted. Picard looked up and saw someone descending after him-just as he had descended after the one who was now dead.

The marshal's visage had become a mask of rage. Now he pointed his weapon at the newcomer.

"Get back!" shouted the sky rider. "All of you-get back!"

But Picard's rescuer kept coming. For a moment, he thought the marshal would destroy both of them-send them plummeting to a grisly end.

Then, with a voluble curse, he holstered the weapon. And veered off on his sled, describing an arc as he used the winds to achieve height-and distance.

Picard stared after the sky rider for a moment, then sought the face of the one who'd saved his life-at the risk of his own. When he saw it, it startled him a little.

He hadn't expected it to look so much like the face behind the blaster.

Abruptly, he realized why the sky rider's countenance had seemed familiar to him. There was a definite racial resemblance between the two-though the marshal's dark hair, so different from the driver's reddish locks, had distracted him from seeing it.

Picard took the offered hand, felt himself being pulled up. He did his best to aid in the process. And when it came time to use the other driver for a ladder, he did so as delicately as possible.

Once the human was at eye level with the ledge, his comrades raised him the rest of the way. A few seconds later, his rescuer received the same treatment.

As the two of them sat there getting their breath, Picard placed his hand on the other driver's shoulder. "Thank you," he said.

The goldeneyed one just nodded.

"Pardon me," said Picard, raising his voice a little to be heard better over the wind, "but I've forgotten your name."

The driver smiled a little. "Ralak'kai," he said.

Picard smiled a little too. "Ralak'kai."

Their conversation was interrupted as the overturned wagon and its assorted burdens were pushed off the ledgesent crashing down the terraces of stone so the train could move again.

Before another tragedy had a chance to befall them.

At first, Dan'nor didn't want to watch the Conflicts again. They reminded him too much of what he might have done-what he might have been. They were salt, ground hard into his still-open wounds.

His former quarters had had no videoscreen. Officers were unofficially discouraged from viewership, under the theory that it would make their brains soft. Particularly field officers-those who created the Conflicts in the first place.

However, he had a videoscreen now. And if he left it off indefinitely, the Viewership Service would eventually catch on to him. In a Lower Caster who'd spent his life in the factories, a disinterest in the Conflicts would have prompted the scrutiny of the authorities. After all, non-viewership was a sign of disenchantment. And disenchantment often led to antisocial behavior.

In someone who knew that videoscreen use was monitored, a failure to at least tune in would be seen as something more extreme: a conscious and perhaps even flagrant decision to rebel. The scrutiny stage would be bypassed and sanctions imposed-subtle at first, and then less so if non-viewership persisted.

And then, of course, there was always the possibility-no matter how remote-that model behavior would be rewarded with a second chance. An opportunity to pick up the pieces of his career and go on.

So he tuned in. He thought he would just let the damned thing play, doing his best to ignore it. Then he found out that he couldn't.

Once, the Conflicts had intrigued him-he'd forgotten that somehow. Of course, he had been just a boy back then-taking apart each strategy in his mind, bit by bit, until he could see why the successful ones had worked and the unsuccessful ones hadn't. And all the while, his Lower Caste playmates were reveling in the blood and glory, miniature versions of the viewers they were to become.

Before long, all that came back to him, and the old intrigue snared him once more. He found, ironically, that the only way to escape the bitterness of his fate was to immerse himself in the very source of that bitterness. To play again at being the field officer he had hoped to become in reality.

This time, however, he saw more deeply into the strategies. He saw beyond the level of winning and losing to the underlying dynamics: the rise and fall of action, the thwarting or satisfaction of expectation-all of which served to enthrall the viewer.

It was far from a revelation. He had known for a long time, of course, that the purpose of the Conflicts was to distract the Lower Castes from the tedium of their lives-from the fact of their servitude. But now he saw how it was done-and that there was more skill involved than he had first believed.

In one sequence, for example, the video alternated between two hostile reconnaissance parties-unknowingly about to meet head-on. Long shots established the relative positions of the groups, while closer shots showed their respective difficulties in negotiating the mountainous terrain. When the screen filled with one or another unsuspecting face, Dan'nor had an impulse to shout out a warning. To curse him for a fool. But at the same time, it gave him a sense of power to know something the participant did not.

The anticipation mounted steadily, culminating in a desperate and deadly encounter. Here again, certain warriors were singled out for special scrutiny-a most effective technique indeed. The expressions of the participants, seen up close, were fascinating-despite the headgear that obscured much of their faces, despite even their alienness.

One combatant in particular aroused Dan'nor's interest-though at first, he couldn't say why. Upon reflection, he decided that it was the warrior's efficiency that was so impressive. While others flailed wildly, caught up in a bloodthirsty frenzy, this one seemed to measure each blow with expert care-to use only as much force as was necessary and no more.

That was one reason he was still standing, while most of his comrades lay maimed or destroyed. He was more than a killer. He was, truly, a warrior.

Dan'nor would have liked to watch him longer. But in the middle of an especially fearsome exchange, the scene shifted to some other place entirely-another battle, this one just beginning, and another set of combatants.

It was a little too abrupt a transition for Dan'nor's taste. But he soon forgot about it as he lost himself in the drama of the new confrontation.

Worf brought his mace up to block his opponent's downstroke. He held fast beneath the impact of the blow, then turned loose one of his own. It caught the other warrior in the ribs, sent him staggering in a cloud of churned-up dust.

The Klingon advanced, peering at his adversary through the eye slits of his headgear, feeling his armor abrade newly healed skin. Not that he wasn't grateful for it-it had already saved his life more times than he cared to admit.

Others had not been so fortunate. Death was all around him in this narrow mountain pass, where his recon party had been surprised by the enemy. The clangor of clashing weapons and the cries of the wounded had blended by now into a single, maddening drone. The scent of blood-some of it his own-was thick and intoxicating in his nostrils.

His opponent-helmeted and armored even as he was-feigned an ax stroke at his knees. But Worf only snarled at the ploy and circled to his left.

The beast in his gut was rearing its head again, whipped into a frenzy by the atmosphere of unrelenting violence. He could feel it unwinding, serpentlike-glorious.

He yearned to crush his opponent under the weight of his mace-just as any of his comrades would have done, and without a second thought.

Worf didn't know what made him different from the others. Certainly, he shared their ferocity, their physical capacity for destruction-even their love of combat. Yet he could not bring himself to complete the critical act of war-the slaying of his enemy. Quickly and surely, as each of them deserved.

Somehow, at the last, the serpent in him turned back. Strangled on its own fury, leaving him cold and empty at the prospect of killing.

So painful had it been, this inability, that Worf had tried to refrain from battle altogether. His reward had been a blasting from the marshals.

Even now, he knew, they were hovering somewhere nearby. Ready to inflict agony if they caught him dragging his feet again.

But they would not catch him doing that. He had gotten too skillful at masquerading as a killer. At hiding his shame.

His adversary of the moment feinted again-but this time, he followed it up with the real thing. Worf leapt back and the ax missed.

"Run," he growled, too low for anyone but them to hear.

The warrior cocked his head. He seemed unable to believe his ears.

"Run," repeated Worf. "Now. While you still can." If he could pretend to show pity, rather than reveal his awful truth...

The warrior's response was muffled by his headgear. But it sounded enough like a laugh to start a boiling in Worf's blood.

Trying to ignore it, he pressed his case. "Look around-there aren't enough of you left to win this fight. Nor will your wounds permit you to endure much longer. Go now-before the others notice."

The warrior brandished his weapon. "You go-straight to hell."

Then Worf heard the whine of a marshal's sled, and the opportunity was lost.

With a deep-throated roar, he struck at his adversary's armor-encased head-holding back despite himself, allowing the warrior just enough time to move away. As it happened, however, his reaction was just a hair slower than Worf had expected. His ax came up and deflected the attack-but not before his helmet had taken the brunt of it.

At first, Worf believed he had done the very thing of which he had previously been incapable. His enemy reeled and came up short against a rocky outcropping. His headgear hung at an awkward angle, its hinges having cracked, and there was blood trickling down his partly exposed neck.

But when the Klingon came closer, his heart pounding with an apprehension he despised, the still form stirred. The warrior pushed himself off the rock, groaning, pulling the remains of his helm away so that he could see to fight. Spitting red ruin, he glared at his tormentor.