The Dutchman nodded.

Chapter Eleven.

THE TALL, SLENDER FIGURE had come into the med enclosure without her noticing it. She had been too busy attending to one of her patients-Toc'tu, the big one with all the scales. And too foggy as well, perhaps, from fatigue and lack of sleep.

Then the newcomer began giving orders, and Pulaski whirled at the sound of them. There was something about the tone of that voice she didn't like-even before she saw whose it was. It had an air of disdain, of imperiousness. As if it were used to being obeyed.

Also, a very definite ring of violence. Like the clashing of weapons in a confined space.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw the intruder-dressed in a uniform as proud as he was, festooned with military-looking insignia-point a gloved finger at one of her charges. The being, whose wounded arm was only half-healed, swiveled himself off his cot and stood.

"Wait a minute," she said, striding across the enclosure. "What's going on here?"

The lordly one only glanced at her as she approached.

"Mistress-no!" called Toc'tu, his voice just strong enough to carry. But she ignored the warning. The newcomer was continuing to point, and others of her patients were starting to get up.

Deftly skirting an operating table, Pulaski placed herself in the intruder's path. He fixed her with his golden eyes, paused to consider her. Intrigued, a little, by her behavior? Or just amused?

"I asked you a question," she said, ignoring his impudence. "What are you doing with my patients?"

"Restoring them to the battlefield," he told her. "What business is it of yours?"

"They're my patients," said Pulaski. "That makes it my business. And since they haven't recovered from their wounds yet, you've got no right putting them back on a battlefield." An addendum occurred to her: "Even assuming you had any right to put them there in the first place."

The intruder's mouth pulled up at the corners. He looked about at the other meds.

"Is she insane?" he asked.

No one answered. No one even met his gaze.

He looked back at her. "I suggest," he said, "that you get out of my way. I have a job to do here." The smile with which he'd been flirting vanished suddenly.

But Pulaski didn't flinch. "I have a job too. It's to see that these people get well again. If that wasn't important, what was the point of bringing them here at all?"

The lordly one's eyes seemed to darken a shade. "What you do here," he said, "is very important. But it is not up to you to decide when a warrior is healed."

"The hell it isn't," she told him. "I'm-"

Suddenly, she found herself on the floor, one side of her face slowly awakening to the pain of the blow she had never seen coming. Her mouth was filling with the warm, metallic taste of blood.

The intruder was standing above her, looking down. Flexing the fingers of his right hand-the one he'd used to strike her.

Somewhere off in the enclosure, there were cries and the sounds of a scuffle. Pulaski propped herself up on one arm to get an idea of what was happening. What she saw wrenched at her stomach.

Toc'tu. He had gotten up from his cot-no doubt, to come to her aid. But a couple of his burly fellow patients were holding him back, keeping him from going after her assailant. And in his weakened state, he couldn't shake them loose. Finally, exhausted, he slumped back against his cot.

"Now, then," said the lordly one, walking past Pulaski as if she were part of the furniture. "Let us proceed without further delay." He surveyed the ranks of the wounded, selected half a dozen more. Obediently, they rose and fell into line.

Nor did anyone else offer opposition. The meds were as docile as the patients.

But why? Pulaski asked herself. There are so many of us, and only one of him. Why does he inspire such fear?

She caught sight of the holster on the intruder's hip, and the pommel that protruded from it. Instinct told her it was a weapon.

Was that the reason no one wanted to move against him?

She licked her lips, which were starting to swell up on the side where she'd been hit. The lordly one was standing with his back to her now; she could see the braid of dark hair that fell halfway to his belt.

If she moved fast enough, she told herself, she could get that weapon.

But if she didn't...

The idea scared the hell out of her. It made her stomach tighten into a small, painful knot. And yet, someone had to do something. These wounded wouldn't stand a chance under the rigors of combat. And she had worked too hard to save them to see them sacrificed now.

Slowly, she gathered herself, got to her feet. En route to the exit, some of the warriors she'd tried to protect filed past her-a couple of them limping, another cradling a wounded arm.

Pulaski waited until they were past, made sure the intruder was still looking in the other direction. Holding her breath, she focused on her target and lunged.

But the lordly one was too fast for her. Whirling with a flash of golden eyes, he grabbed her wrist before her fingers could close on the pommel. Then, twisting hard, he flung her onto an empty cot.

The pain in her wrist was excruciating-but after a moment, it began to subside. When he glared at her, she was able to return the expression in kind.

"You never give up," he said. "Do you?"

She didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply.

"Be thankful," he told her, "that your hands are so skilled, and your skills are so necessary. Otherwise, I'd make sure you never had the use of them again."

With that, he gestured, and the remainder of those he'd selected left the enclosure. He waited until the last one was gone, then-with one last look at the strange, defiant med-he followed the warriors through the opening.

After that, there was silence for a time. No one seemed to want to move, not even to breathe. Was that shame that hung so thick in the air?

Finally, one of the other meds came over to her. It was a female, the one with the plume of pale yellow feathers on her otherwise bald skull.

"Come," she said. "Let's see to that wrist."

A little grudgingly, Pulaski allowed her to tend to it.

Will Riker sat bolt upright in his bed, the darkness swimming all around him. It took him a moment to clear his head of sleep-and as sleep ebbed, the events of the last several days rushed in to fill the breach.

Vaguely, he remembered giving in to Troi's admonishments. Swearing to himself that he'd only take a short nap and be back on the bridge again in a few hours. But as he lay in bed now, staring at the ceiling, he knew it had been no short nap.

"Computer-what time is it?"

A velvety female voice delivered the response: "Oh-eight-hundred hours, thirty-two minutes."

Great. He'd far exceeded the time he'd had in mind. Apparently, he'd forgotten to program his wake-up call.

Riker yawned-just as another memory popped to the surface, bobbed there insistently. Was that a beeping he'd heard before? Was that what had woken him up-or had he only dreamed it?

Then it went off again-indisputably real this time-and reflex took over. Flipping the blanket aside, he swiveled around and stood up, mother-naked. Immediately, the coolness of his cabin-a preference that went back to his Alaskan upbringing-shivered him the rest of the way to wakefulness.

"Lights," he called out, and blinked against the sudden illumination. As his eyes adjusted, he padded across the floor, got his robe out of the closet and wrapped the thing around him.

What could it be? he wondered. Something wrong with the ship? All they needed now was a malfunction-as if they didn't have enough problems.

And why had someone come in person? Wouldn't it have been quicker to raise him on the intercom?

Of course, if it was bad news... No one liked to communicate that over a monitor. Was that it? Bad news about the captain-and the others?

Shrugging off a growing sense of dread, Riker called out again: "Come." Then wondered a little at his choice of words. Wasn't that Picard's line?

The door slid aside and Data entered from the corridor. He had a portable hologram generator tucked under one arm.

"What is it?" asked the first officer. "What's wrong?"

Data cocked his head and looked at him. "Wrong?" he echoed.

"Wrong," said Riker, realizing with a flood of relief that his worst fears had been unfounded. "I mean, you must have had a reason for waking me-didn't you?"

The android seemed to notice the human's mode of dress for the first time. "Oh. I see. I have interrupted your slumber. I did not realize." He frowned ever so slightly. "It is just that I thought you would want to see this immediately."

Sometimes Riker wanted to shake him. This was one of those times.

"See what, Data?"

The android indicated an empty table between two chairs. "May I?" he asked.

"Yes. Of course. Go ahead."

"Thank you."

Crossing the cabin, Data placed the hologram generator on the table. Then he pulled out one of the chairs and sat down.

Riker deposited himself in the other one, watched as the android activated the device and established a link with ship's computer. Once that was done, a couple of taps on the undersized keyboard was all it took to call up an image.

And what an image it was.

A battle scene straight out of Earth's Middle Ages. Maces and double-headed axes, swords and suits of body armor. Brutal, violent-yet for all of that, somehow compelling.

It was only then that he noticed that the image was two-dimensional. He had been so intent on the subject matter, he'd completely overlooked its format.

He looked up at Data. "Where did you get this? And what is it?"

"In accordance with your orders," said the android, "we have been monitoring all broadcast communications on A'klah. This is one of the images we recorded. As for what it represents..." His voice trailed off uncharacteristically. "At first, I speculated that the images were computer-simulations- perhaps of historical events, which would have explained the use of primitive weapons and tactics. Then I used our scanners to monitor activity in the areas where the broadcasts originated. It soon became apparent that they were transmissions of real events-as they were happening."

The scene shifted to the battlements of a stone fortress. There was no fighting hereonly a sense of vigilance. But once again, all the figures depicted wore full suits of armor.

"It then occurred to me," said Data, "that these broadcasts might be journalistic in nature. Coverage of actual and ongoing border disputes-a theory supported by scenes such as this one, wherein territory is watched and defended. After all, it is not uncommon for neo-and post-nuclear cultures to turn to pre-nuclear forms of warfare-usually to settle territorial quarrels among various geopolitical entities."

"But?" prodded Riker, sensing that the android was about to list examples.

"There was evidence to the contrary. To begin with, the mode of warfare was a little too primitive. Beyond that, the forces in each conflict zone were employed haphazardly. I could detect no concerted efforts to achieve victory over opposing forces. Only isolated skirmishes, which ultimately achieved nothing. Finally, there was the manner in which events were recorded-as if the agency charged with recording them could predict their eventual outcome."

The android tapped in a new code and the image changed again. Now they were watching some sort of ambush-in-the-making. One group lay belly-down on a cliff, waiting for another group to pass beneath it.

"In this instance," said Data, "we have by turns followed the adventures of both groups-long before we knew that they would meet. Yet to concentrate on these two parties, out of all the possible subjects in the zone, those directing the broadcast must have known the outcome ahead of time."

Riker nodded. "And the reason no one warns the party about to be ambushed-no general, or anything like that-is because it's meant to happen. Is that what you're saying? That it's staged, in some sense?" He snapped his fingers. "Like... like a theatrical event?"

"Precisely," said the android. "At one time, possibly, these Conflicts represented real disputes. Then they came to serve this other purpose, and their original intent became secondary-if, indeed, it is still of any importance at all."

The first officer paused to digest it all. "All right," he said finally. "It all seems to fit-except for the soldiers themselves. What's their incentive? Not patriotism, obviously. Who would want to risk their life in an entertainment?" He massaged his temple with a forefinger, then answered his own question. "Money, then. The combatants must be mercenaries. Or slaves-fighting for their freedom? That's the way it worked in ancient Rome."

Data waited patiently for him to finish. His amber eyes seemed to take on a strange cast-one Riker couldn't decipher, not even after all the time they'd spent together since the human joined the Enterprise.

"I too considered these possibilities," said the android. "Until I saw this."

Tap. Tap tap. His long, slender fingers worked the keyboard of the hologram generator.

The tableau that materialized was one of pure carnage. The aftermath of a bloody encounter.

There was one figure in the foreground-a corpse. A corpse with its helm torn away, its eyes staring at infinity.

A Klingon corpse.

So unprepared was Riker for that sight, so shocked, that he heard his strangled denial even before he knew he'd voiced it.

Then he had time to see the projection more clearly, and his stomach muscles unclenched. He lowered himself back into his chair.

"I know," said Data. "At first glance, I also feared that it was Worf. Then I realized-as you have, sir-that it was not." He gazed at the hang-jaw-dead visage, and Riker thought he understood now the hardness in the android's eyes. "Nonetheless, this told me something-that at least some of the combatants are not native to A'klah. Of course, I have since discovered this to be a gross underestimation. In all the hours of broadcasts I observed, I saw not a single native A'klahn."

Riker grunted. Then that was it-that was the answer.

"Our people," he said, "have been pressed into service-drafted. To provide a diversion for the Klah'kimmbri."

Data nodded. "So it would seem."

Riker's throat constricted. He felt his cheeks growing hot.

"The arrogance of these people," he muttered. "The damned arrogance. To whisk unoffending crews off their own ships..." He found himself unable to express what he was feeling. Anger? Resentment? Embarrassment? All of the above?