The dead Klingon just stared at him.

Data went on. "However, this knowledge only clouded the issue of motivation for me. If it was difficult to understand why the Klah'kimmbri would want to participate in these events... it was even more difficult to understand why our own people would do it."

Tap tap. Tap. Mercifully, the image of the Klingon fled. It was replaced by that of a small, sledlike hovervehicle. It had but one occupant-a Klah'kimmbri in rather elaborate military garb. Almost as elaborate, in fact, as that worn by the High Councillors themselves. Nor did the sled rider display a single stitch of armor.

Arrogance, thought Riker. It's in everything they do.

"These individuals serve as a sort of police force," said Data. "They seek out individuals who have deviated from prescribed behavior-and use weapons not unlike our own phaser pistols to inflict punishment. On more than one occasion, I have seen this punishment extended to the point of death."

The first officer tried to appraise the figure dispassionately, but it wasn't easy. "You say this is only part of the answer?"

"Yes, sir."

The sled and its rider gradually grew smaller as the perspective expanded-none of Data's doing, but rather that of the device that originally recorded the action. Now Riker could see what the Klah'kimmbri was hovering over-some sort of supply train, made up of primitive wagons drawn by A'klahn burden-beasts. Each wagon was guided by a driver.

"It appears," said the android, "that a significant number of the conscripts are employed in nonaggressive activities. Such as this one-food supply. Similarly, there are medical personnel, bridge-building crews and the like. All support systems, if you will, for the actual combatants. And all engaged in what must seem-to them-to be innocuous, even humanitarian pursuits."

Riker watched the wagons trundle down a mountain path. There were no signs of resistance on the parts of the drivers.

"In other words," he said, "they don't know what they're supporting? They don't actually get to see the combats?"

"The medical groups, of course, have an inkling of what is happening-though they can hardly refuse to help when they are presented with the wounded. The others, for the most part, have no idea. On occasion, a support group will be set upon by an enemy raiding party-and the noncombatants are exposed to the central experience of these conflicts. However, such incidents yield few survivors; the general support population remains essentially ignorant of the bloodshed it makes possible."

For the time being, this particular supply train was safe. There was no sign of impending disaster. But that didn't mean it wasn't lurking around the next bend.

"As for the combatants themselves," said Data, "they are generally representatives of traditionally belligerent races. I have noted the presence, for example, of Gorn, Pandrilites, Dra'al..."

"And Klingons," said Riker, again encouraging brevity.

The android returned his gaze. "Yes. And Klingons. The point, sir, is that only those with a predisposition toward violent confrontation are placed in the role of warrior. Those who would take to the task most naturally."

Riker mulled it over. It would have made for an intriguing case study, if he'd been back at the Academy studying xenology. But this wasn't a chapter in some text-this was real. Somewhere down there, his crew mates were in real danger.

And anyway, it occurred to him that there was still a piece missing. He said so.

"Let's say," Riker posited, "that all your speculations jibe with what's actually happening down there. That the off-worlders find their options limited by these airborne enforcers. And that they're ignorant of what it is they're supporting with their labor, so there's no moral imperative to defy authority. Still-wouldn't a member of a spacefaring culture-and presumably, that covers every off-worlder involved in this thing-place a premium on his or her freedom? I mean, even if A'klah were a garden of delights, wouldn't the participants eventually rebel? Make an attempt to escape, to return to the lives they led before the Klah'kimmbri plucked them off their ships?"

He shook his head. "I just don't see how a system like this one could go on for very long. Even threats of pain and death aren't enough to keep so many people in line for very long. At least, not in the history tapes I've seen."

Data looked at him. "There may be another factor," he offered.

Riker returned the look. "Such as?"

"A behavioral anomaly that I have noted in the course of my research. But its significance has thus far eluded me. I cannot seem to put my thumb on it."

For the first time since the android had barged in on him, Riker smiled.

"No," he said. "Not your thumb, Data. Your finger. You can't put your finger on it."

The android's eyes opened just a little wider. "Ah. Of course. My finger-the generic term, rather than the specific. I shall endeavor to remember that." A moment later, he had switched back to his discourse mode. "In any case, the fact remains-there is information I cannot interpret."

"Then by all means," said Riker, "call up an example. Let me see what I can make of it."

Tap. Tap. Tap. Two figures in the foreground. One lying prone on a table, armored to the waist and naked above it, except for a heavily bandaged shoulder, The wounded one was large and muscular, with the bluish flesh tone of a Pandrilite.

The other foreground figure was a female-slender, with light brown skin and delicate, dark features. A human. Apparently, she was the one who had done the bandaging; she was just finishing as they looked on.

"The individual being administered to has been identified as Jorek Tovin-the helmsman of the Gregor Mendel," said Data. "The other individual is Dani Orbutu, listed as zoologist and second medical..."

Riker stopped him. "Orbutu? Are you sure of that?"

The android confirmed it. "Why, sir?"

The first officer realized he was on the verge of betraying the captain's confidence. "It's nothing. Sorry to interrupt."

Data picked up as if he'd never left off. "Note that even though they occasionally glance at one another, they do not converse. They served on the same ship, yet they have nothing to say to each other."

Riker considered that. "Perhaps conversation is prohibited."

"A logical assumption," said Data. "Yet my studies have shown that this is not the case. The conscripts seem free to speak with one another almost whenever and wherever they please. And the medical facilities are no exception."

Riker leaned closer to get a better look. "Can you amplify the woman's face for me?" he asked.

The android complied. The projection flickered for the briefest instant, and then Dani Orbutu's attractive countenance filled it from edge to edge. Of course, the quality of the image suffered as a result-he could now see the individual lines of color that comprised it.

But it was clear enough to show him what he needed to see. Specifically, her eyes.

There was no recognition in them. Not even when she looked directly at her crew mate's face. Mostly, she seemed distant. Preoccupied.

Lost. As if she'd forgotten something-something important.

Like... who she was.

Riker squirmed a little at the thought. "Could it be," he asked, "that they no longer know each other? That they've been deprived somehow of those memories?"

Data's eyes grew larger than normal. Under other circumstances, Riker might have thought it comical.

"Of course," said the android. "If they did not remember serving on the Mendel together... they would hardly have a reason to converse. They would seem as strange to one another as any other two beings in the conflict zones." His brow creased again. "But then, the same would be true of our away team. Even if they met, they would not know each other. Not even on the field of battle."

Suddenly, the room was too cold for even Riker's liking.

Up close, the edifice seemed even more ominous, more foreboding than at a distance. The walls, constructed of large blocks of dun-colored stone, were taller than he had guessed. The only gates were made of a metal as dark as the stone; they were barely big enough, Picard estimated, to permit a wagon and its driver to pass through. That is, if the driver were not too tall, and if he didn't mind hunching over a bit.

The sky above the structure was dirty, the terrain around it dull and colorless. Altogether, not a cheerful picture.

He hadn't seen the figures on the wall for quite some time-not since their path had twisted down and then up again in their approach to the place. From the drivers' present perspective, someone would have had to poke their head over the edge of the barrier to be seen.

But the last glimpse he'd gotten of them had been curious indeed. For they had been dressed in hard, bulky garb-not at all like the plain homespun the drivers wore. And their faces were obscured by some sort of half-masked headgear.

Why? What for? Not against the weather, certainly; the drivers weren't freezing even in their simple tunics and cloaks. For protection, then? Against what?

Picard considered those questions in the light of last night's discussion with Ralak'kai. After most of the drivers had gone to sleep, huddled against their wagons or whatever better shelter they could find, he and the goldeneyed one had stirred the fire's embers and talked.

"But why, Picard? Why would anyone live in so isolated a place? There are no rivers to nurture it, no fertile fields, no forests full of game. It is as desolate a location as one can imagine. So I ask you again: why?"

Picard had shrugged. "Perhaps whoever lives there has been isolated for a reason. Perhaps they are... diseased. Or deranged. Or in some other way dangerous to a larger population." He'd grunted. "Not a happy prospect for us, eh?"

"No. Not a happy prospect at all." Ralak'kai had paused then, peering in the direction of their destination-though one couldn't see much under the overcast sky. "And yet, my friend, I don't think it's here for any of those reasons. I have a feeling that there's another purpose to it entirely."

"Such as?"

"You saw those figures on the wall, didn't you? They seemed to be guarding something, did they not?"

"Yes. They did."

"They were looking outward-not inward. As if they were more concerned about someone coming in than someone going out."

"I noticed that-but I believed it was us they were looking for. In anticipation of the supplies we're carrying. Or just for the sake of something to do."

At the time, Ralak'kai had nodded and said no more. That explanation had appeared to make sense.

Now, Picard wasn't so sure.

He was less than a hundred meters from the gates, and still they remained closed. If there had been a sense of anticipation about the supply train's arrival, wouldn't someone have come out by now to hail them? At the very least, would the gates not have swung aside to give them access?

Unless Ralak'kai had been correct, and that which the sentinels were guarding against was outside the walls. Suddenly uneasy, Picard took a quick took around. But there was nothing dangerous to be found. No wild animals, no weather aberrations.

There weren't even any marshals in the vicinity.

Turning his attention to the edifice again, he noticed something else. The stones immediately around the gates were scarred-as if someone had struck them repeatedly with something hard and sharp and heavy. In fact, as he got closer, he saw that the gates themselves were marked with any number of dents and more than a couple of sizable depressions. Without question, someone had been trying to get into this place.

That would make it a fortress-wouldn't it? An installation designed to defend against hostile forces.

The more Picard thought about it, the more that sounded right. After all, there could hardly be a site easier to safeguard against an enemy. Nothing but sheer slopes and precipices all about, and the only approach a narrow one-much to the drivers' chagrin.

But if all this were true, what was the fortress guarding? Surely, not territory. This was the far end of the valley, a cul-de-sac.

Something inside, then? A treasure of sorts, which could not be guarded as well in the midst of a more densely populated milieu?

And whatever it was the fortress guarded-who was it being guarded from? Who had inflicted those scars on the gates in their desire to win inside?

Even as Picard turned these matters over and over in his mind, he saw a small plate in one of the doors slide aside. He was no more than thirty meters from them now; those within could hardly have waited any longer.

"Stop there," came a voice, deep and brusque.

Picard complied, drawing in on the reins with a firm but gentle hand. Down the line, he knew, the other drivers were following suit.

A moment later, one of the gates creaked open and half a dozen figures slipped out. One was very tall, at least a head and a half bigger than Picard. The others fell somewhat short of their companion in height, but not in girth. They were all broad, powerful looking, intimidating.

And all of them were dressed in that strange, bulky garb. Picard could see now what it was-a kind of flexible armor. Their helmets, which allowed only slits for their eyes, were made of something else-some sort of metal. Nor was that the extent of their protection.

Each one also had a weapon strapped to his back-either a mace or an ax or a broadsword. As the tall one approached, he released his weapon and took it in his gauntleted hand.

But he made no threatening move, so Picard sat where he was. And suffered the giant's approach.

"We need to check your wagons," said the tall one. His voice was high-pitched and flutelike-a little unexpected in one so huge. Picard was almost inclined to chuckle at it, but he decided to practice discretion under the circumstances. "You will remove yourself and stand off to one side."

"As you wish," said the human. He hopped down from his seat and retreated a few paces-all the path would allow. At the next wagon, driven by Ralak'kai, the same procedure was taking place.

What was this about? Picard wondered. He caught Ralak'kai's eye, and the other driver shrugged. Apparently, he had no idea either.

Only the tall one had lingered at Picard's wagon. He took hold of one of the straps that held the cargo-protecting tarpaulin in place and, with an enormous wrench, snapped it in two. The tarp seemed to know it was free; it expanded like a living, breathing thing.

Weapon still in hand, the tall one moved to draw the covering off altogether. But before he could do so, something happened-something so quick and unanticipated that it was over before Picard knew what was going on.

A second later, the tall one was lying motionless on the ground, his helmet half-crushed. And the pair who had sprung from the back of Picard's wagon-also armored, also armed-were sprinting for the still-open gate.

At each of the foremost wagons, it was the same thing. Guards surprised and cut down, their assailants pelting hell-bent in the direction of the fortress walls. Farther down the trail, there were even more of them.

And all along, Picard realized, they had been hiding in the wagons. Hiding in his wagon. Since when? Late last night, after he and Ralak'kai had finally quit their discussions and dozed off? Or early morning, just before the drivers woke?

He could scarcely believe what he was seeing. It had a strange sense of unreality to it. Yet the guards must have known that something like this was possible-otherwise, why stop the wagons outside the walls? They just hadn't expected the raiders to be so numerous-or they would have sent out a larger contingent.

Picard watched, fascinated, as the invaders clashed at the gate with a knot of defenders who'd come out to meet them. At first, it was more or less an even fight. The raiders were unable to force their way in, and the defenders were unable to force them out. Axes and bludgeons rose and fell; there were screams of anguish and bodies flung to the ground, but the casualties were on both sides.

Then, as more and more of the newcomers clustered at the entrance, the situation changed. The battle started to go their way. And suddenly, like a river tearing apart a poorly made dam, they poured in through the open gate-leaving the dead and the dying and a couple of isolated combats in their wake.

It was gruesome, awful, stomach-sickening. And yet, he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the sheer savagery of the spectacle.

Feeling a pressure on his arm, Picard sought its source. He found himself looking into Ralak'kai's face-a study in urgency.

"Let's go," said the goldeneyed one. "While their attention is elsewhere."

The human shook off the spell of the battle and allowed Ralak'kai to drag him away. "Yes," he said, understanding that either side might be feeling antagonism for the drivers at this point. "By all means, let's get out of here."

They didn't have the luxury of a great many options. The only route open to them was to retreat down the trail they had ascended. Nor were they thinking beyond that, of what to do next. For now, it would be enough to put distance between themselves and the fortress.

Unfortunately for them, one of the raiders had other ideas. As they cut a path between the wagons and the dizzying brink at the path's edge, he placed himself squarely in their way.

"Where do you think you're going?" he growled.

"Look," cried Picard, pointing suddenly over the warrior's shoulder.

Fate was merciful. The armored one followed his gesture without thinking. And as he did, Picard turned the incline of the trail to his advantage. With all the force he could muster, he plowed into the warrior, knocked him off his feet-and kept on going.

He could hear Ralak'kai a few paces behind him-and up ahead, the path was clear. It appeared that they might make it after all. Perhaps, if the other drivers followed their lead, they might all make it.