Trien'nor nodded. "You're right. And that's the reason it offends me, too. You see, there is a Klah'kimmbri among the combatants. I can even tell you his name: Ralak'kai. And the reason I can do this is because, just a few weeks ago, he was whispering in that dark room along with the rest of us."

Ralak'kai. Dan'nor had heard the name spoken by Trien'nor's friends before he'd been discovered outside the door.

"And they arrested him for that?"

His father shook his head. "Not just for that. There was a matter of sabotage as well. A factory-one owned by Councilor Fidel'lic. It was temporarily disabled."

"Gods!" blurted Dan'nor. "Is that the kind of thing in which you're involved?"

Trien'nor smiled his First Caste smile. "Yes. It is. So you see, Ralak'kai's fate has a special meaning for me."

Suddenly, Dan'nor had a feeling he was being watched. He darted a glance behind him-but there was nothing there. Only the birds, gliding on the foul air over the river.

"Don't worry," said his father. "We're safe here."

Dan'nor looked at him. "How do you know that? How can you be safe anywhere while you're part of..." He lowered his voice self-consciously. "Part of that?"

"Because," said Trien'nor, "we watch the watchers. And we know that they don't watch here."

The younger man believed him. Was it something in his voice? In any case, it calmed him a little.

"You see?" said Trien'nor. "The authorities can be dealt with. They're not all-powerful- and they know it. That's the reason they conscripted Ralak'kai. They want to make an example of him. So that we will fear them as much as they fear us."

Dan'nor's knees were feeling weak. He found a seat on a weathered wooden bench.

"And there will be more like him. Those who've committed similar acts of rebellion over the years-worse acts, perhaps. They'll turn up in the Conflicts, one by one, until we all get the message."

Dan'nor felt as if his whole world were turning upside down. It was more serious than he'd thought-much more serious. And it wasn't a stranger speaking of his involvement. This was his father.

"At the same time, this solves another of the Council's problems. You know those bigger, bloodier battles you mentioned? They're the Council's way of fighting a decline in viewership. And it has always worked for them in the past. But now, it seems, they're having trouble bringing viewership back up. So the battles are getting even bigger, even bloodier. Also, a good deal more frequent. The result? The ranks of the combatants are being depleted at an alarming rate. The Council needs a new source of bodies-and they've found it in men like Ralak'kai."

Dan'nor shook his head, tried to think straight. His father's ideas seemed to expand in his brain, to crowd out any others.

"Did you ever wonder," asked Trien'nor, "why it is necessary for people to work in the factories? In a world where we can transform light into deadly force-or snatch aliens off their distant ships, atom by atom-why is it we can't create machines to make our shoes?" The water lapped at the wooden pylons that supported the wharf. "Because then the people would have time on their hands. Time to think, to consider. And to wonder why there must be such a thing as the Council."

It was the truth, of course. Dan'nor knew it. But it was a dangerous truth, razor-sharp and stained with other people's blood.

"The Conflicts," said his father, "are supposed to do the same thing-to distract us from our subjugation. To siphon off the energy of our minds as the factories leech the energy of our bodies. The Conflicts enslave us. And now, with the conscription of Ralak'kai, that enslavement has taken on a much more literal dimension."

The younger man looked up. It seemed to him that Trien'nor looked placid as he sat there. Almost serene. The councillors he'd seen were only a parody of stoicism compared to his father.

In the distance, a boat was approaching from downriver-a shadowy hulk with lights fore and aft, casting tiny brightnesses into the water. It had to be a cargo vessel; it was much too big to be a passenger ship.

"Why are you telling me this?" asked Dan'nor.

But then, he'd known the answer to that all along-hadn't he? From the first moment he'd recognized his father walking beside him.

"Because," said Trien'nor, "I need your help. We're planning something important-something diflicult-and something much more dangerous than that for which Ralak'kai was jailed. But to do it, we'll need more hands and hearts than we currently have available. And experience in the Military certainly won't hurt."

Dan'nor muttered a curse. The madness of it all threatened to overpower him. The sheer insanity of a world where he could even be asked to do such a thing.

"Don't say any more," he told Trien'nor. "I'm not like you. I'm not a skulker-and I never will be."

His father fixed him with his gaze. "You're more like me than you can imagine. You're like I was. Proud, stubborn, ambitious-always looking for a way to improve your lot at the expense of someone else. And yet, deep down, you know that it's wrong. That your life, your ambition, is based on a terrible lie. And whether you believe it or not, this had as much to do with your ouster as the so-called facts that prompted it."

Dan'nor breathed in, breathed out. The river smell was sharp and pungent in his nostrils.

"No," was all he could get out. And then: "I can't."

"Two threads in the fabric of oppression," said the older man. "The thread of the Conflicts, the thread of our servitude. I offer you a chance to fray them both-to start the unraveling."

Dan'nor let his head drop between his shoulders. He stared at his shoes, as if he could find some wisdom there.

Trien'nor got up. He came over, put a hand on his son's shoulder. Dan'nor couldn't remember the last time he'd done that.

"It's all right," he said. "Courage was a long time coming to me, too. It's all right. Really."

The younger man looked up then and saw the strain around those perfect golden eyes. There was an emotion there that had nothing to do with justice or conspiracies or Councils.

"Listen," said Trien'nor. "I want you to be careful-very careful. The other night, in the tavern, the others wanted to kill you. They thought you were a spy; I knew you weren't, because no Military man would have gone in there unarmed. But if you had been a spy... if you had threatened our movement and the lives of those in it... I would not have intervened."

Dan'nor peered into that face, both familiar and unfamiliar and then familiar again, and understood. This was not a threat. It was the simple concern of a father for his son.

"Since then," Trien'nor continued, "you have been watched. If you had given any indication of going to the authorities, you would have been prevented. If you had only been a little indiscreet, and decided to share your experience with your coworkers... again, you would have been stopped. Do you follow what I'm saying?"

Dan'nor nodded.

"Good. Then we will speak no more of this. Maybe we'll see each other again. Who knows?"

With obvious reluctance, the older man took his hand away, and slowly departed, leaving Dan'nor with a heavier burden than he had known could exist.

He watched his father retreat up the walkway, attended by a chorus of screeching birds. And then he was gone.

Every couple of days during the building of the bridge, a runner had come to inspect their progress. The last one had shown up shortly after it was finished. Dressed in dark body-armor and a helmet that extended down over part of his face, he had tested the structure: walked from end to end and back again, pausing to inspect the critical junctures where the wood had been tied together with extra care.

Apparently, he had been satisfied with the quality of their work. Not that he had said anything to that effect. But if he had seen anything amiss, he would no doubt have pointed it out.

With the runner gone and the job done, there seemed to be nothing else for them to do. However, though the bridge was certainly functional, they all knew there was no such thing as a structure that could not be made more secure. So with the materials they had left, they devised ways to build in secondary supports against the unlikely failure of the primaries. Toward this end, they also dragged up the ruins of the earlier bridge and cannibalized it for parts.

When the structure's first real test arrived, Geordi was completing a flexible end-support system he'd anchored in crevices along the cliff face. He resisted the impulse to see what all the commotion was about until he'd tied off the last knot. Then he swung up onto the surface of the span, gratified by the solidity of the wooden planks under his feet.

"What is it?" he asked someone as they rushed by him for a better look.

"Wagons," came the response. "Up there."

Geordi followed the gesture and saw for himself. Sure enough, there were wagons-coming over a rise on the other side of the ravine. As he and the others watched, the train strung itself out. Before the rise was vacant again, they'd counted eight of the vehicles.

They were driven by dark, bulky figures, helmed and armored just as the runners were-but bigger than the runners, Geordi thought. He could hear the clatter of their wheels on the rocks now-even over the murmuring of his coworkers, the shushrush of the wind.

Would they, at long last, get a chance to see what all their hard work had been about? What purpose the bridge would serve? Geordi hoped so, he really did. It was nice to be able to look at the thing and know he'd had a hand in its construction. But he'd feel even better if he knew what ultimate good it might be supporting.

Before long, the first wagon had trundled out onto the span, and the crowd gradually gave way-either shuffling off to either side or retreating altogether. Geordi was one of those who stayed on the bridge to watch the passage.

Little by little, he got a better look at the first set of drivers. There were two of them, sitting side by side. One actually did the work; the other, apparently, was just along for the ride. As they went by, Geordi noticed that both of them had weapons strapped to their backs.

The runners had had weapons, too-but not quite as big or heavy. Geordi had assumed they were used to ward off wild animals, like the ones that had approached the construction site from time to time-especially at night. Even though the beasts had never actually attacked anyone, that didn't mean they weren't capable of it.

And these wagons might have traveled through places where the animals were more apt to be daring. Enclosed places, maybe, where they could strike from above.

Maybe.

But Geordi wasn't quite convinced. Something in the way the drivers stared at them through their narrow eye slits made him wonder if the weapons might not have another use.

Of course, there would be no point in the drivers' hurting them. The builders were there to help-they'd made it possible for the wagons to cross the ravine, hadn't they?

He had almost talked himself into a false sense of security when the third wagon passed by him. And he got a look at its cargo.

Whereas the first two vehicles had had their loads under wraps, the third did not. Could not. Because its burden was alive.

Geordi felt the wind on his face turn cold suddenly as he realized what was in the wagon: people. Two beings not unlike himself, each with a pair of arms and a pair of legs. Of course, they didn't wear seeing bands like the one he wore-but then, he seemed to be unique in that respect.

The beings were tied together, back to back, sitting upright. As they went by, they returned his gaze-regarded him, it occurred to Geordi, with the same mixture of curiosity and apprehension that he felt about them.

One of them had a wash of dark, dried blood from his temple to the point of his jaw-though the wound it came from must have been a shallow one because he seemed composed enough. Almost dignified, even in his sorry condition.

The following wagons brought more of the same. Not every one, but most of them. In a couple of cases, the prisoners' wounds were grievous ones-to the point where they moaned softly every time their vehicle jolted a little on the rough-hewn planking.

What did it mean? Who were they, that the drivers had trussed them up like this? Where were they going?

As he wondered these things, the old questions came back to plague him as well. Once again, he felt the pit yawning before him. Once again, he had to drag himself back from the brink of it-reach out for one of the bridge supports to convince himself that something was real.

This is wrong, he thought. These are people. They shouldn't be tied up and hauled around-they should be free to serve some purpose.

Then it came to him what his purpose had been-to smooth the way for the transportation of these pour souls. To aid and abet their enslavement.

How wrong he'd been-how incredibly wrong. And yet, when he'd first lent a hand, he'd been so certain that the bridge could be only a good thing-as certain as he was now that it was a bad thing.

It made him feel dirty-repugnant even to himself.

Geordi looked around. He could see that some of the other workers were discomfited by the sight of the prisoners. But not to the extent that he was. Maybe they'd seen this sort of thing before; maybe they were getting used to it.

As he pondered the question, he saw that the lead wagon had found a slope it could negotiate, and was stopping in an area of high ground. Its drivers got out to stretch their limbs as the next wagon pulled up alongside them.

Geordi peered up at the sky, noted the placement of the sun in it. It would be dark soon. And the terrain that lay ahead of the wagons might be even less accommodating than what they'd seen here.

When the third wagon came to rest beside the first two, with its living cargo, it became obvious that the drivers had decided to camp in this vicinity. To spend the night.

Geordi stayed on the bridge for some time, until the last of the wagons had made its way up the hill. He took pains to note the configuration created by the vehicles, especially the positioning of the ones that carried the prisoners-though at this point, he still wasn't sure what he would do with the knowledge.

"Mutated?" echoed Riker, gazing at Fredi and Vanderventer through the transparent quarantine barrier.

"That's right," said Burtin. "At some point, the organism spawned a strain that our antibiotic can't touch. And this strain, unlike the original bacterium, is contagious-as you can see for yourself."

The first officer grunted. "How contagious?"

Burtin sighed. "That's a good question. So far, only Vanderventer's managed to catch it. And he's been in close contact with Fredi for quite some time now. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Casual contact could be all that's needed-in which case anyone Vanderventer's seen over the last several days is a candidate to get the disease. Also, anyone they came in contact with."

Riker looked at him. "So what you're telling me," he said, "is that just about anybody on the ship could get it. In fact, could have it already."

"Exactly," said Burtin. "That's why I needed to talk to you in person-rather than over the intercom." He tapped on the barrier with a fingernail. "I can handle a dozen cases of this disease-maybe a couple more than that-without too much difficulty. As long as I continue to purge their blood, they'll at least survive. But if this thing really spreads before I can find a cure, I'm going to have problems. There are only so many blood-purification units on board-only so much space in sickbay that can be fit to quarantine standards."

He could see the muscles in Riker's jaw working beneath the surface of his beard. "I think I see what you're getting at," said the first officer. He frowned. "You're requesting that we proceed to the nearest starbase-where they have full-blown research facilities. And a larger supply of blood purifiers. Right?"

"Yes," said Burtin. "Even if we couldn't beam our patients down, for fear of infecting the starbase population, we could still draw on their resources."

Riker pondered that. "And yet, if I do what you're asking-if I leave our present positionI'll be abandoning Captain Picard and the away team. Not to mention the people we set out to rescue in the first place." His nostrils flared. "You understand that?"

"I do," said the doctor. "Believe me, I do. Remember, Kate Pulaski is one of the missing. But I've got a duty to the population of this ship-the thousand or so people who are still with us. And in line with that duty, I'm making a formal request. Take us out of here, Commander. Before this thing gets too far out of hand."

Riker looked him in the eye. "You're not making matters easy for me," he said.

"I'm doing my job," returned Burtin. "That's what I'm here for."

Riker nodded. "Of course you are. But so far, there's no solid evidence that this could turn into an epidemic. You yourself suggested that prolonged contact may be necessary-in order for the bacterium to be communicated." His eyes narrowed as he mulled it all over. "While the danger to the away team is certain and immediate. If I leave them, there's a good chance they'll have been killed in one of those bloody battles before I can get back."

Burtin remained silent. He had said about all he could. Now it was up to the first officer.

"I think," Riker said finally, "that our best course is to stay put-at least for the time being." He glanced in the direction of Fredi and Vanderventer. "But I want you to keep me posted. Let me know if anyone else comes down with the disease-or if it mutates again. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Burtin. "However, I'm going to have to file my request in the medical log. That's procedure."

The first officer's expression softened. "I have no problem with that. Do as you see fit, Doctor."

And he turned to go.

"Commander?" said Burtin.

Riker stopped, looked at him over his shoulder.

"Sorry to put you in this position," said the doctor. "I know we don't know each other very well yet-but I'm not the kind of doctor who can't see the big picture. I know you've got your priorities."

The first officer smiled. "Don't worry about it. You've given me a new sense of urgency. I should thank you."

And with that, he strode out of sickbay-a man with a purpose. The double doors slid closed behind him.

Burtin felt a tightness in his neck; he massaged it.

He had known in advance what Riker's decision would be. He'd likely have made the same one if it had been him sitting in the command chair.