Probably, it had been a sign of panic on his part to make his request official. To include it in the log. Would Pulaski have done the same thing-or was he overreacting to something he should have been able to take in stride?

Hell, there was still a chance that he'd find the cure before too long. That is, if he got some work done instead of jawing with the first officer.

Sighing, Burtin headed back to the lab.

Days before, some of Worf's comrades had made an attempt to sneak into the fortress-concealed in the enemy's supply wagons. Apparently, that attempt had failed.

Now, they were using a more straightforward approach: a siege. Various raiding parties-including what was left of his own-had spilled out of the hills and coalesced on the road to this place. Before long, more than a hundred of them had come to hunker down outside the walls, eyeing the fortress as a hunting beast eyes its natural prey.

The ladders arrived not much later, transported in sections on mountain-worthy carts. The carts were driven by scrawny beings who wore no armor and carried no weapons but who put each ladder together before turning around and moving off again.

Worf wondered at the precision of it all, the sense of organization. Who had sent out the runners to gather the troops? Who had arranged for the delivery of the ladders? It was even rumored that a battering ram was on its way-a tale told by the most experienced in the camp, who claimed they'd had occasion to use such a tool in other sieges.

On the other hand, none of them had ever seen an assembly of warriors as large as this one. It was unprecedented, they claimed-unheard of.

"Things are changing," grunted the veteran in Worf's circle, as they dipped their naked hands in the common gruel pot. His name was Harr'h; his tiny pink eyes were barely visible beneath an immense mane of spiky, black hair. He sniffed the wind through the slit that served him as a nose. "If I didn't know it, I could smell it."

Someone leaned forward to scoop out another handful of the thin, tasteless porridge. "What do you mean? Changing how?"

Of all those the Klingon had encountered, Harr'h's memory was by far the longest. Certainly, there were veterans who were older than he was, and who looked it. But of everyone in camp, Harr'h had spent the most time here-as a warrior.

It garnered him a certain amount of respect.

"We fight more often now," he observed, meeting Worf's gaze for a moment over the gruel pot-another item that had arrived in the wagons. "Also, in bigger groups. There is more death, more blood."

"Is that bad?" asked another in their circle. He laughed a little as he slurped at his food.

Harr'h shrugged. "No, not so bad. Unless you are one of the dead-and you are not quite ready for paradise."

Worf thought he caught a note of disapproval in the veteran's tone. Perhaps even a veiled warning. But neither Harr'h nor anyone else could come out and speak of fear. Or concern for anyone else.

These were not the traits of a warrior. They were marks of weakness-and one did not stand beside the weak in battle.

Fortunately, no one remembered Worf's reticence to fight, early on. Those who had witnessed it were all dead now, and his present companions would never credit the story anyway. After all, how could anyone so vicious in battle be a coward at heart? As far as his comrades were concerned, he was every bit the blood-maddened killer he seemed to be. And, of course, no one stopped in the middle of the battle to scrutinize him-or to count up his victims.

Nor had his attack on his own ally-not so long ago-earned him anyone's undying enmity. Not even that of the one he'd attacked. The mantle of berserker covered a host of deformities-and it was a reputation the Klingon had worked hard to earn. It was one thing to have to accept his own incompleteness-but to have others know about it...

Worf scanned the faces around the fire. Was it possible that any of them shared his incapacity? After all, he hadn't watched them any more closely than they watched him. Could they have been wearing mantles of deception as well?

Or was he truly unique-and therefore truly alone? He bared his teeth reflexively at the thought, drew wary glances from those about him.

Pah. Even the one who'd been of his race, his kind-even that one had had no inkling of what plagued Worf. If even his racial brother failed to understand him or his troubles...

In the sky, there was a rumbling. Worf looked up at the sound, peered at the full, purple-bellied clouds with mild interest.

The weather had been turning sour all day. Soon, there would be rain.

Chapter Thirteen.

AS RIKER APPROACHED the lounge's conference table, and those gathered around it, he instinctively headed for his customary seat. He had to stop himself, remember that his place was now at the head of the group-in the captain's chair.

Troi had noticed the glitch in his behavior. But, apparently, no one else had.

He claimed the position of authority as unobtrusively as possible. As he sat, he realized that Modiano was absent-though Merriwether, Geordi's second assistant, was in attendance.

"Where's Modiano?" he asked.

"Down with the disease, sir," responded Merriwether. Her voice was just a little higher-pitched than it should have been. She wasn't used to sitting in on executive-level conferences.

Down with the disease. That made four people altogether-and two of them in sections other than medical. Riker filed the information away, made a promise to himself to look in on Burtin again. After this meeting was over, of course.

"As you know," said Riker, "we've been scanning A'klah for quite some time, and we've yet to turn up a single familiar bio-profile. We need a different approach." He glanced from face to face, and he couldn't help but yearn for the expertise of his missing colleagues. "Data tells me that Mister Fong has some ideas which may help in this regard." He turned to Worf's temporary replacement. "Go ahead, Li."

The security officer took a moment to gather his thoughts. "My best guess, sir, is that these conflicts-which probably are a form of entertainment, as Mister Data posited-had their roots in the Klah'kimmbri experience with the Cantiliac armada."

Fong jerked a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of A'klah-though, seen at this distance through the lounge window, it was indistinguishable from the rest of the celestial array.

"The Cantiliac, of course, hadn't set out to destroy A'klah's budding empire. They were departing the galaxy, for reasons which we can still only guess at. But Trilik'kon Mahk'ti lay in their way.

"We'll never know who fired the first salvo-the Cantiliac, impatient to sweep aside an obstacle in their path, or the Klah'kimmbri, who must have seen the armada as something directed at them.

"Judging by what we've observed, however, the Klah'kimmbri were nearly annihilated. Their colonies were destroyed, their outposts crushed. No doubt, A'klah itself sustained serious damage. Such a complete and utter defeat must have left its mark on the Klah'kimmbri-affected them as a culture." He cleared his throat. "While I could find no similar cases on an interplanetary scale, I was able to locate relevant intraplanetary case studies. Instances of expanding, warlike civilizations suddenly beaten down by unexpected and vastly more powerful enemies. The Mutil, for instance, of pre-colonization Stanhague. The Lek of Fythrian'n Five. And others.

"In each case, the lesser culture was traumatized by the brush with extinction. Even given a new opportunity to engage in imperialism, it ignored that option-and turned its aggressive instincts inward, upon itself, in the form of factionalization, feuding and quite often self-destruction."

"Very interesting," said Riker. "Then the military encounters we recorded might originally have been real conflicts." He turned to Data. "Border wars-wasn't that your first thought when you saw the broadcasts?"

The android nodded. "It was, sir."

"That's certainly one possibility," Fong resumed. "In any case, if I'm right, there were some sort of battles going on-Klah'kimmbri against Klah'kimmbri. But it was far from irrational, I believe, or they probably would have finished the job that the Cantiliac started. As we know, wars are often fought for other reasons than those put forth to the general population; I think it was that way on A'klah. The military establishment-or establishments-must have recognized that the only way for them to remain in power was for there to be war. If not interplanetary, then intraplanetary. So they created and maintained a series of token conflicts. Serious enough to hold the people's interest-but not so destructive that it would finally obliterate Klah'kimmbri society.

"Eventually, these clashes became televised-apparently, to rebuild the shattered morale of the various populations on the planet. The Klah'kimmbri saw once again that it was possible to emerge victorious-perhaps on a daily basis. It might have been a key force in the resurrection of this civilization."

"However," said Riker, "it's no longer the Klah'kimmbri carrying on these battles. They may be watching them-but they're being fought by off-worlders."

The security officer nodded. "I have a theory about that, too. You see, people-any people-will tolerate a war only for so long. In time, they get tired of dying-of giving up their loved ones. That's true even of so-called popular wars. So as the Klah'kimmbri military redeveloped the planet's technological base, it put an emphasis on certain programs. For one, an advanced transporter capability-so crews could be snatched off passing ships. Particularly, when those ships are unable to defend themselves-either because they're damaged or for lack of armaments. Another technology that would have been critical is the one that produces the energy mantle. In that way, the Klah'kimmbri could prevent casual observers-or rescue missions, like ours-from discovering what they're up to with all those off-worlders."

Merriwether leaned forward. "Do you think they made a mistake," she asked, "when they beamed down the captain and the others? I mean, if these people have gone to such lengths to keep their operation a secret-why steal our away team right from under our noses? Why arouse suspicion?"

Riker hadn't thought about it up until then. "You may be right," he told the engineering officer. "It may have been some kind of blunder. A failure of the right hand to know what the left hand was doing." He shrugged. "At any rate, they're not about to admit to it-or to anything else, for that matter."

"So where does all this leave us?" asked Troi. She'd been silent up until now, listening. After all, that was a large part of her job. But it was also her job to put matters into perspective from time to time. To keep them on the right track.

Riker realized that he'd been so enthralled by Fong's theoretical constructs-so absorbed in the historical forces that may have shaped the present-day Klah'kimmbri-that he'd lost sight of their goal momentarily.

On the other hand, time taken to better understand an adversary was time well spent.

"Well," said Fong, in answer to Troi's question, "if everything I've described so far is more than just speculation-and if Mister Data's right about these battles being prearranged-then there must be some pretty sophisticated facilities coordinating all this activity. Say, one in each geographical area where the battles take place." He laid his hands out on the table. "It's possible that each such facility would have information on the placement of off-worlders assigned to its zone. What kind of role they were given-warrior, wagon driver or whatever else-and their physical point of entry."

Merriwether was nodding. "If there were such places, we could probably isolate them on the basis of our existing scanner readings. By looking at concentrations of electronic activity in each battle zone, since the rest of the zone should be pretty much empty in that respect."

Fong picked up again as soon as Merriwether paused. "But the only way to get at that information, sir, is in person. Someone has to beam down and access their computer files."

Riker didn't accept that conclusion at face value. He didn't like the idea of placing additional personnel in jeopardy. But the more he thought about it, the more he thought Fong might be right. To win this pot, they might have to up the ante.

And he did have this disease breathing down his neck. Patience was no longer an applicable virtue.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked Fong.

"First," said the security officer, "we have to establish which part of A'klah's surface we were aligned with when the away team was spirited off. That will give us some idea of where to start looking. Then we locate the nearest battle zone and-maybe using Merriwether's idea-determine whether or not there is a control center. If there is, we send a small team of security people down to the surface."

"Along with a couple of engineers," Merriwether amended. "To figure out the Klah'kimmbri computers-they're bound to be different from ours."

Fong nodded in deference to the engineering officer. "With a couple of engineers, then." He turned to Riker. "And, sir-I volunteer to lead the team."

The first officer felt a little twinge. Yet another away team without him at the head of it. This time, there was no one to overrule him if he decided to go-but there were too many reasons for him to stay. With the captain gone, he was the only experienced executive officer left to the Enterprise. And with all that was going on, he didn't want to leave her in less than experienced hands.

Nor did the irony of the situation escape him. For once, it was Riker who was indispensable. More clearly than ever before, he understood how the captain felt as team after team beamed down without him. The word that seemed most appropriate was stuck.

On the other hand, there were a few problems to be resolved before an away mission could take place. Problems that were occurring to him only now.

"We seem to be putting the cart before the horse," he said. "What happens when the Klah'kimmbri realize that someone's tampering with one of their control centers? The first thing they're going to do is regenerate that mantle of theirs. Suddenly, even if you find what you're looking for, there's no way we can beam you back up-or anyone else, for that matter. You may be able to send the information through to us, but we won't be able to do anything about it."

"What if we got in and out before we were noticed?" suggested Merriwether.

Riker shook his head from side to side. "There are too many ways that you could be detected. Unless you were extremely lucky, you'd never be quick enough to..."

"Sir?"

It was Data who'd spoken. Riker swiveled in his direction, giving him implicit permission to go on.

"I believe," said the android, "that I would stand a better chance of obtaining the information quickly-and without being detected."

In a moment, Riker understood. He wondered why he hadn't thought of it immediately.

First off, Data could work much faster than any human, thanks to his positronic brain. Second, he had a well-known affinity for computer dynamics.

Third-and just as important-he was a dead ringer for the Klah'kimmbri. Or at least for the only Klah'kimmbri they'd ever gotten a good look at-the members of the planetary council. They had the same pale skin, the same amber eyes. The only significant difference was the color of their hair; Data's was a dark brown while the councillors' was bright red. But that could easily be taken care of with some dye, which the ship's computer would be only too happy to whip up.

Before going any further with this, Riker offered his thoughts to the others. The reaction was mixed-perhaps because they recognized the drawback to Data's plan.

And there was a drawback. Riker was trying to think of a politic way to bring it out for discussion when the android himself saved him the trouble-much to the first officer's relief.

"Of course," said Data, "I do tend to be somewhat naive regarding certain aspects of social behavior. There is some doubt as to how well I would succeed in my pose."

There it was. Fong leaned back, nodded.

Apparently, however, Troi had another opinion. "Actually," she said, "you are considerably less naive than you think, Data. In most instances, your behavior is quite appropriate, If we didn't spend so much time with you-if we didn't know you as well as we do-we might not notice your little faux pas all that much."

"But we're talking about human behaviora mode with which Mister Data is familiar," said Fong. "Klah'kimmbri behavior is, no doubt, something else entirely. In a strange environment, one must think on his feet-and that's an area in which an android would be at a decided disadvantage." He didn't appear comfortable talking about Data like this-especially in the android's presence. However, if he'd kept his misgivings to himself, it would have been a breach of his responsibility.

"On the other hand," said Riker, "he does look like them-and that's half the battle. Plus, the speed of which Data is capable would minimize his need to interact with the Klah'kimmbri."

The android took in the conversation with perfect equanimity. He didn't seem offended by it in the least.

The first officer looked at him, came to a decision. "I'm going to put my money on Data. Despite his shortcomings."

Fong's lips compressed, but to his credit he kept his reaction to himself. Merriwether seemed a little disappointed-yet it didn't keep her from wishing Data good luck.

"Thank you," said the android.

For two days and more, Dan'nor thought about what his father had said. He went to work, but his mind wasn't on making shoes-it was elsewhere. In the evenings, he ate his solitary meal in front of his videoscreen. The Conflicts raged on, but he took little notice of them. There were conflicts inside of him that were more compelling.

Dan'nor hated the idea of a conspiracy. It seemed loathsome to him-dark and unclean-as compared with the brightness and precision that characterized everything Military. And yet, he could find no fault with his father's arguments. As much as he wanted to be able to deny them, to discard them, he couldn't.

Could the truth be such a frail and dingy thing that it could only be whispered in the shadows? Could falsehood be so appealing?

His thoughts kept returning to the way Trien'nor had looked the other night. The strength that had been so evident in his bearing. The air of dignity that Dan'nor had never before associated with him. And beyond either of those things, a sense of calm-of being at peace with himself.

Dan'nor envied him all of that-most of all, the sense of peace. In the end, it was that which gave form to his decision. More than the logic of his father's words, more than the terrible rightness of his sentiments-because those alone did not reach down deep enough inside him.

But an inner tranquillity that could find a man even in mild-mannered Trien'nor... that was something he had to know more about. Despite the danger.

After work on the third day, Dan'nor made his way back to the tavern. Somehow, it seemed larger this time, easier to distinguish from the shops around it. The wooden door seemed larger, too-heavier, more portentous.

This night, there were just as many people as that other night, but they were distributed around the place differently. The crowd about the videoscreen was smaller; more people clustered around the bar.

Dan'nor took a table not far from the screen, simply because it was available. He pretended to watch the Conflicts, but his real attention was focused on the corridor that led to the back room.

His plan-one he hadn't realized he'd had until just a few moments ago-was to sit here and wait for his father. Of course, he couldn't be certain that Trien'nor was back there-but he had a feeling. And if he was wrong, he could always return another night.

He wouldn't break in on the conspirators' meeting. And fear wasn't the reason, he told himself. It was because setting foot in that room again would mean he'd joined them-and he wasn't ready to do that. Not by a long shot.

He just wanted to talk to Trien'nor. Needed to talk to Trien'nor. For now, that would be enough.

Before long, he saw one of the serving women take a tray into the back. At least, he noted, some of the conspirators were here. It was a good sign.

Nor did anyone approach him to ask if he wanted a drink. He caught sight of the serving maid who had taken his order the first time he was here; but she was working behind the bar, too busy to wait on tables. Dan'nor wondered what had made the customers so thirsty all of a sudden.

Then a mug of foamy, dark liquid slammed down on his table, startling him. He looked up into the face of someone he'd never seen before. Someone who had drunk more than he should have.

"There," said the man, as Lower Caste a specimen as Dan'nor had ever seen. "No one goes without a drink the day the video works blew up."