But if he led them on a wild enough chase, the prisoners would have a better chance to get away. Not just the wounded one and his companion, but the ones who'd already made it over the bridge.

He would be trading their freedom for his. It didn't make much sense from the point of view of self-preservation. But damn-it sure felt right.

At the first sizable upthrust, Geordi stopped and peered back at his pursuers. So far, they were right on his trail. And progressing pretty efficiently, despite their armor.

From hereon in, he would have to make it more difficult. Confuse them a little.

He dropped down again, trying to keep to the shadows, and scuttled straight back. There was a sheer drop no more than thirty meters away. He would have to turn before that-maybe veer off to his left, where there were a couple of squat formations he could take advantage of.

Geordi was halfway to the cliff when the terrain turned against him. The rocky surface that had appeared so solid just gave way beneath his right foot. And though he tried to take the slip in stride, he found he couldn't.

His foot was stuck, wedged into a crevice he could barely see. When he pressed his hands against the ground and attempted to pull free, all he got for his efforts was a shoot of agony through his ankle.

Geordi set his teeth, tried to twist in another direction. This time, it hurt so much that he almost cried out.

Not that it would have mattered. The drivers were bearing down on him, their bulk blotting out the stars on the craggy horizon.

Geordi's mouth went dry as he saw the way they held their weapons. As if they meant to use them...

No, he told himself. They would calm down once they saw what they'd been chasing: one man, unarmed and helpless.

But as the armored ones loomed above him, he could read the fury in them. The murderous fury. For no good reason, except that maybe that wrestling match had worked them up to a frenzy.

Suddenly, Geordi realized that his good deed might have cost him more than his freedom.

It might have cost him his life.

Chapter Fourteen.

IT HAD BEEN A RISK, O'Brien told himself-but an unavoidable one.

After all, the transporters couldn't work at quite the same distance as the ship's sensors-not even under the best of circumstances.

And of course, present circumstances were far from the best. All the debris in the area made the teleportation process somewhat trickier than normal; O'Brien had had to compute an ungodly number of path-density changes. It was one thing to beam someone down through atmosphere and then, say, a known depth of bedrock. But to direct a set of molecules through metal and vacuum, metal and vacuum, a hundred times or more-before even entering the planet's atmosphere-now that was a horse of a different color.

What's more, their information on A'klahn surface details was fairly sketchy. Oh, sure, they had programmed in all the topographical macrocontours captured by the sensors. And they had chosen as open a place as possible. But what if the ground rose suddenly in a particular spot? Or fell? What if there was some sort of building they hadn't detected? An animal, a tree?

They had a little more margin for error with an android than with a human being. Data was durable, extraordinarly strong and agile. However, if he materialized inside some Klah'kimmbri's favorite monument, he'd be in as much trouble as anyone else.

All of this meant that they'd had to close the distance between themselves and A'klah in order to ensure Data's safe passage-a mandate that hadn't exactly thrilled Will Riker. "If we get too close," he'd said, "we'll be noticed. Then they'll regenerate that damned energy shield and we'll be back up the creek without a paddle. With no possibility of beaming down, no one to gather information for us planetside-and more than likely, no second chance at sensor reconnaissance."

In the end, Lady Luck had turned up on their side. They had established the position O'Brien needed-and so far, the Klah'kimmbri showed no signs of having detected them.

But it was foolish to tempt fate any longer than they had to. O'Brien's fingers flew deftly and surely over the few controls he hadn't been able to preset. Within moments of their having breached the maximum-distance bubble, he glanced at Riker.

"Ready to transport," he said.

The first officer turned to Data, who stood front and center on the transporter platform. The android nodded once-smartly, O'Brien thought.

"All right," said Riker. "Energize."

In the next second, Data was surrounded by a cylinder of shimmering light. It seemed to absorb him, to suck all the substance out of him. Finally, the cylinder vanished-and the android along with it.

O'Brien consulted his instruments. "Transport complete," he announced. And hoped that it had been accomplished with a minimum of discomfort to Data. There was no way of knowing, unfortunately, until the android established a communicator link-and that wasn't supposed to happen until he'd completed his mission.

"Good," said Riker. He spoke to the ship's computer. "Conn."

"Ensign Crusher here," came the response over the intercom.

"Take us back to our previous position, Ensign Crusher. As quickly as possible."

"Aye-aye, sir."

Up on the bridge, Wesley had already programmed the course change-in accordance with Riker's orders. O'Brien thought he could feel the engines engage by way of a slight vibration in the deck.

The first officer turned back to him. He still looked pretty grim.

"Cheer up, sir," said the transporter chief. "It couldn't have gone any better."

Riker grunted. "It's not that. I have every confidence that he arrived in one piece." He sighed, shook his head. "I just can't help but feel it should have been me down there instead of poor Data."

Nor was he speaking as a first officer-O'Brien recognized that right away. Riker was speaking as a man worried about his friend.

Worf waited for Harr'h's signal, battle senses taut and alert. The sky, which had been darkening steadily, looked impatient for the assault to get under way-as impatient, almost, as the warriors themselves.

Of all of them, only the Klingon was not looking forward to the combat. For him alone, the taste of imminent violence was a bitter brew, mulled by the awful knowledge that he would falter at the prospect of a kill.

He peered at the defenders on the walls, the marshals who swung high in the bruised and purpling heavens, weaving circles around the flyingeye machines. His comrades had only one set of enemies to look out for-Worf had two.

Then Harr'h called out the attack-a long, ululating cry that bound the siege-makers to the battle and the battle to the siege-makers, until both were one and the one was a thing of fierce, feverish beauty.

Everyone bounded forward at once. Worf had been chosen as one of the squad leaders. In his right hand, he carried his mace. In his left, he bore the foremost part of a tall, sturdy siege ladder. Behind him, nine other warriors shared the ladder's burden.

There were ten squads altogether, all similarly equipped. Each had been assigned a point of attack.

Up on the battlements, some of the defenders brought forth heavy stones and chunks of masonry-missiles with which to bombard the invaders, to pare their numbers and slow them down. Others hefted spears, designed for more long-range use.

Unfortunately, encumbered as the siege-makers were, it was impossible to close with the fortress as quickly as they would have liked. Their ladders were too heavy, too unwieldy. What's more, not all of them were made for speed, and each squad could move only as fast as its slowest members.

It made them easy targets.

Before they had come within twenty meters of the barrier, they paid the price for their plodding pace. There was a sudden rain of shafts, and a thudd, and the warrior behind Worf cried out. The Klingon allowed himself only a quick look back-and was sorry he had. The spear had gone right through its victim and stuck in the ground-leaving him twisted but erect, like some grim scarecrow.

He put the sight behind him. Not the best way to die, Worf told himself. But at least it was a death in battle.

There was a second volley of arrows, and a third. Miraculously, no one else in Worf's squad was cut down. But in the squads on either side of them, the casualties had been heavy. There were barely enough warriors left to carry those two ladders.

It was a bad sign. When Worf's ladder went up, it would attract that much more attention.

Cursing beneath his breath, the Klingon pounded toward the wall. His heart beat like a caged beast. His blood throbbed in his temples.

He knew they were almost there when the rocks started to fall. There was a bellow of pain behind him, and suddenly the ladder grew a little heavier. For a moment, his squad faltered. Then they got going again, amid a hail of plummeting debris.

One piece of it seemed to zero in on his head. He ducked to one side but couldn't avoid it entirely. It came down hard on his shoulder, sending shots of pain through his bad arm.

But he didn't drop his weapon. Nor did he drop the ladder. Teeth grinding, he lurched for the wall.

And then, abruptly, the fortress seemed to embrace them. To shelter them; it would be difficult for one of their enemies to hit someone directly below. The bombardment continued, but most of the missiles caught the jutting stones that comprised the barrier-and bounced away. Or carried too far by virtue of their momentum.

On the other hand, they were hardly safe here. Haste was still critical if they were to avoid being crushed one by one.

As they turned and hefted their ladder, Worf had the sense that the other teams were doing the same. But he didn't pause to make sure. He could only hope that enough of them had reached their goal to keep any one squad from being isolated and destroyed.

Just as they managed to plant their ladder against the wall, to wedge it in tight, Worf felt another rock strike him. It was smaller than the first one, and not nearly so heavy. But it hit him in his bad shoulder, just like its predecessor, and he didn't appreciate that.

Rage boiled up inside him and he roared a challenge to the defenders up above. They answered with more rocks, and the Klingon had to hug the barrier to avoid them.

Careful, he told himself, forcing the words through the red haze of his anger. Save it for when you get up top.

In the next moments, his vision cleared. Two of his comrades had already begun climbing; he started up after them. The remaining members of their squad stayed below, to anchor the ladder-to keep the defenders from dislodging it too easily.

A chinking on his armor. Were they throwing down pebbles now? Worf glanced up past the bulk of the warrior just above him-saw the droplets slanting by, lashed by the wind.

Rain. Finally. It was getting hot inside his armor.

But soon, it became more than just a spattering of drops. The rain fell harder, heavier. The stones began to darken, to grow slippery with it.

Up above, something cracked like a whip in the sky. The rain began to hiss, to strike a mantle of mist off the wall.

It dampened the sound of the ram striking the gates, the war cries as the first of the invaders reached the battlements.

Worf's ladder jerked-once, again-as the defenders tried to repel it. But the warriors at the base held it in place, and soon the enemy stopped testing them. Apparently, they had their hands too full up there.

Suddenly, something fell past Worf. Only after it was lying limp on the ground did he recognize it-as the pierced and lifeless form of one of his comrades. The one who'd been topmost on the ladder.

His lips pulled back in an involuntary snarl. At the smell of death, the din of arms clashing, the blood-passion was surging in him-as it should. Even as he climbed, as he tightened his grasp on his weapon, he nurtured it. He fed the fire in his heart, hoping that this time it would not fail him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a marshal hovering. Watching, Strangely, though, the sky rider was looking up-at the sky, where it was growing as dark as night. As if he was worried about something. The winds seemed to toss him about, the sheeting rains to discomfit him.

But the Klingon couldn't attend to the marshal for long. Before he knew it, the warrior above him had made his way up onto the battlements-and plunged into a knot of defenders.

Then it was his turn.

Just as Worf dragged himself up over the wall, an adversary came forward to fill the breach. Almost too late, he rolled, his legs flopping over on the wrong side of the parapet. His enemy's broadsword encountered nothing but stone, raising a swarm of orange sparks.

Wind whistled through the chinks in his helmet. The rain pressed down upon him-a torrent that choked and blinded, making it difficult to get up. He had never known a storm this bad-at least not in his brief span of remembrance.

Just in time, the wind shifted direction. Worf squinted through his dripping visor at his opponent's sword-slicing the air as it headed straight for him.

Klanngg!

His mace took the blow, turned it aside. But his enemy had put too much of his weight into it. He slipped on the rain-slick stones, dropped on Worf with the force of a falling burden-beast.

Too close now for weaponplay, they grappled. The Klingon tried to obtain some advantage, but the other warrior was just as strong-just as determined. And Worf was still draped half over the parapet, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the vertical surface of the wall.

Finally, the Klingon wrestled one hand free and struck his opponent a damaging blow across the visor. Before the warrior could quite recover, Worf brought a leg up-wedged a booted foot between them and pushed for all he was worth.

His enemy went sprawling backward, lifted nearly to his full height.

And in that same moment, the world split apart.

Even afterward, Worf wasn't sure what had happened. There had been a flash of light, reflected in the cavernous sky and the figure of his adversary. And immediately afterward, a deafening clap that shook the very stones beneath them.

The Klingon hadn't seen the source of the light; it had come from somewhere behind him. But apparently, his adversary had. He was holding his head in his gauntleted hands, his weapon dropped and forgotten.

Had the warrior been blinded by the sudden brilliance in the sky?

And what the hell had caused that all-consuming brilliance?

Worf's second question was answered first. Way off in the distance, among the clouds on the other side of the valley, there was a darting of light down to the hills. A second or two later, it was followed by a cascade of sound-something like boulders clashing.

Then he got the answer to his first question as well-when his enemy removed his helm to reveal the being within. A blockish head, broad features, three rubylike eyes set beneath an overhanging brow. But none of those eyes seemed blind.

On the contrary. The warrior was using all of them to look right at him.

Worf didn't know what to make of this behavior. And as he scanned the battlements-out of an instinct for self-preservation- he saw that his opponent wasn't the only one who had appeared to lose his mind.

All up and down the line, warriors had taken off their helmets. They were staring at each other, at the sky-even at their own garb.

Only a handful still stood helmeted and armed, ready to fight. But like the Klingon, they were watching the helmless ones.

Worf's adversary took a step toward him. Not a belligerent step; it seemed tentative, uncertain. "Where am I?" he asked, rain spilling down the sides of his face. "What am I doing here?" Another step-and now there was a flare of anger in those ruby red orbs. "Where is this place?"

These were questions that Worf himself had asked-but only in the beginning. As he listened, he heard them repeated over and over again, all along the battlements.

And not just there. Over the sizzle and spatter of the rain, Worf could hear cries of bafflement in the ranks of his comrades down below-the ones who had been scaling the ladders. The same sounds came from within the fortress walls. And from even farther away, among the squads of invaders that had been held back for a second rush.

Had the flash caused them all to lose their memories again? The idea made the Klingon shudder. After all, they remembered so little as it was. Losing even that would be unbearable.

Or had something else happened to them? Indeed, they did not look so much bereft as...

Before Worf could complete his thought, he caught sight of a sky rider swooping toward them-angling out of the maelstrom of churning, black sky. Instinctively, he crouched, prepared himself to accept the blast of agony.