But it never came. Instead, the marshal's beam hit the one whom Worf had been fighting-the one who stood so innocent and weaponless on the battlements.

There were no screams, no convulsions. The warrior just collapsed-and lay there, a target for the rain.

Nor did the sky rider stop there. He strafed the parapets, blasting nearly everyone. By the time he bad nosed his sled up again, the only ones still standing were those like Worf. The ones who still wore their helms, who still grasped their weapons.

Everyone else lay still. As Worf watched, one limp form slipped from the wall and fell into the courtyard below.

The Klingon crept closer to his fallen adversary, touched the warrior's neck just below his jutting jaw. There was no pulse.

Dead. And not honorably, in battle-but at the hands of that misbegotten dog on the sled!

It was happening all over. Everywhere the madness had made a warrior cast off his helm, a sky rider followed-bringing not torture but instantaneous death.

A sense of loss came over Worf, lodged in his throat. He felt shame-for those who had perished without glory. Remorse-for it seemed to him that he should have touched these lives as they fled, heralded their passing somehow. And savage, unendurable hatred-for those who could kill with such cowardice.

Something took hold of him. It was more than a scream. It was an outpouring of his soul, a release of his great and terrible pain into the bawling heavens. Somewhere off to his side, there was a slender quick-stitch of distant light, and the heavens roared back at him.

A second time, one of the sleds came his way. This time, it came too close. Without thinking, fired purely by instinct, Worf launched himself from the parapet.

And caught hold of the marshal's leg.

Earth and sky reeled as the sled swung about, thrown off by the sudden and unexpected weight. The sky rider tried to shake off his newfound burden, to break Worf's grip by pounding at his hands with the blaster's pommel.

But Worf wasn't letting go. In fact, spurred by the emotions that roiled inside him, he was climbing higher-improving his grip on marshal and machine.

"Go ahead," he growled, glaring up into the pale, narrow countenance, beyond which the sky was a spinning chaos. He was almost close enough to strike it, to crush it. "Use your stinking weapon. Slay me as you slew them!"

But the marshal held back. Perhaps, at this range, he could not fire for fear of being caught in the backlash. Perhaps he had other reasons.

In any case, he did not bring his death beam to bear. And though his mouth gradually stretched in a rictus of mounting fear, though his eyes darted wildly, he gave up his pummeling as well.

Slowly, fighting the centrifugal force that threatened to tear him loose, the Klingon dragged himself closer to his goal-closer to the object of his revulsion.

And then, suddenly, he saw something dark and massive looming up before him. The wall-they were going to crash into the wall!

A spark of reason welled up in the darkness of his fury. He leapt from the sled, unsure of where the ground was-but certain he would rather fall a long way than strike the stone barrier at that speed.

As it turned out, Worf did not have far to fall at all. He hit the ground hard, but not that hard-rolled and sought his bearings.

If the marshal was going to be destroyed, he wanted to savor the moment. His aching hatred demanded it.

But in saving himself, he had rescued the sky rider as well. One moment, the sled seemed doomed to hit the top of the wall; the next, it rose just high enough to skim past it. With Worf aboard, it never could have done that.

Nor did the marshal deign to look back at his tormentor. He merely continued ascending, past the keep and into the storm.

The Klingon burned with his failure. Again he had proven he was no true warrior-he had fallen short of the kill.

However, he was too spent to roar at his squandered chance for revenge. Too drained to bellow anymore at the sky.

In the lee of the walls, all was confusion. Those still standing milled about the bodies, lost and without purpose. Somehow, the siege no longer seemed so urgent.

Worf spat out blood from beneath his visor, picked up an ax lying on the ground-to replace the weapon he seemed to have left behind.

He would try to understand all of this later on. Right now, he just wanted a dry place to lick his wounds.

Data had materialized not fifty yards from the Klah'kimmbri control facility-a large, gray box of a building that stood by itself on a high, windswept plateau.

There was no door in either of the walls visible to him, so he circumnavigated and stuck his head around a corner.

Sure enough, the entranceway was now in sight. And it was guarded by two armed Klah'kimmbri.

Data was armed also-though his weapon was not functional. Ignorant of the technology that went into Klah'kimmbri firearms, the Enterprise's computer had been able to fashion only a hollow duplicate-to go along with the rest of his disguise.

In any case, the android wasn't depending on force to get him what he wanted. Rather, he was hopeful that he could accomplish that through subterfuge.

On that note, and without further reflection, Data left his hiding place and made his approach. He attempted to simulate an air of confidence.

The guards didn't seem to notice him at first. Perhaps they did not expect anyone to approach from this direction. Or, for that matter, to approach at all.

When they did notice him, however, they instinctively drew their weapons. He did not think it prudent to respond in kind; rather, he continued his inexorable but unhurried advance.

Within a few seconds, they must have recognized him as one of their own, for they restored their weapons to their belts. Rather quickly, in fact.

The disguise, it seemed, had worked. So far, so good.

Now, however, came what Commander Riker had dubbed "the tough part." Once engaged in conversation, Data knew, he might have to produce any number of details concerning his supposed life and career on A'klah. Indeed, thanks to his research, the time he had spent learning the Klah'kimmbri language and the extensive briefing he'd had with the first officer, the android could recite a long though somewhat sketchy personal history-from his earliest beginnings to his current need for information on certain conscripts.

"Greetings," he said, stopping before the guards. "Perhaps you can help me."

One of them answered immediately-almost before Data had completed his sentence.

"Certainly, Revered One. Would you like to see the Coordinator?"

Revered One? Data noticed now that the guard stood rather rigidly-with his hands at his sides and his eyes averted. Likewise, his companion.

Had they mistaken the android for someone else? If so, for whom?

And would the mix-up enhance his chances for success here-or render his mission more difficult?

"Yes," said Data-too abruptly, he feared. "I would like to see the Coordinator."

"Very well," said the guard. And while his comrade stepped aside, he pressed a pressure-sensitive plate beside the entranceway. A moment later, the door slid aside; there was a vaulted lobby within, with corridors leading off it.

Revered One?

As Data followed the guard inside, he wondered how a Klah'kimmbri might come to merit reverence. It occurred to him that the knowledge might prove useful.

Chapter Fifteen.

MA'ALOR HAD NOT ESCAPED without injury. His jaw was a deep, painful-looking purple blotch, and there were cuts above both his eyes. He had sustained the bruise at the hands of a Civil Service agent, the cuts as he crashed through the window high on the wall of the tavern rest room-launched through it by his compatriots.

The dark man's scowl hadn't left him, Dan'nor noticed. If anything, it had deepened.

"So," said Ma'alor. "You want to become one of us."

Dan'nor nodded. "That's right."

They sat on wooden chairs in a small, furnished room. It wasn't obvious whether anyone had lived here or not before Ma'alor came to use it as a hideout. There were two others in the room with them. One was the man who had brought Dan'nor here-the same one who'd held his arms in the tavern.

Ma'alor grunted. "Trien'nor was right about you, it seems. I confess I doubted that you would ever see things our way." A searching pause. "What made you change your mind?"

Dan'nor shrugged. "A number of things. Let's just say I'm wiser now than when we first met."

"You grew wise in a hurry," said Ma'alor. "Some men take a lifetime to do that."

"And others never grow wise at all," said Dan'nor. "But then, we're not really talking about wisdom-are we?"

Ma'alor's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "No," he agreed. "We're not. So I ask you again: what made you decide to join us?"

Dan'nor thought about it for a moment. "I saw what they did to my father. I can't just do nothing in return."

Ma'alor nodded. "Good. I have no use for intellectuals-Zanc'cov was the only good one I ever met. I'll take a man with a reason to hate over an intellectual any day."

He leaned forward and held out his hand. Dan'nor took it.

Ma'alor sat back. "Now, then. What did your father tell you about our activities?"

The younger man tried to remember. "He mentioned a factory owned by Councillor Fidel'lic. One you had sabotaged. And a plan-something important and very dangerous. He said that my Military experience might have played a valuable part in it."

A beat. "That's all?" asked Ma'alor.

Dan'nor thought some more. "I believe so."

"Did the name Ralak'kai ever come up?"

"Yes. It did. My father said Ralak'kai was one of you-and he'd been captured. Placed among the combatants-in the Conflicts."

Ma'alor's eyes were still trying to see into him. Dan'nor realized that the dark man didn't quite trust him yet.

"It's true," Ma'alor said finally. "Ralak'kai has been seen on the videoscreen. He's there. And so, I expect, is your father. Or if he's not, he will be soon. Along with Zanc'cov and the others who were taken prisoner the other night."

"That," said Dan'nor, "is what I thought. What I feared." He returned Ma'alor's gaze. "But-unless I miss my guess-you are going to do something about them. Are you not?"

A board creaked where Dan'nor's escort was standing.

"You figured that out all by yourself?" asked Ma'alor.

"Yes. Is it true?"

Ma'alor nodded. "But it need concern you no further."

Dan'nor was caught off guard. "And why is that?"

"Simple," said the dark man. "You have never worked with us before. And we can't afford to make any mistakes."

"But my father..."

Ma'alor held up his hands-a peremptory gesture. "Your father was wrong. We can use you, all right-but not for this. For other things." He stood. "Go now. We'll get in touch with you when we need you."

Dan'nor didn't go. He didn't even get up.

"You're lying," he said. "It's not my inexperience that troubles you. It's that you still don't trust me."

Ma'alor regarded him. "Would you, if our positions were reversed?"

"No. I suppose not. But I want to help my father. And I trust his judgment. If he thought my Military experience could help you-who are you to say otherwise?"

Ma'alor obviously hadn't expected that. Anger smoldered in his eyes.

"Is there anyone else among you who knows anything about the Military?" asked Dan'nor. "Who has been trained by the Military? Lived his life in the Military?"

The dark man continued to glare at him. But when he answered, his voice was under control. "No," he said. "You are the only one-other than Trien'nor, of course." The anger in his eyes died. "And he, unfortunately, is of little use to us now."

Silence. As Dan'nor sat before Ma'alor, he was reminded of the Council's scrutiny on the day he went before it. Except this time, he had no fear. And because of that, this time, he knew he would win.

"Very well," said Ma'alor at last. "You will be part of it, Tir'dainia. Part of our big event." He laughed-a surprising sound, coming from him. "But you may wish you had not been so eager to get involved."

And in the hours that followed, Ma'alor outlined their plan.

Worf huddled in the keep with the other invaders, glad for the shelter from the cold, driving rain. They sat in a high-raftered hall, listening to the echo of helmets and weapons as they dropped against the smooth, stone floor. Worf's comrades seemed too tired to lay their gear down carefully. And more than tired-they seemed almost not to care.

Inside, it was dark, the corners of the place softened with deep shadows. Outside, it was darker still. Except for the infrequent stroke of light, which illuminated in quick, staccato bursts the piece of courtyard framed by the open doorway.

It was in these flashes that Worf saw the bodies-many bodies, and most of them had not died at the hands of other warriors. Still, he did not need to see the helmless corpses to remember what the marshals had done. It was branded on the backside of his eyes, carved there like a blood eagle, so that even shutting them was no relief.

The defenders-or what was left of them-had all departed by now, gone up into the hills and vanished. Nor had anyone bothered to stop them. It was as if a truce had been called-one without words, understood by both sides.

And now what? Would they wait until the rain stopped-and then pursue their enemies as before? Or stay here and defend the place as if it were theirs now?

When Harr'h got up and stood before them, Worf thought he would find out. But that was not the veteran's purpose in addressing them.

"You know me," he said. "I am no stranger to you." He looked about. "Nor am I one of those linked to the sled riders, who guide us in our forays."