A few of the other veterans shifted uncomfortably; the Klingon tried to mark them in the darkness. He began to understand better how the warriors' orders came down, and from whom.

"So when I speak," Harr'h went on, "I have nothing to gain. And what I say is this: forget what you have seen this day. Forget it as quickly as you can. Warriors who think too much become weak; they fall to the first quick blade that comes along. Believe me. I have seen this before-the flash of light, and the madness, and the way the marshals strike down the maddened ones. Because I put it from my mind that earlier time, I still stand before you now. Those who could not do that are long dead." He shrugged. "That is all I have to say."

Having finished, Harr'h returned to his place. But not before casting a look in the Klingon's direction. Nor was it a random glance-he knew exactly whom he was looking at.

And what he said with his eyes was not what he had said with his mouth. For Worf, he seemed to have a different message.

You are not like the rest, Harr'h appeared to say. You cannot forget. For you, the burden will be much greater.

And the advice proferred in that secret glance was unmistakable: to endure. To fight on as if the fight were honorable, knowing all the time that it is not. To strike a bargain with himself, trading dignity for a chance at survival-just as Harr'h himself had done, battle after battle after battle.

But as well as the veteran seemed to know him, he didn't know him well enough. Such a bargain was unacceptable to the Klingon.

His cowardice was bad. It was a terrible, shameful thing.

Yet to participate in a combat empty of honor was worse. He would not fight for those who could do what the marshals had done.

Somewhere out there, past the courtyard and the walls, there had to be an alternative. Perhaps even an escape.

Despite the difficulty of surviving alone in the wilderness, despite the likelihood that a sky rider would find him and destroy him... he had to risk it.

At his first opportunity, he would desert.

"Will that be all?"

Data nodded. "Yes. Thank you. You may go now."

The Klah'kimmbri left, shutting the door behind him. The android found himself alone, at a somewhat primitive keyboard-and-monitor setup, with access to the installation's entire array of data.

"Well," he told himself, "this is a pleasant development-if an unexpected one."

From the beginning, no one had questioned his identity. What was more, as soon as he had voiced his purpose in being here, the ranking functionary-the Coordinator-had personally ushered him to this private workstation. He had even been offered assistance with the workings of the computer system-which he, of course, declined.

In the meantime, he had gotten an inkling of the reason for his preferred status. It was not that he had been mistaken for an individual, as he had first believed-but rather, that he had been associated with this world's ruling class.

The crucial factor in all this was his hair-that gaudy shade of red that had characterized the locks of the Council members. Since the councillors were the only examples they had seen of Klah'kimmbri up close-and since none of them had had anything but red hair-the ship's xenologists had assumed that it was a common trait.

He saw now that they had been wrong. Everyone at this installation had dark hair-more like Data's natural color.

He couldn't help but smile at the thought. Natural indeed. Could anything be natural in an artificial being like himself?

In any case, his hair color had set him apart as some sort of dignitary-perhaps even a member of the Council itself. Without question, a stroke of luck.

Still smiling, he set to work.

The Klah'kimmbri computer system was not all that difficult to decipher. It took the android but a few moments to familiarize himself with the ways in which it diverged from the Federation approach to information technology. Mostly, he decided, the Klah'kimmbri model was just less sophisticated.

He punched in a request: INFORMATION ON CONSCRIPT JEAN-LUC PICARD.

NO SUCH REFERENT.

Data hadn't believed that there would be-but it had been worth a try.

All right, then. A different approach: GENERL INFORMATION ON CONSCRIPTS.

A menu came up on the screen. It offered Data a breakdown of available information according to ARRIVAL GEOGRAPHIC DISTRIBUTION, SKILL CATEGORY and something called CURRENT STATUS.

Out of curiosity more than anything else, the android called up CURRENT STATUS. It turned out to be a separation of the living and the dead. Each conscript was described by an eight-digit code; the last digit, apparently, indicated whether the conscript still survived.

The larger subfile, by far, was the one that listed the dead. Data recognized that some of his comrades might be included there. However, CURRENT STATUS would not be the logical place to begin his search.

Returning to the menu, he opted for ARRIVAL TIME.

There were three of them in the wagon now, each bound to a part of the vehicle. And a good deal more securely than before.

"For a moment there," said the dark man, "I thought I was a goner."

Picard managed a chuckle. "I know the feeling. The first time I woke in this wagon, I was glad of it-believe it or not. Even all trussed up, I was delighted just to be alive." He scanned the lifeless, forbidding slopes of the valley through which they were traveling. "Of course, I am no longer quite so pleased with the situation."

"You should have escaped while you had the chance," said Ralak'kai. "Both of you."

Picard shook his head, though his friend couldn't see it. "No. I couldn't just leave you here-not after what you'd done for me."

Ralak'kai grunted. "And look at the results."

"I didn't hear you protesting at the time," said Picard. "In any case, I really thought we would make it. If you're looking for a brave fool, it's our friend here."

"Geordi," said the dark man.

"Geordi," repeated Ralak'kai, by way of a greeting.

"Pleased to meet you. My name is Picard. And my traveling companion is called Ralak'kai."

"And we thank you for helping us," added the goldeneyed one. "Or rather, for trying to help us."

Geordi shrugged. "I had to, I guess. It didn't seem right-your being prisoners and all."

"Don't downplay it," said Ralak'kai. "It was heroic."

"Yes," said Picard. "You're a hero, Geordi. We are all heroes, each having risked his life for one of the others. And now that we have established that, can we find something more practical to talk about?"

Geordi laughed. It was a rich, full laugh-out of place in such stark environs.

"Neither of you seem too broken up about your imprisonment," he noted. "If I'd known you were so content, I might not have been tempted to rescue you."

"Don't mistake our banter for jubilation," said Ralak'kai. "We would still rather be free-like the others."

"Agreed," said Picard. He sighed. "Although it is good to know that at least some of us made it over the bridge."

He looked back at the train of wagons behind them. Of course, his remark was an understatement-they were the only prisoners left.

It had been a good night's work.

But there weren't likely to be any other nights like it. Having been burned once, their guards weren't going to be so lax a second time.

"Incidentally," said Geordi, "does anyone have any idea of where we're going?"

"Unfortunately," answered Ralak'kai, "no."

"Nor," said Picard, "do we know what is intended for us when we get there."

The dark man nodded. "I see."

Picard still hadn't decided if that metallic-looking band around the upper half of Geordi's face was part of him or not. At first glance, with only the stars to see by, he had assumed that the thing was some sort of sensory appendage.

In the daylight, however, it was apparent that the band was something Geordi wore. Though for the life of him, Picard couldn't guess the purpose of it-or, for that matter, how he could see with that thing covering his eyes.

"Obviously," Ralak'kai told the newcomer, "your people have excellent manners-wherever it is you come from."

Geordi looked at him. "Why do you say that?"

Ralak'kai smiled a little. "You haven't asked me about my resemblance to the marshals." He indicated Picard with a tilt of his head. "My friend here had hardly introduced himself when he inquired about that."

Picard harumphed, getting into the spirit of the exchange. Anything to keep from thinking about what would happen to them at their journey's end. "How impolite of me."

"Actually," said Geordi, "I had wondered about it. Did you... I mean, do you...?"

"Have any idea why it should be?" Ralak'kai shook his head. "Not the least clue. Perhaps you can guess-we seem to have exhausted all our theories."

Geordi settled back to think about it.

They passed the better part of the day chewing the subject to the bone before they let it drop. By then, they had emerged from the far end of the valley, and spotted the distant fortress that made that other one seem tiny by comparison.

It was late. Dan'nor was surprised by the knock on the door.

Ice water trickled the length of his spine. We've been found out. The Civil Service has come to get me.

He composed himself, opened the door-and breathed a sigh of relief. It was Ma'alor.

He came in without being invited, made his way to a chair. Dan'nor closed the door, noted the look in Ma'alor's eyes. There was no mistaking it, even in the dim light.

"What's wrong?" he asked. Something about his father?

The dark one told him-but it was a moment before Dan'nor could grasp the import of what Ma'alor was saying.

"How can that be?" he said, as it finally sank in. "Ralak'kai is a Klah'kimmbri. And anyway, that sort of thing has never been part of the Conflicts."

Ma'alor grunted. "It is now. As I say, they must be desperate. Maybe there's been a drastic decline in viewership. Or who knows why. The point is that they're doing it."

Dan'nor shook his head. "So now what?"

"A change of schedule," said Ma'alor. "We move sooner than we had planned." He leaned forward. "I must tell you, it's going to be tougher than it would have been before. Much tougher." He let the late evening silence elaborate on his behalf. It did so, eloquently. "Are you still with us?"

Dan'nor nodded.

"Commander?"

"Data-damn, but it's good to hear your voice."

"I apologize for my tardiness. There were circumstances here which prevented my communicating earlier."

"That's all right," said Riker, leaning back in his command chair. "Just hang on and we'll beam you right up."

The first officer was just about to contact O'Brien in the transporter room when Data stopped him. "Request permission," said the android, "to remain planetside."

Riker chided himself. He had just assumed that Data had completed his work down there. "You need more time to locate our people?" he asked.

"I have located them," said the android, "in a general way. However, precise coordinates are unavailable. Therefore..."

By now, Riker had a pretty good idea of how Data's mind worked. "You think the quickest way to find them," he expedited, "is to go after them yourself. Correct?"

"Correct, sir."

The first officer was all too aware of the need to keep this conversation short-to pack up and retreat to a safe distance again, before the Klah'kimmbri noticed an extra blip in the sky.

But he didn't want to rush this decision. It was too important-not only to Data, but also to the whole of the conscripted away team.

"You have the means to accomplish this?" he asked.

"I do, sir," said the android.

"I can't give you much time. That disease that Fredi had-it's spreading. Before long, I'm going to have to leave this sector-get us to a starbase. You understand, Data?"

"Perfectly, Commander. Allow me two A'klahn days. I believe that is all I will need."

The first officer could feel his molars grinding together. "All right," he said finally. "You've got two days-exactly. Riker out."

He looked to Wesley. The ensign was turned around in his seat, waiting for instructions.

"Take us back to our previous position," said Riker. "We're going to stick it out a little longer."

"Aye, sir." Wesley tapped in what had by now become familiar coordinates. "Ready."

"Engage."

Silently, Riker cheered Data on. If anybody could find the away team in that mess, he could. But in two days?

What the hell did Data have in mind?