"Then it got worse. It started spreading. But did I rock the boat? No. I calmly apprised the ranking officer of the situation. I calmly recommended a course of action. I only gave in to my instincts in one regardI recorded my misgivings for the record, despite the fact that I thought I'd ultimately be laughed at. 'Hey, look at this-some crazy quack dragged the Enterprise to a starbase because two people on the ship got sick. Amazing. Didn't he know he wasn't on the frontier anymore?'

"Now I see that I didn't go too far at all. If I made a mistake, it was in not going far enough. We've got seventeen patients now. Every available blood-purification unit is in constant use. Critical care is completely engaged-we're spilling over into the less secure areas, having rigged up portable field generators to maintain the quarantine.

"It's gone too far, Commander. I can't state that strongly enough. Twenty-four hours from now, we'll see twice as many cases-and twice as many again twenty-four hours after that. By then, of course, you and I will probably be among the afflicted." Burtin paused. "The nearest starbase is six days away at warp nine. I checked. In six days, half the population of the Enterprise could be writhing in the corridors, gasping for breath."

He took a deep breath, let it out. "Strangely enough, I still feel as though I shouldn't panic. But I am panicking, Commander. I want this ship headed for Starbase Ninety-One- now. And I don't care if we leave behind that away team or not."

Riker frowned. Was that what he was doing? Sacrificing the many for the few? Or was he keeping a cool head-knowing that medical officers always painted the worst picture possible, and that things seldom turned out as badly as they predicted?

Finally, he shook his head. "I gave Data two full days. I can't leave before then. I'm not discounting what you're saying, Doctor-believe me, I'm not. But I can't just abandon our people down there without giving them a chance."

Burtin's eyes narrowed, and he nodded. "It's your choice, Commander. That is, until you come down with the disease yourself-at which time I have every intention of relieving you of your command." And with that, he headed for the exit.

As the lounge doors opened, Burtin turned again-as if he had thought of something else to say. But he was interrupted by the commotion outside, on the bridge.

Both men were spurred to action. The first officer, a little quicker, was only a step behind the doctor as they emerged...

And saw Wesley Crusher sprawled on the deck beside his conn station. Troi was kneeling beside him, clasping his shoulder.

"What happened?" asked Riker-though he already knew the answer.

"He collapsed," said Troi, her face taut with Wesley's pain and fear. "Not more than a few seconds ago."

"It's all right, sir," said Wesley. "I think the symptoms are just beginning." He tried to get up under his own power, failed and slumped against the deck again. "But I'm going to need a gurney to get to sickbay."

Burtin was kneeling beside the ensign too, now. He looked up at Riker, said nothing. But his silence was thick with accusation.

With the return of full circulation to his stiff, rope-scored limbs, Picard was beginning to feel the pain he'd been spared since his failed escape attempt. It had already gotten so bad that he winced with every halting step.

"Get a move on," called the marshal behind him. "Or I'll give you a taste of what real agony is like."

The courtyard echoed with his threat. Other marshals heard and turned their heads. When nothing happened, they turned away again.

Ralak'kai and Geordi walked on either side of Picard, similarly hobbled by their physical discomforts. They exchanged glances.

"A taste," suggested Ralak'kai, "of the hospitality we have to look forward to?"

Picard grunted. "No doubt."

The marshals might have been less testy, the human observed, if the full complement of prisoners had arrived. They had been quite vocal in their anger when they saw all the empty wagons.

Unlike that other fortress, there had been no careful guards to greet them here. Nor could Picard, now that he was inside, see more than a few casual watchers up on the walls.

Obviously, there was no fear of invasion in this place. And indeed, what need was there for guards when the fortress was crawling with sky riders-and nothing but sky riders? The only warriors he saw were those who had brought them in the wagons.

Was this some sort of headquarters for the marshals, then? A dispatch point?

And if that were the case, why had Picard and the others been transported here? Not for punishment alone, he thought. After all, that could have been meted out a while ago, and with a lot less effort.

Then why? As some sort of work force? He looked around. There didn't seem to be a lot of work that needed doing. Or...

"Move it, I said!"

Picard felt a blow in the middle of his back, and his legs were too inflexible to absorb the impact. He pitched forward, caught himself on hands and knees as a cloud of dust rose around him.

He didn't quite see the action that ensued, but he gathered that Geordi had come to his defense. Perhaps even shoved the marshal as the marshal had shoved Picard.

What he did see was a second sky rider striking Geordi down from behind. As the dark man fell, the metal band he wore on his face went flying.

In that moment, Picard understood that the band was not part of Geordi. And he understood more than that-for without it, the dark man seemed confused-disoriented.

The band is some sort of seeing device, he realized. Geordi is blind.

To his credit, the dark man didn't whimper or cry out at his loss. But then, even after knowing him only this short time, Picard hadn't expected him to.

Instead, Geordi calmly and methodically searched the ground around him with probing fingers. And when after a few seconds he hadn't found anything, he resolutely got to his feet.

There was no point in begging, he knew. It would not get him anywhere.

Picard saw where the metal band had landed. So did Ralak'kai. But the marshals weren't about to let them recover it for their companion.

"Come on," said one of the sky riders. Picard felt another jolt, though this time he managed to stay on his feet. "Are you deaf or something?"

"My friend dropped something," he said, confronting the marshal. "Let him have it back." It grated on him to say the next word: "Please."

The sky rider's mouth spread slowly into a leering grin.

"What happens to him," he said, "is no business of yours."

He removed his blaster from his holster.

"Unless you insist on making it so."

"It's all right," said Geordi, taking a step in the other human's direction. Apparently, he'd heard the sound of the weapon being withdrawn. "Don't push him-I can live without it."

Nonetheless, Picard was about to press his suit-when one of the warriors stooped to pick up the metal band. Without hesitating, he went over to the dark man and placed it in his hands. Then, still silent, he went back to his place by the wagons.

Nor did the marshals make him pay for his benevolence. There was a large number of warriors in the courtyard right now-perhaps the sky riders thought it unwise to antagonize them.

In any case, they waited long enough for Geordi to slip his device back into place. But no longer.

A third time, Picard felt a prod from behind. Except that this time, it was with the barrel of a blaster.

"Go on," said the marshal who wielded it. "Give me an excuse."

But the human didn't give it to him. He no longer had a reason to. He walked as best he could across the remainder of the courtyard, until he was swallowed by the stone-cold maw of the keep.

Chapter Seventeen.

PAY DIRT!.

Riker himself directed the security force that ushered the Mendel survivors off the transporter platform. Troi was there, too, to help assure them that they were in a safe place-a friendly place.

It had been apparent from the second the survivors materialized that Riker's hypothesis had been accurate: they had absolutely no idea of where they were. Their memories were gone-though with some rehab therapy, they would probably get most of them back.

To compound their confusion, they had been beamed up without any warning-another quick-as-blazes, get-in-and-get-out maneuver, which brought the ship within transporter range for just the few moments they needed. Fortunately, though they were pushing their luck pretty hard, there was still no sign that the Klah'kimmbri had spotted them.

As Riker scanned the survivors' faces, he felt a little rush of vindication. Sure, they looked scared and uncertain. But they were alive. And if he'd listened to Burtin, they would probably have died by the time another rescue vessel showed up.

Not that it made the doctor's warning any less valid. But it was a victory-and Riker felt he'd earned the right to revel in it. Victories of any sort had been exceedingly rare since they'd arrived in the vicinity of A'klah.

It was also good to know that Data's plan-whatever it was-was working. There was no way that these eight survivors could have come together by coincidence. Somehow, Data had rounded them up and kept them in one place-though stumbling on them without instructions from the android had been a stroke of luck.

Seeing that the Mendel's people were in good hands, Riker turned to Chief O'Brien.

"Good job," he said.

"Thank you, sir. I do my best." A fleeting smile, and then O'Brien was intent again on his board-reducing energy levels by careful stages.

"Commander Riker," intoned an ambient voice. The survivors looked around warily for its origin.

The first officer, however, recognized that it was Fong calling him from the bridge.

"Riker here."

"Sir-I think we've got another group-believe it or not. Seven more-and Palazzo is one of them."

The first officer felt himself grinning.

"Oh well," said O'Brien. "At least they didn't wait until I'd powered down completely."

"Excellent news, Mister Fong," said Riker. "Make the necessary course adjustments and proceed at optimum speed."

"Receiving coordinates now," said O'Brien. "They're not too far away from where we found this bunch."

If Data had been with them in the transporter room, Riker might have hugged him. The android was working some kind of miracle down there.

His jubilation was tempered only by one factor-the names that were still among the missing. Picard. Pulaski. Geordi. Worf Of course, it was possible that they'd be discovered in yet another group. Or that Data was busy gathering them up now.

But the android was running out of time. His deadline was less than a day away.

Data had already done more than anyone had expected of him. How much more could he do?

And then, no matter how efficient the android was, there was one obstacle even he couldn't surmount: the fact that some of the Mendel's crew-and perhaps some of their own people as well-were already dead. Already beyond rescue.

Riker hoped with all his heart that his friends weren't in that number.

It hadn't been easy for Pulaski. Her feet were killing her, she was cold and the wind had rasped away patiently at her facial burns until they stung like the devil. Also, she wished that she'd taken some of that food herself.

But she had managed to find the Klingon, and then to keep him in sight without being spotted. That made all her smaller problems seem a good deal more tolerable.

What's more, her memory had come back-all of it. Not just up to the moment when she vanished off the Mendel, but also all the events that had transpired since then-first in the Klah'kimmbri installation where they'd apparently blocked out parts of her memory, and then, later, her experiences as a med.

She remembered how the flash of light from the destruction of the flying monitor had brought everything to the surface again-after a brief period in which she couldn't seem to remember anything.

And she recalled, as well, the straits in which she'd left the Enterprise-at the mercy of a disease that had the potential to be devastating. She wished she had her communicator, or that she could somehow get word to the ship-for she believed she had a cure.

She couldn't be certain, of course. But in all the time she'd spent here-wherever here was-the disease hadn't touched her. And if she was right about the bacterium's capacity for mutation into something contagious, she should have felt the symptoms by now. In fact, the disease should have killed her. Hell-it should have killed anyone that she'd come in contact with after her initial exposure to Fredi; without knowing it, she would have been a carrier.

Yet she was alive, unafflicted. And so, apparently, was Worf.

Something in this environment had to be protecting her. Something that she and the Klingon had in common.

Pulaski thought she had a handle on what that something might be. Unfortunately, the Enterprise could become a plague ship before she got a chance to test her theory.

Which only made the pursuit of Worf that much more critical. In the three or four hours since she'd left the transport train behind, she had been thinking up ways to approach the Klingon-and discarding them. She knew it wouldn't be enough to just tell him she was a friend. Or to try to explain the situation and ask him to help. At best, he'd take off, leaving her to fend for herself in this ungodly wilderness. At worst, he'd silence her for the danger she represented-as someone who could draw attention to him.

Recently, however, she'd come to see another possibility. Based on her observations of his progress, it seemed to her that Worf had a destination in mind. He was far from lost.

More than that, she had a feeling, he was not on his way to link up with other warriors. In the enclosure, her patients had kept their armor at their bedsides, and they always put it on before they left.

The Klingon, on the other hand, was missing parts of his protective garb-most notably, his helmet. No enemy would have taken that from him. The only other conclusion was that he had thrown it away himself-as an act of rebellion.

Knowing Worf as she did, and knowing his force of character, she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd decided that these battles were somehow beneath him-somehow contemptible. After all, even without his memory, he was a Klingon-and Klingons, he'd said often enough, placed honor above everything. How honorable could these combats be, if the behavior of the marshals was any indication?

Was it possible, then, that he was deserting-and that he knew a way out of here? That if she just hung on a little longer, he would lead her to some sort of civilization-where she had a chance of contacting the ship?

There was no guarantee-but she hoped so. And until she had a viable plan for defusing a confrontation with Worf, she decided to try and ride that hope.

Even as she pondered these things, Worf dropped out of sight over the brink of a long, stone escarpment. Pulaski was scared to death to lose him-especially now, so deep into the wilderness-but she also couldn't go after him right away. First, she had to make sure that he was well beyond the escarpment-that he'd had enough time to descend farther, and wouldn't hear her scrabbling around behind him.

At times like these, Pulaski wished she had the Klingon's hunting instincts-not to mention his surefootedness. A single wrong step and she'd be one sore physician.

When she had waited as long as she possibly could, she emerged from her most recent hiding place-some rocks beside a gentle incline that twisted into the steep one-and started down. Of course, there was no way to know if her timing was true until she reached the bottom.

Staying low, using her hands as well as her feet in crablike fashion, the doctor got down the escarpment without any slips-or, for that matter, any noise that would have alerted her quarry. Her arms and legs were charley-horsed by the time she was done, and there was a sharp pain in her left knee from her unaccustomed exertion-but it could have gone a lot worse. Not for the first time that day she was grateful for her good fortune.

As she neared the edge over which Worf had disappeared, Pulaski could see the kind of terrain that prevailed below. It was a broad, meandering valley between two ridges, with a white river frothing at the center of it. One of the ridges was what she and Worf had just climbed out of. Just below her was a drop of another few meters, and then a slope as steep as the escarpment-although this one was grassy, nurtured by the flood.

It was open territory, affording few places where one could conceal oneself. The Klingon should have been plainly visible from the doctor's vantage point.

But he wasn't. She couldn't find him anywhere. Pushing herself up a little off the incline, Pulaski tried to get a slightly better view.