"Right," he said, noticing how the flying eye turned toward him now when he spoke. With less effort than he might have thought, he was able to fashion a grin. "You'd have more fun executing this flying pile of nuts and bolts."

The marshal looked at them. "Perhaps," he said. "We will see." He glanced at the window, as if to gauge the amount of daylight left in it. "I will be surprised if you still feel this way a few hours from now."

With that chilling remark still hanging in the air, he took his leave of them. The flying eye, however, remained.

"All right," said Ralak'kai, when the sounds of the marshal's departure had died. "Let's be true to those brave words now." He swatted at the machine, though he couldn't reach out far enough to actually have a hope of hitting it. "We may die-but we can do it with dignity."

Geordi grunted in assent. But he didn't feel as brave as his words. He found that he was trembling; his knees were unsteady. He had to sit down on his cell's only chair before he suffered the embarrassment of falling down.

My God, he told himself. If you're like this now, what will you be like at the end?

Chapter Eighteen.

WORF WAS NO SOONER AWAKE than he was aware of the bonds that held him fast. He tried to break them, but they were too strong.

Where was he? What had happened to him? The last thing he remembered was turning the tables on that female who had pursued him.

Then he glimpsed movement over his shoulder-craned his neck to get a better view of it. What he saw made his stomach muscles tighten reflexively.

Marshals. Five of them. And another-the female!

Had she been some sort of bait? he wondered. Or a distraction, so that he would not pay attention to his real pursuers?

But no-that did not make any sense. Marshals needed no subterfuge. Not with their flying sleds and their blasters.

Perhaps she had merely drawn attention to him-his fear all along. Perhaps they had been tracking her, and then spotted him only when he emerged from concealment.

But why had she followed him in the first place? To recoup the food he had stolen? He did not think so. Nor did he believe she was a deserter-like him. A deserter would not be conversing so companionably with the marshals now.

If there were only some way he could free himself. Now, before they realized he was... Damn. Too late.

"Looks like your friend is awake," said one of them. The rest turned to regard Worf-and he wished he could shove their smug expressions down their throats, one at a time.

The female separated herself from the group and came over to him. Knelt beside him.

Her expression, at least, was not smug. In fact, she almost seemed frightened.

"Worf," she said. "Where do I begin?"

How did she know his name? He rumbled deep in his throat, not sure he liked the idea.

"Please," she said. "Don't shut me out. I know you're angry, afraid-but it's important that you listen to me."

There was something in her voice, in her choice of words, that caught him off balance. He was not certain what he had expected of her, but it was not entreaty.

"Why should I?" he asked.

"Because," she said, "I know who you are-who you really are. I know where you come from and why you're here. And the reason I know these things is because I come from the same place."

He inspected her individual features for a sign of insincerity-gazed deep into her eyes. "You look nothing like me," he spat.

"That's true," she conceded. "I don't. But that doesn't change anything. We come from a ship called the Enterprise. Does that sound familiar?"

He rolled it over his tongue. "Enterprise." It came more easily to him than he would have thought. On the other hand, it brought forth no images-no recollections.

"That's right-Enterprise. And we were transported here against our will-you and I and a handful of others. We were placed on these battlefields-but not before they took our memories away from us."

Worf grunted his skepticism-indicated her companions with a toss of his head. "If you were like me," he told her, "you would not be in the company of marshals."

She shook her head. "They're not marshals. Take a good look at them. They are of the same race as the marshals-but they are opposed to them."

He thought about that, sifted through it-uncertain of how much truth there could be in it. And yet, he was reluctant to reject it all out of hand.

"Give me a reason to believe you," the Klingon demanded.

"Why should I lie?" she asked. "Make no mistake-I do want something from you. I want help. But we can do without it. My friends here would probably prefer to abandon you-leave you to fend for yourself. Damnation-they've been carrying you half the day, and you're no lightweight."

Worf glanced again at the marshals, then at his surroundings. It was true that they had moved him from the last place he remembered. And there were neither sleds nor other conveyances in sight.

If they were trying to trick him, they had gone to great lengths. And as the female had said-what reason could they have to deceive him? Why not just kill him, or torture him, or bring him back to serve again as a warrior?

Worf eyed the female. "How is it that you have regained your memory-while mine is still a blank?"

"By accident. Purely by accident. Remember that flyingeye machine I swatted? And how it blew up in my face? Somehow the flash destroyed whatever block was placed in my brain-though at first, I remembered even less than before." She paused. "I would do the same for you, if I had a means of making the same kind of flash-and if I felt sure I wouldn't be damaging your eyes at the same time."

He thought back to the fortress, and how the sudden light from the sky had driven those warriors mad. Was that what had happened to them? If they had been allowed to live, would their memories have been restored?

And was that why they were murdered by the marshals-to prevent the existence of a band of warriors who could remember? And, remembering, who could stir up the others into some sort of rebellion?

That cinched it for the Klingon. Possibly, the female was not telling him the whole truth. But too many pieces fit together for her to be lying through her teeth.

"What kind of help do you want from me?" he asked. "What can I do that you cannot do yourselves?"

"We're going to try to free some of our people," explained the female. "Some of those who were taken from the Enterprise along with us. It means getting into a fortress that's crawling with marshals-and we thought that your experience as a warrior might come in handy."

He scowled. That piece fit into place as well. Too neatly? he wondered.

On the other hand, what did he have to lose? He could hardly help but improve his situation.

"All right," he said.

Her brow wrinkled for a moment, and she shook her head. "No. You still have your doubts-don't you?" She sighed. "What proof can I give you that I'm telling the truth? What can I say that will convince you?"

And then her eyes lit up.

"I know," she said. "When you were very little, you sustained a wound-some sort of hunting accident. And since Klingons don't believe in cosmetic surgery, you carry the scar to this day. In fact, it's just below your..."

He growled dangerously. "Enough," said Worf. "I believe you." He lowered his voice, so that the others could not hear. "But how did you know?" he asked.

The female shrugged. "I'm your doctor, Worf. I know everything there is to know about you-at least, from a medical standpoint."

That did not please him-nor did he disguise the fact. "You know so much about me-and I know so little about you. Not even your name."

She chuckled. "Pulaski," she told him. "Kate Pulaski." And under the watchful eyes of her companions, she began untying the ropes that held him.

"Puh-laskee," he repeated. He had heard some strange names in his time among the warriors, but that was one of the strangest.

Ensconced in the command center, Will Riker stared at the computer-enhanced image of A'klah on the viewscreen. He didn't need the computer to remind him of the seconds ticking away.

All around him, ship's personnel went about their duties. Like him, they were painfully aware of the time-though they didn't show it. There was a tension in the air-a sense of expectation that was almost tangible.

Troi emerged from the turbolift and took her usual path across the bridge. Gracefully, she settled into her seat.

"You're early," said Riker.

"I know," she answered. "But the Mendel's people were all right for the time being. They've come to trust us, to feel secure." A pause. "And I felt that I should be here right now."

He tapped his fingers on his armrest. "Truth be told, Deanna, I'm glad you made that decision. It's starting to feel a bit lonely at the top."

A moment passed, during which he knew she was scanning his emotional ebb and flow. "Are you having a change of heart?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No-not really. How can I? There are twenty-six people down with that bloody disease now-not as many as Burtin predicted, but enough to scare the hell out of me." He shifted in his seat. Suddenly, it seemed too small for him. "I don't dare wait any longer. As soon as we make contact with Data, we'll beam him up-along with whomever else he's managed to round up. And that's it. There's no time for another extension on his deadline."

Troi didn't offer an opinion. That wasn't her function. But she did probe to determine the full extent of his feelings.

"Can you live with yourself," she asked, "if you have to leave the others behind? Or worse yet, if you have to abandon Data into the bargain?"

Riker thought about that, and not for the first time. "Good question," he told her. "I wish I had an answer."

Dov'rellir had been chosen as the marshals' field headquarters because of its uselessness as a true fortress. Whoever built it had-remarkably enough-failed to reckon with the eminently negotiable trails that led down the mountainside into which it was built. Any invader could descend along those trails and plunk himself down into the fortress, as long as he took some care not to be spotted.

The assumption that no one would be crazy enough to attack a keep full of marshals only made Dov'rellir that much more vulnerable. It was a situation for which Dan'nor found himself grateful as he picked his way down the mountainside, darting from cover to cover.

Of course, once they got down into the fortress proper, it would be a different set of affairs. There was no way around the sheer numbers of the marshals-nor was there any telling how long he and Rin'noc and Ka'asot would be able to distract them while Ma'alor and the others carried out their real purpose here.

As Dan'nor reached a spot within a few meters of the battlements, he stopped and considered the courtyard below. The gallows at the center of it was easy to see-it dominated the open area. What's more, there were two aerial monitors transmitting pictures of it from two different angles.

For a moment, he saw the tableau through the eyes of someone still in the Military. Appreciated its drama, which would no doubt hold the masses enthralled in front of their videoscreens.

But the thought vanished in the midst of more immediate concerns. Strange, wasn't it? He had always hoped to make it to the Conflict zones-to be in the thick of the action. And now he was-though not the way he'd originally intended.

Rin'noc joined him, then Ka'asot. On the far side of the mountain, near the point where the wall curved around and met the slope, Ma'alor's party was ready also. They were waiting for him to make his move.

Taking a deep breath, Dan'nor slithered down from the trail, blaster in hand. Fortunately, the battlements were all but unguarded-a measure of the marshals' confidence. A single figure leaned against the stones of the wall, watching the proceedings in the courtyard.

Dan'nor's aim was perfect-the marshal never knew what hit him. Nor did any of the other sky riders notice as he crumpled.

Slowly, with great care, Dan'nor led the way along the battlements. He took up the point farthest away from the mountain, waited for Rin'noc and Ka'asot to establish themselves. Then, when he was sure that they were as secure as they could be, he opened fire on the uniformed figures below.

It was the signal for Ma'alor's group to come down off the mountain.

The plan was working. With Dan'nor and the others attracting all the attention, it had been simplicity itself to slip into the fortress and find an open entrance to the keep.

Ma'alor had seemed nervous when he armed the Klingon with an extra blaster-even if it was permanently set on stun. Even now, he kept glancing over his shoulder-to make sure that Worf was still on their side.

But the Klingon no longer had any doubts as to where his loyalties belonged. Anyone who wanted to thwart the intentions of the marshals was worth helping, as far as he was concerned.

And if he really was liberating someone he had known on a ship somewhere... all the better.

The first corridor they came to was empty-as was the second, which ran at an angle to it. Blind luck? Or a trap?

When they turned into their third passageway, and there was still no sign of a defender, Ma'alor was becoming suspicious as well.

"Something's wrong," he said. "Where is everyone?"

Nurel'lid shook his head, baffled.

"I don't know either," said Pulaski. "But I'll feel better if we keep moving." She had declined a blaster-a good idea, Worf told himself. The doctor did not look at all comfortable in this endeavor.

As Pulaski suggested, however, they kept moving. A fourth corridor proved to be as empty of resistance as the first three.

And then, on the verge of yet another turning, they heard voices.

"...do not understand. I thought you had been alerted to my mission here."

"I was not alerted to your mission. And without word from the Conflicts Commander himself, I cannot allow the prisoners to be removed."

The first voice seemed cold, dispassionate; the second was controlled but seething with emotion underneath.

"A laudable sentiment-laudable indeed. However, I have my orders as well. And they call for the prisoners to be removed to a more secure location."

"What? Are you telling me that Dov'rellir is less than secure?"

"I would not presume to disparage your efforts here. Nonetheless, there are places less vulnerable to the expected rescue attempt."

"Rescue attempt?" The voice had climbed an octave. Its control was failing.

"You have not been warned about the rescue attempt? Someone has not been doing his job." A pause. "After the transport of the prisoners is completed, I will have to investigate this matter..."

Pulaski turned to Worf. Her face was a study in apprehension. Her lips formed two words: "They know."

Worf nodded. It seemed that their mission had been anticipated.