The one who seemed the eldest spoke for all of them. "You have disturbed the ages-old serenity of our world. For what reason?"

"We have learned that you are in possession of our comrades. We want them back."

"We told you before-we know nothing of your comrades. And if we did, we would not be moved to release them by the mere inconvenience you have perpetrated upon us. To speak plainly, we thought you capable of greater force."

"We are capable," returned the captain. "But we opted not to destroy. As I said before, our only objective is to recover our people."

"And as I said before, we do not have your..."

"Enough," said Picard, rising to his feet. "The charade is over, Councillor. I know all about you-your Conflicts and your methods of propagating them. What is more, I know you have conscripted our people. And the reason I know is because-until recently-I was one of your conscripts."

The Councillor did not register the shock he must have been feeling. On the other hand, he did not seem to have a rebuttal.

"Soon," said the captain, "you will discover the true purpose of our maneuver-though I suspect you may have an inkling of it already. At that point, you will not only admit that there are conscripts-you will beg us to take them from you."

"Have a care, Enterprise," said the councillor. He had finally found his tongue, and was trying to give the appearance of a strong position. "We too are capable of bringing force..."

But Picard saw no need to hear the rest. "Terminate contact," he told Worf.

A moment later, the image of the Council was replaced by that of the planet, swaddled in its golden veil.

Riker stood up beside him. "Good job, sir. I think they'll come around, now that they know where we stand."

Picard harumphed. "After their broadcasts are terminated, their marshals toppled, their cities threatened by an outpouring of angry off-worlders? Yes, Number One. I think they'll come around."

Chapter Twenty-one.

PULASKI POINTED to the far side of the cargo deck.

"Over there," she told the crewman. "Where that big, blond fellow is standing. His name's Vanderventer-he'll know what to do with it."

The crewman grunted as he shifted the heavy storage module from one shoulder to the other. "Over there, Doctor?"

"That's right," said Pulaski. "Sorry to make you work so hard, but it's important we get those dermaplasts to where they're needed. Nobody's going to sport an open wound on my ship."

"Yes, ma'am," said the crewman, though not with the utmost enthusiasm. As Pulaski watched, he wound his way among the knots of Rythrians and Merethua and Tant'lithi that stood between him and the makeshift medical station manned by Vanderventer.

It would have been nice if they had had the room to use transport vehicles to carry supplies, instead of crewmen borrowed from every section on the ship. But with nearly eighteen thousand refugees crowding all available living quarters and cargo space, they were lucky to be able to get anything anywhere.

It certainly hadn't taken long for the Council to cave in and admit to the Conflicts. The captain had been right on target in that regard.

With their memories back, the participants posed a real-if primitive-threat to all manner of facilities and personnel in and around the Conflict zones. What's more, it would have been only a matter of time before some of the participants went marauding farther afield.

Of course, even after the Council had agreed to drop the mantle and release the conscripts, it had taken a while for all of them to be beamed up. A long while.

On the other hand, the limitations imposed by transporter capacities had been a blessing for those in medical and security sections-since it had fallen to them to allocate space and supplies to the refugees. If all 18,000 had beamed aboard at once, it would have been an impossible task.

Not that other sections of the ship's crew hadn't been busy. The command staff and xenology had had the difficult assignment of establishing contact with and screening the conscripts.

After all, to fulfill their agreement with the Council, they had only to remove Federation personnel. Among the non-Federation participants, they could not beam up anyone who failed to express a willingness.

Not unexpectedly, everyone had expressed that willingness. And so the captain had offered to take them as far as Starbase 91, where they could make arrangements to contact their respective home systems.

Underlying this offer, needless to say, had been the idea that all those rescued might serve as goodwill ambassadors, spreading a positive image of the Federation to cultures not entirely familiar with it.

"Doctor?"

Pulaski emerged from her reverie and saw Burtin approaching. He looked a little weary, but he was smiling through his weariness.

"A lot like the frontier?" she asked.

He surveyed the crowded cargo deck. "I guess it is." Burtin's smile faded, and he turned to her. "Which brings up something I wanted to discuss with you."

"I know," said Pulaski. "You're considering a transfer back to the frontier."

He nodded. "It's that obvious, huh?"

"To someone who knows you, yes."

Burtin shrugged. "What can I say? I just haven't been able to get comfortable on this big ship. I mean, I always thought it would be the best thing in the galaxy to serve aboard the Enterprise. I guess some of us are meant for less exotic assignments."

She met his gaze, held it. "It has nothing to do with the disease and the way you handled it? Because, for all your self-doubts, I couldn't have done any better myself."

He smiled again. "I don't believe that. And even so, that's not the issue. Here, I'm just a technician, overshadowed by a bunch of fancy equipment. If one is a genius at pathology-as I believe you are-then it's different. But when you're an old-fashioned sawbones like I am, your talents are wasted in a place like this."

He looked around. "Besides, there are lots of good, young doctors that would kill for a berth on the Enterprise. It's rare when you find one willing to bleed a gut on the frontier."

"Then I can't talk you out of it?" asked Pulaski.

"I'm afraid not," he told her.

She placed a hand on his arm, squeezed. "I'm going to miss you, Sam Burtin."

It took a moment for Burtin to respond. "Same here," he said finally. Then he was off to see to the distribution of some foodstuffs that bad just come down on the turbolift.

"Eight years," said Strak. "Eight years since we were stolen off the bridge of the Le-Matya." As the Vulcan articulated the words, be endowed them with a certain wistfulness-like a dry wind in a barren desert. Quite a trick in the temperature-controlled environs of Ten-Forward, where some of the Federation officers among the conscripts had gathered to celebrate their freedom. "And yet," he went on, "it could have been worse. I might have perished on that planet-and never known I was good for anything but driving wagons."

Picard nodded. "I know the feeling-though I was subjected to it for only a short time." He paused. "And I am not a telepath. I had only my own pain to cope with."

"Fortunately," explained Strak, "I found ways to construct telepathic blocks. Or I could never have remained sane."

"In any case," said Picard, "your ordeal is over now. Once we arrive at Starbase Ninety-one, you will be able to secure passage to Vulcan-or to resume your career with Starfleet, whichever you choose."

"Yes," agreed Strak. "Though I will always remember A'klah." He paused to reflect. "And that is the way it should be. All experiences are pathways to wisdom. Even the distasteful ones."

"Indeed," said the captain.

The Vulcan looked around at the crowd, then at the exit. "I trust you will not be offended if I take my leave of you. I find that I am not in the proper state of mind for a large gathering."

"No need for apologies," Picard told him. "I understand."

With a simple nod, Strak departed.

But Picard wasn't alone for very long. He felt a slender hand on his elbow and turned.

"I thought that that depressing Vulcan would monopolize you forever," said Dani. She looked at him, perfectly deadpan. "Do you think it would be out of line to hug you in front of all these people?"

Picard could feel the color rising in his face. He cleared his throat.

"Perhaps," he said, "it could wait for a more private moment."

"I don't know," she said. "When I get the urge to hug you, you know I can't help myself."

He frowned. "Your father loved to embarrass me, too. Must you be such a chip off the old block?"

She laughed softly-but decided not to make good on her threat. Picard was grateful-particularly when he saw his first officer approaching.

"Captain," said Riker, inclining his head just a bit, out of respect. He turned to Dani. "Miss Orbutu."

The captain was a little surprised. He had been preparing an introduction in his head. "I didn't know that you two knew each other," he said.

"Actually," said Dani, "we don't." She smiled pleasantly at Riker. "I'm afraid you're one up on me, Commander."

The first officer returned the smile-but a little ruefully. "We intercepted some of the Conflict broadcasts, and you were in one of them. We were able to identify you based on the likeness in your computer file."

"I see," said Dani. Was that a bit of wanting-to-forget in her voice? "But I'm still surprised that you remembered me. You must have seen a great many broadcasts."

"After a while, yes. But I must admit, I went back to that one more than once."

Dani was about to say something else when Riker preempted her.

"Your glass," he said. "It's empty. Would you allow me to refill it?"

"Well-yes," answered Dani. "Of course." She relinquished the glass.

His mission established, Riker made his way toward the bar.

Dani watched him go. "A charming man, this first officer of yours."

Picard nodded. "The only man I would ever trust with the Enterprise when I retire-though that day is, of course, a long, long way off."

Behind Dani, Data passed through the crowd. He hadn't yet had the red dye removed from his hair, Picard noted.

Could it be that the android was enjoying this small conceit? What a perfectly human thing to do.

Not surprisingly, Data's appearance brought back thoughts of the marshals. And of Ralak'kai.

"What's the matter?" asked Dani. "Suddenly, you look grimmer than that Vulcan."

Picard chuckled. "I was thinking of my friend-Ralak'kai. And his compatriots. I was wondering if our efforts had brought them very much closer to their goal."

Dani shrugged, thoughtful now herself. "I suppose it depends on how well their Council can function without the Conflicts."

The captain grunted. "Exactly right."

By that time, Piker had returned with Dani's glass.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," he told her.

Picard lifted his own glass, still full of synthenol. "A toast," he said. "To Ralak'kai. And all those like him."

"To Ralak'kai," said Riker.

They drank.

The sudden termination of the Conflicts-owing first to the reluctance of the memory-restored participants, and then to their departure from A'klah-had had a much more profound effect than anyone might have guessed.

The Conflicts had been the only thing that kept the minds of the "lower-caste" Klah'kimmbri occupied. It had been a vent for their daily anger and frustration. With their videoscreens dark, their lives disrupted, the people were willing to listen when street speakers like Ralak'kai offered an alternative.

The balance, always delicate, had been tipped. The atmosphere was ripe for rebellion.

Only a couple of days after Dan'nor's return from the Conflict zone, entire sectors of each factory town along the river were claimed by the workers and barricaded. What was more, the Civil Service tired quickly of spilling their blood in attempts to break the rebel strongholds.

In the end, the truth was painfully obvious: the Military was nothing more than a huge bag of gas, and the rebels had put the first pinholes in it. It might take some time for the entire bag to collapse-but collapse it would.

In the dim light emanating from the tarnished overhead fixture, Fidel'lic did not seem so haughty and aloof as when Dan'nor had seen him last. The shadows took the edge off his lean countenance, making him appear childlike and even a little fragile-at least to Dan'nor.

The back room where Dan'nor had first stumbled upon Trien'nor and the other rebels was furnished now much as it had been then. It had a table and some chairs and some cobwebs in the corners where the walls met the ceiling.

Of course, the place was a little more crowded tonight, and not only with workers. Fidel'lic's personal bodyguards had to stand behind him; there were only so many seats around the table, and they were all occupied by rebels. The one exception was the chair graced by the councillor.

Ralak'kai smiled at him. "It isn't exactly the Council Chamber-is it?"

"No," said Fidel'lic. "It is not the Council Chamber."

"But then," said Trien'nor, no worse for wear after his short existence as a wagoner, "what you have to say could not be said in that most awe-inspiring of places."

Fidel'lic eyed him with apparent equanimity-though he knew who Tri'enor was, and he could not have felt anything but disgust for the fallen First Caster. "Quite correct," he said. "Not everyone there is as forward-looking as one might hope."

The councillor took a quick accounting of the other faces confronting him-those of Ma'alor, Zanc'cov, Nurel'lid, Rin'noc. And finally, that of Dan'nor himself.