Riker took the captain's seat. "Mister Fong," he said, "given the conditions in this system, what do you estimate our maximum scanning range to be?"

Fong gave him a figure. It was actually a little greater than he had expected, considering the amount of debris in the vicinity.

"When we reach that distance from A'klah," he told Data, "I want you to stop and hold us steady."

"Will do, sir," said the android.

Riker felt Troi's gaze on him. He returned it.

The empath was looking at him with a little half smile, tempered only by her concern for the away team. Obviously, she'd figured out what he was up to.

He acknowledged her with a curt nod.

Sometimes, he told himself, Mohammed must withdraw to another mountain.

The post of Preparation Overseer seldom involved any serious decisions. That was fine with Lean'druc-he hated making them.

However, this time he could not avoid it.

"You see the problem?" said his undertechnician-one named Cafar'ris. "It is some sort of prosthetic device. Without it, he is blind."

Lean'druc considered the prone form of the one who wore the prosthesis. Unconscious, he had no idea what had happened to him-nor, for that matter, that he was the subject of this discussion.

Of course, the conscripts were supposed to be stripped of everything-all garb, all forms of equipment. But this case was a little different, wasn't it? Without the device, the alien could not see. And if he could not see, how could he truly participate?

"What was his aptitude level?"

"Quite high," said Cafar'ris. "And he is otherwise in perfect health." The undertechnician glanced at Lean'druc. "If I may say so, Overseer, it would be a shame to release him without the device. He would not survive for very long-nor would his death be-"

Lean'druc held up his hand for silence. It was hardly an undertechnician's place to give him advice.

Nonetheless, Cafar'ris had a point. Able-bodied participants were increasingly few and far between, it seemed. Why waste one for the sake of a rather arbitrary regulation?

"All right," he said. "Let him keep the device."

Cafar'ris seemed pleased with the decision. "As you wish, Overseer."

Lean'druc scanned the other aliens-all prone like this one, all oblivious to the fate that awaited them.

There was still much to do before their preparation was complete, and the Fulfillment Facilitator did not like to hear of tardiness.

"Now, get to work," snapped Lean'druc. "I want them ready for teleport by day's end-all of them."

The undertechnician moved crisply to comply.

Chapter Seven.

FOR A TIME, he struggled as if submerged in a nightmare-plagued by a wild dance of indistinct and vaguely disturbing images, circling him, whirling about his head and hands like a school of tiny predators. Shadowy things, real and yet unreal.

He tried to claw his way to the surface, but the things confused him-disoriented him. His chest began to hurt with the effort of holding his breath. His arms and legs lost their strength; they felt leaden, useless, like parts of someone else's body.

Finally, lungs near to bursting, muscles shrieking with effort, he broke through.

And came up gasping for air, staring into an expanse of pale violet sky. All about him was a landscape of pits and crags and impossible-looking upthrusts of rock-peopled by a scurrying assortment of humanoid and near-humanoid forms. Each of them seemed to have a purpose, a sense of urgency.

He tried to catch his breath, to calm himself, and finally succeeded. But he had a more difficult time getting his bearings. He seemed unable to put everything in the right order somehow. His head felt as if it had been packed with mud.

The wind rose, bringing with it a slight chill. Instinctively, he hunkered down lower into the shelter of his rough-spun cloak. Underneath, he noticed, he wore a tunic of the same material, belted at the waist. There were boots on his feet constructed of something sturdier-animal skin, he decided, and not without a slight feeling of revulsion.

Someone bent down over him-someone big and dark and oily looking, with a knobby head and a wide, mobile mouth. The being's lidless eyes gave it a queer, startled expression.

"Come," it said, extending a thick articulated limb with three stubby fingers on the end of it. "It's time." There was an edge of anxiety in its voice. "Here-I will help you."

He moved to accept the help, then stopped himself. "Time for what?" he asked.

"Hurry now," said the being. It gestured-a sweep of its limb-to indicate a stretch of terrain that ended abruptly in a jagged cliff. On the other side of what appeared to be a ravine there was a similar cliff. "There is work to be done."

This time, he accepted the proferred help. Felt the strange, wormlike fingers wrap themselves around his hand and pull him up. But he needed more of an answer. As the being released him and started to move away, he called out after it. "What kind of work?" he asked.

It turned back, regarded him. "We are building a bridge." It seemed to think that this was explanation enough.

He was about to tell it that bridge-building was not his function. That he did not belong here-in fact, had never seen this place before now.

And then a pit seemed to open up in his stomach. A great, yawning hole into which he could feel himself falling end over end.

For if he didn't belong here... then where did he belong? And if he was not a bridge-builder... then what was he? Blazes...

Who was he? A name emerged echoing from the depths of the pit. Geordi. Yes-that was his name. But who was Geordi?

He didn't know.

Surely, he had known that once. Before... before he came here. When he was... where? Damn! Why couldn't he remember anything?

The knobby-headed one was still looking at him. But it didn't appear that he would remain that way for long. The being seemed to be straining at an invisible leash-eager to get about its business, yet reluctant to leave him where he was.

"Something is wrong," he told it. "Something is very wrong. I... I can't remember who I am, or how I got here, or..."

"Don't try," it said. "You are not supposed to remember any of those things." It regarded him with a bizarre rippling of the skin under its eyes. "It is part of your punishment. Accept it, and it will become more tolerable."

"Punishment?" he repeated dumbly. "For what?"

The being's voice changed suddenly. It became more of a bark.

But the answer was still clear enough. "For your crimes."

And then, as if it could not wait another fraction of a second, the being lumbered away with all the haste its awkward body allowed it.

Geordi felt a wind on his bare skin as he shivered. Wrapping his cloak more tightly about himself, he hurried after his benefactor.

"Wait," he said. "You've got to tell me more than that." If he had committed crimes, what had they been? Like so much else, they'd been stripped from him.

The being glanced over its shoulder as before, but this time it kept on moving. Climbing over a rise, it disappeared.

Geordi, however, was right behind it. And as he negotiated the rise himself, he got a better view of what was going on here-literally.

From his vantage point, he could see how the ravine he'd noticed earlier actually curled around the jut of land that he and the others occupied-served to define it, to separate it from the rolling, gentler terrain on the other side.

At the ravine's narrowest point, there was a ruined thing hanging from the opposite cliff-a thing of wood and some sort of thick, vegetable fiber, twisting against the bare rock in the drafts that came up from below. It seemed to Geordi that it might once have been a rudimentary bridge.

Was this the task his benefactor had been talking about? Were they building a new bridge to replace the old one?

Then he noticed something else-something dark, hovering in midair over the far side of the ravine. It was small-maybe a meter in height, though it was hard to judge at this distance-and it had a disc near the top of it that reflected the light when it turned just so.

He had the feeling, somehow, that the thing was watching them. Was it the eyelike appearance of the disc? Or something about its attitude as it hung there?

Just beneath him, not far from the brink, there were streams and eddies of activity. Huge coils of the vegetable fiber and long, scaly logs were being dragged down from higher ground off to the right.

Geordi picked out the figure of the knobby-headed one as it bent to help with the log hauling. Careful not to lose his footing on the pebble-strewn incline, he came down alongside it.

His benefactor tried to ignore his presence, but Geordi saw through the deception. He laid a hand on the being's shoulder, covered with rough-spun like his own.

"Please," he said. "Tell me what's happening here. Why are we building this bridge? Who is it for?"

The being looked at him, though it dared not pause in its efforts. For a moment, it looked as if it would say something. Then it looked away again.

Geordi watched it labor at a job it was obviously not well equipped for. Despite all its bulk, despite the thickness of its limbs, it didn't appear to be very strong. As it toiled, it made huffing sounds.

There were others here, too, who were bending under the strain. Fragile-looking beings, some of them without the proper appendages for this sort of work.

As they struggled past him, they regarded Geordi with expressions he could only guess at. Alien expressions, fashioned out of loose, sickly white flesh and jewellike orbs and mouths that seemed to harbor swarms of tiny tentacles. But he knew what he would think of someone who just stood by while he broke his back trying to get something done.

He was still confused. Confused and scared and sorely in need of answers.

But these beings needed help, and it was in his power to give it to them. Besides-they were building a bridge, and bridges were useful things. Helpful things. Could it hurt to pitch in? He could still use the time to observe. To think.

Slipping into the line of laborers, he took hold of the log in both hands and added his efforts to those of the others.

As he approached the inner doors of the Council Chamber and the guards that stood to either side of them, Dan'nor ordered the features of his too-broad face. He would not let on how desperately his heart was pounding against his rib cage. He would not.

It was bad enough that he had allowed the error to occur in the first place. It would only compound his difficulties if he were to look guilty as well.

Appearance was everything. Every First Caster knew that. And if Dan'nor was not exactly pure First Caste, he had trained himself to act like one.

So he kept his composure. Even when one of the ceremonial guards-his peer by rank-gave him that pitying look. As if Dan'nor had damaged himself and his career worse than he'd originally imagined.

He stopped as the guards pulled the doors open, exposing the elaborately military design of the Council Chamber within. Monstrous, stylized birds of prey seemed to hover within the shadows of the high, vaulted ceiling. Earthbound hunting animals appeared to slink behind the Seven Thrones, their jeweled eyes glinting in the light of a hundred smoking torches.

Dan'nor had seen this place only once before-at a reception for the new Conflict Commander. But then, the thrones had been empty.

This time, the thrones were occupied; the Council awaited in their military finery, no less elaborate and awe-inspiring than the chamber itself. Dan'nor swallowed once and walked inside.

He stopped at an appropriate distance, dropped to one knee and averted his eyes. For a time, no one spoke. There were only small sounds-a clearing of someone's throat, a scrape of boot on the polished floor-but in the vast, echoing space, even such small items sounded great and portentous.

"Rise, Dan'nor Tir'dainia."

He got up, regarded the one who had finally spoken. It was Councillor Eliek'tos-a good sign. Of all of them, Eliek'tos was reputed to be the most lenient, and it was he who seemed to have taken the lead in this matter.

"Most honored Councillor," responded Dan'nor. "I came as soon as you sent for me."

"Of course," said Eliek'tos. "But let us get to the point now. I have heard reports; I wish to hear yours."

Eliek'tos was the epitome of First Caste dispassionas befit one who served on the Council. His golden eyes betrayed nothing; likewise, his voice. Dan'nor envied him his pale, perfect skin, his mane of red hair drawn back into a warrior's knot.

If his nose had been as straight as Eliek'tos's, if his lips had been as thin and his face as narrow-he would never have been given the lowly post of Fulfillment Facilitator. He would never have had the opportunity to make the mistake he had made.

If.

It was a bitter fruit of a word. If his father, a pureblood, had mated with one of his own kind instead of a mixed-blood woman, many things might have been different-for his father even more than for himself. After all, mating downcaste was an unofficial crime, punishable by ouster. His military career destroyed, Trien'nor Tir'dainia had had to accept menial labor in one of the factories.

All for love. To Dan'nor, it was inconceivable.

Considering his family history, he had done well to rise even as far as he had. To gain a place in the military. To have a function, no matter how simple, and a command, no matter how small.

Once, he had aspired to more. He had hoped to garner respect for the efficient performance of his duties-to earn himself a promotion to field service, where he would participate directly in the Conflicts.

Now, however, that dream was in jeopardy-and perhaps much more than the dream. Dan'nor recalled the guardsman's look of pity, blinked it away.

"Did you hear me, Tir'dainia?"

Dan'nor inclined his head before speaking. "My apologies, revered Councillor. I was gathering my thoughts, so as to present them in the most concise way possible."

One of the other councillors snorted in derision. Dan'nor didn't look to see which one-it would have been an act of discourtesy to Eliek'tos, and he could ill afford that.

"Are your thoughts ordered now?" asked Eliek'tos.

"They are," said Dan'nor.

"Then proceed," said the councillor.

Dan'nor was tempted to blame it all on those who reported to him. Nor would it be far from the truth. It was they who had failed to maintain the computer; ultimately, the fault was theirs.

But he did not think the Council would take kindly to such a tactic. An officer was always responsible for whatever his underlings did-or failed to do.