So, with no better option available, he told the truth.

"When I came on duty," he said, "I did as I always do-I checked the log of the previous shift. Naturally, I was eager to see how the conscription procedure had been carried out by my predecessor."

"Your predecessor was not available to tell you himself?"

Dan'nor turned to the councillor who had asked. Since he had been addressed by another, it could no longer have been construed as an affront to Eliek'tos.

"No, Councillor. He had already left the station." He recognized the man as Fidel'lic, the youngest one on the Council. And the cruelest, if there was any truth to the rumors.

"But if both of you were on schedule, that would not have happened. Correct?"

"Correct, Councillor."

"Then which of you was taking liberties-you or he?"

Dan'nor didn't hesitate. "He was, Councillor. He left before he was scheduled to."

Fidel'lic turned to Eliek'tos. "Is this true?"

Eliek'tos nodded.

"And what about his crew?" asked Fidel'lic, still addressing his fellow councillor. "They left early as well?"

Eliek'tos nodded again.

"It was not unusual," offered Dan'nor, recognizing the other facilitator's laxity as a way out. Of course, he could never have raised the issue himself-for the same reason he couldn't have blamed his own crew. But since the Council had brought it up, it was a different matter entirely. "They often take it upon themselves to..."

Fidel'lic turned his gaze in Dan'nor's direction. He stopped in mid-sentence.

"You will speak," said the councillor, "when you are given leave to do so."

The Fulfillment Facilitator felt himself flush with the rebuke.

"Once again," said Eliek'tos, as if the interruption had never occurred, "the record bears this out. Despite the fact that a conscription had been completed in the course of their shift, the day crew left before the proper time."

Fidel'lic sat back in his seat. "Amazing." He turned to Dan'nor again. "And you have never reported this before now?"

"But I have," protested Dan'nor.

"Once again," said Eliek'tos, "true." He waited a moment, in case Fidel'lic had any more questions. When it was plain he did not, he gestured for Dan'nor to resume his account.

Despite his indiscretion, he went on with a little more confidence. After all, he had survived the first volley.

"The log told me that the conscripted vessel had been emptied of all useful occupants. But when I consulted with the computer, it showed that the vessel was still intact. Moreover, I had life-sign readings. Eight individuals still aboard."

"And what did you make of this?" asked Eliek'tos.

"My best guess," said Dan'nor, "was that these eight had gone undetected in our initial scan-something that has happened before, when one of the alien alloys used in a ship's construction serves to shield occupants from our sensors. Instances of this should also be in your records."

"Go on," said Eliek'tos-with perhaps a touch of impatience.

"That seemed to explain why the ship had not yet been disposed of. The computer had detected additional conscriptable life-forms after the initial transport procedure was complete. This triggered the contingency protocol, which in turn prevented the vessel's destruction."

"And believing this," said Eliek'tos, "you beamed down the eight occupants."

"That is correct, Councillor." Dan'nor's mouth felt dry, as dry as dust-but he resisted the impulse to lick his lips.

Again, that derisive snort. "Then you were never aware of the larger ship? The one those eight occupants apparently came from?"

The question had come from Orian'tuc. He was easily the eldest of the councillors, and the only one whose pale, narrow countenance showed any signs of aging.

It was a crucial question. If Dan'nor had been derelict in anything, it was in this: that he had never thought to check for other vessels. It would have been so simple to widen the preset scan parameters-and yet it never occurred to him. He had been too preoccupied with the existence of these seemingly undetected occupants.

Nor, to be fair, had anyone from Central Defense thought to inform him that there was an armed and capable ship in his sector. With its appearance so close on the heels of the recent conscription, one might have expected that Fulfillment would be notified.

"Councillor, I was not apprised of the larger ship's existence-not until well after the damage had been done."

Orian'tuc's eyes narrowed the slightest bit. "Surely, however, your superior knew of it. Didn't you think to contact him-before you did anything?"

"No, Councillor. It is my duty to make speedy work of conscription. Recruits must not be lost to either the failure of their life-support systems or external threats to the ships themselves. Those are my orders."

Orian'tuc glanced at Fidel'lic, who was seated beside him. But he said nothing more.

"When did you realize your error?" asked Eliek'tos.

Your error. Inwardly, Dan'nor cringed at the phrasing.

"I thought that there might be a problem, Councillor, when the computer remained incapable of destroying the ship. A second scan revealed no newly detected life-forms. So I ordered a check of the computer."

"And it revealed," said Eliek'tos, "a malfunction, which was responsible for the ship's never having been eliminated."

"As you say, Councillor." Dan'nor heard the slight tremor in his voice and hoped it had escaped the notice of the Council. He sensed that this hearing was coming to a close, and he still had no sense of where he stood.

"Are you saying, then," asked a fourth councillor, "that we have a computer to blame for all of this? A simple malfunction has brought down this plague of a... what is it called? Enterprise?"

A trick question. Blaming the incident on the computer would have been the worst strategy of all. After all, a machine was only as good as the people in charge of it.

"No, Councillor. With all respect, I am not saying that."

Orian'tuc looked at him. "No? Then where would you say the blame lies?"

He had no choice. There was only one avenue open to him.

"It lies with me, Councillor. I was in command when the error was made. I gave the order to conscript the eight occupants. Nor did I cheek for a malfunction until it was too late."

There. He had said it. But with any luck, they would give more weight to other things he had said. For instance, his information about the other facilitator, which Eliek'tos had confirmed. And they would direct their anger at him instead of Dan'nor.

He didn't dare look for his fate in their faces because Orian'tuc was still in eye contact with him. And even if he could have glanced around, he would probably have learned nothing. Councillors were not likely to give their conclusions away so easily.

"Are there any more questions?" asked Eliek'tos.

No one spoke.

"Then you are free to go, Dan'nor Tir'dainia."

The Fulfillment Facilitator bent his neck again. "Thank you, Councillor." He took two steps back, out of respect. Then, as crisply as he could, he turned and left the chamber.

Dan'nor didn't bother to sneak a look at the guardsman again-to see if his expression had changed any. He just kept walking, listening to the sharp click of his heels against the intricately patterned paving stones of the corridor... to the clang of the doors as they closed in his wake.

He walked through shafts of sunlight projected by the windows set high in the southern wall. On his other flank, ancient tapestries depicting great and bloody battles found new glory in the red gold light.

He might have done better, he decided. He might have been a little less nervous. A little quicker with his answers, a little more to the point...

Gradually, the sound of another set of footfalls invaded his reverie. He looked up.

And saw his superior, Conscription Master Boron'bak, approaching from the opposite end of the corridor.

As they drew closer to one another, their eyes met. And locked.

Each knew that the other was a potential source of danger. An enemy, in fact, for as long as the investigation went on. Each knew that the other would gladly sacrifice him if it meant saving his own skin.

Dan'nor had already made trouble for Boron'bak-if indirectly. The other facilitator's schedule violations would not reflect favorably on the superior who had allowed them to continue. Nor would his own oversights and miscalculations. Just as he had had to assume responsibility for his crew, Boron'bak would have to take responsibility for him.

A couple of seconds before they passed each other, the Conscription Master's mouth pulled up at the corners. As if to say, "Nothing personal."

Then he was gone, and Dan'nor tried not to think of what he might tell the Council.

How much time had passed since her awakening? Since her emergence into this... she had no words for this place, no way of truly knowing how long she had been here. It had been a while since she'd had a chance to think about her own problems. Lately, she'd been occupied with a more urgent matter-namely, the flood of damaged beings that had suddenly poured into the med enclosure, carried by other beings only slightly less damaged. In the light of the overhead cylinders, they all looked a pale and ghastly shade of blue.

As hideous as their wounds were, most of the victims might have been saved-if there had been enough meds to go around. Unfortunately, there weren't. For every two victims they got to, a third lay dying in agony.

It was hard work. Heartbreaking work. There were the faces that went slack even as she shouted encouragements at them. The circulatory organs that refused to respond to the desperate pummeling of her fists.

But Pulaski couldn't cry over them. There was no time. Because after the first deluge, there were others. Before long, her arms were bathed to the elbows in three different colors of blood.

Where were they all coming from? she asked herself again. Obviously, there was an armed conflict somewhere nearby-she deduced as much from the armor and the nature of the wounds. But a conflict with whom? And over what?

Somewhere between the second wave and the third, the flying machine entered the enclosure. It was about a meter tall, with a distinctly insectlike body made of a dark, non-reflective material. About two-thirds of the way up, a round and slightly convex glass surface protruded like the eye of a living creature.

The machine flitted throughout the enclosure, occasionally coming to hover over one patient or another. Always, it seemed to pick out the most severe cases-but only as long as the screaming went on. As soon as the patient succumbed to death, unconsciousness or an anesthetic, the thing appeared to lose interest.

Pulaski tried to ignore the flying device, but she found she couldn't. It was like some sort of scavenger, feeding on the miseries of others. Of course, it was only a machine-it could have no such hungers. More likely, she decided, it was recording the suffering on behalf of some living intelligence. But that conclusion only made the thing seem more ghastly than before.

It annoyed her for another reason as well: the level of technology it represented. A certain sophistication was required to build something that could fly at all-much less with the grace and stability that this machine exhibited.

That same sophistication could have been applied to their med facilities. It could have gone toward saving more of these lives. Perhaps she couldn't remember how she'd wound up here or where she'd come from, but she knew one thing: she had been trained to work with equipment a whole lot more advanced than what was available here in the enclosure.

On the other hand, no one else seemed to be bothered by the flying device. Was it just that they'd gotten used to it? Or was she unique in her resentment of it?

The last straw fell as she was struggling to close a vicious gash in a patient's gut-before the poor bastard bled to death. It was a race, and a close one. The victim, a large and scaly specimen, was too weak to cry out-but even so, it took three other meds to keep his powerful arms and legs from jerking while Pulaski, only guessing at the locations of his internal organs, tried to stitch the wound without doing any additional damage.

And then, just as she was about to finish up, the flying machine homed in on the scaly one-an attempt to obtain a closer appreciation of his agony. In the process, it brushed against her shoulder. There was something about its ghoulish eagerness, its cold, metallic touch...

Seized by revulsion, she couldn't help herself. She lashed out, battering the thing aside with her clenched fist. It was lighter than it looked-her swipe sent it bobbling halfway across the enclosure, glancing off a metal support before it could stabilize itself. A little puff of white smoke rose from its casing, and it seemed to drop a couple of inches toward the floor. Then, like a whipped house pet, it wove its way out of the enclosure.

Pulaski felt a rush of satisfaction.

But it was short-lived. She had a patient to attend to-one who actually had a decent chance at survival. Willing her tired fingers to perform the necessary maneuvers, she tied off another stitch.

Chapter Eight.

IT HAD WORKED.

Not at first, of course. Riker had had to wait two ship's days and more before there was any sign that he had guessed right.

And then, just like that, the mantle disappeared-revealing your average Class M planet in all its cloud-swaddled glory.

A cheer went up on the bridge. The first officer felt a tension go out of him that he hadn't realized was there in the first place. Was I really screwed up that tight? he asked himself.

"Congratulations," said Troi, meaning every syllable of it. Her smile was inexpressibly lovely.

Nor could he suppress a grin himself. But that was quite all right. Hell, he'd earned it, hadn't he?

Of course, in retrospect, it only made sense that the energy field couldn't have been maintained indefinitely. It had to take enormous amounts of power to keep something that vast in operation.

But when he had first decided to try his little ploy-to make it look as though they'd turned tail, abandoning their comrades in the face of the Council's threat... at that point, it had still seemed like an iffy proposition.

For one thing, the Klah'kimmbri's methods of energy generation might have been a good deal more efficient than he'd anticipated. Or, as unlikely as it appeared, the mantle might have been a natural phenomenon after all.

Finally-and this had been his main cause for concern-the Klah'kimmbri might not have fallen for his act. They might instead have opted for a sophisticated game of chicken, waiting to see which gave out first-their energy-production or Riker's patience.

Without any encouragement that the mantle would eventually lapse, he would have had to try something else. But in two-plus days of racking his brain, he hadn't come up with an alternative plan that he could live with.

Now, he realized gratefully, he would no longer have to.

"Mister Crusher," he said, "initiate long-range sensor scan. The first order of business is a population distribution profile. Then we can make some educated guesses as to where our people are being held."

"Aye, sir," came the eager response. Wesley was as excited as anyone that the waiting game was behind them.

"Mister Fong," said the first officer. "See what you can find in the way of surface communications."

"Will do," said Fong. "Initiating monitor sequences now."