The one-eyes had known what they were doing. They'd disabled the ship to the point where Geordi could barely defend it and keep it in orbit. All he could rely on now was impulse power, and if that went, forget it.

Skoel set to work securing the entrances to Engineering but found they were already secure. The one-eyes, not detecting anyone inside, had closed the doors and shorted the switches to keep everyone out.

Geordi touched his communicator.

"La Forge to bridge. Report."

"The one-eyes that just left your area are on their way up to the impulse engines," said Wentz. "We have no way to stop them."

"d.a.m.n it!" Geordi cursed. "Do we ever need a deus ex machina! Has any help gotten to Worf yet?"

"He's been evacuated to sickbay. Doctor Crusher says he'll be out cold for a few more hours at least."

"Let me know when he wakes."

He saw that Chops and the others were already into repairs on the most vital controls. At best it would take many hours. Now he began to see his crew's lack of sleep as a critical problem, and he knew that he and Chops were the worst off. But nothing could be done about it.

At Science Station Two on the bridge, Wesley faced the small display screen.

He knew Geordi had his staff working on the one-eye problem, but he wanted to contribute something useful if he could. He decided to go to the heart of the matter.

"Computer, I'll be using the particle physics library."

"Would you like to start where you left off?"

He didn't remember what he'd last used the library for, and was not yet sure where he wanted to start.

"Fine."

The screen showed him the Dance of Shiva. Underneath it scrolled a list of metaphorical references to the subject by physicists over the last five hundred years.

"Oh ..." he said, "not what I'm looking for now. Show me some high-energy proton collisions."

Chapter Nine.

"THIS BIBLE SETS FORTH the only true religion. All other religions and philosophies are hereby declared false and criminal.

"Everything contained in this Bible has been verified as factual truth, and is to be accepted as such, and in no other way, by the reader. Any interpretation of this Bible as metaphor, literature, or mythology is expressly forbidden.

"Violators will be subject to the full penalties as determined by the Council of Truth and enforced by Cephalic Security.

"To report criminal violations call this number toll free ..."

Picard leafed farther into the book. It was recognizable as a Rampartian revision of the Christian Bible. The Rampartians had annotated it throughout with "proofs" as to the "factual" nature of its "events."

What confused people, he thought-they take what should be understood as a metaphorical story and they try to make it into science and history. They see a hand pointing a moral direction, and instead of looking to see where it points, they spend their time sucking on its finger and declaring to themselves, "It's a finger, a finger, a finger."

Picard closed the book solemnly and put it back where he had found it, on the table by his cot.

He looked up at the camera lens and brain wave antennae in the upper corner of the small white room.

That's right, he thought defiantly. You heard me correctly.

Or maybe they hadn't. Maybe his thought was trapped somewhere, like lint, by a metaphor-filter.

He lay back on the bed, tired but unable to sleep.

The white room that now served as his home was as stark as a prison cell but also reminded him of a primitive mental hospital. It made him think of some of the s.a.d.i.s.tic "mental health" practices of centuries long past on Earth, the time of lobotomies, forced electroshock, "lock them away and forget them."

The bed had thick straps and buckles dangling from its frame. On the wall above it were several jacks for electronic gear. The lens and antennae in the upper corner were similar to those carried by the one-eyes. Built into the wall at the foot of the bed was a video screen, which was on all day and dimmed automatically at night. There appeared to be no way for the room's occupant to shut it off at will.

So far as Picard could tell, the screen showed only news reports and commercials. He guessed he was seeing the same broadcasts that all other Rampartians watched. A studio anchorman who looked like a store mannequin introduced each news piece. The anchorman never speculated; the stories were always factual.

"Yesterday," the anchorman now intoned, "CS Major Ferris captured three armed criminal conspirators."

The name of Ferris caught Picard's attention.

"The incident occurred at the old Dumont ore factory."

Wide shot of the interior of the factory: blue-washed maze of ducts and catwalks. A group of white-suited CS men pointed to something up on a catwalk.

Close-up: a man on the catwalk fired a phaser.

Picard leapt to his feet. The man was William Riker, his own first officer.

Riker seemed desperate as he spun around and fired again.

Flattering close-up of Ferris: The stalwart Major took two steps forward, looked upward, raised his pistol. With two-handed combat grip, he fired.

Medium angle of Riker: He fell from the catwalk, tumbling toward the camera.

Tight close-up of Ferris: the very picture of avenging justice, the "good guy" that won, the military man that did his duty in the face of whatever danger, that risked his life for the sake of those snug at home, watching from couches and around dinner tables.

Long shot, exterior: Under the blue nebula-shrouded night sky, Ferris led his men toward two a.s.sault hovercraft with rotors that now began to turn. The men carried three bodies.

With a sick feeling in his gut, Picard got as close to the screen as he could, straining to see detail.

One of the bodies was Riker. The heads of the other two were hidden by several walking CS men, but Picard knew by the uniform and shape of one that it was surely Data. The third wore dark clothes, not Starfleet issue, and appeared to be female.

Medium angle: Ferris climbed into the copilot's seat of one of the hovercraft.

Dramatic long shot: The two white craft were aloft, their red running lights blinking as they flew toward the dark horizon.

Back to the anchorman: His face clearly showed that he was moved by what he had just witnessed. He paused, as if the sight of such heroism had put a lump in his throat and he needed to compose himself. After an appropriate wait, he moved on to his next piece.

"The CS has developed a new-generation truth-inducing drug which will be used in the field when factual information is being withheld by criminals. Deployment will come within the next day. Our Tom Martin was at CephCom today and has the details ..."

Picard sat slowly down at the foot of the bed.

So Riker and Data had come, presumably to search for him. The sight of their limp bodies was devastating. They were his family, or the closest thing he had to one.

He swallowed his emotions. He reminded himself that the announcer had said "captured," not "killed." He himself had been captured even though he could have been killed. Wouldn't all of them be most useful alive, as hostages?

He looked up at the antennae again. Strange feeling-he could think about his crew, his ship, his own imprisonment, and even about trying to escape, and the CS could listen in to all of it.

The single windowless door opened noiselessly. Picard tensed. He felt an animal reflex for escape poise him for action.

An armed and helmeted CS orderly, followed by an armed guard, came in with a tray of food. Their eyes, partially visible behind the glowing twin rasters on their visors, watched Picard warily, and the guard kept a gun trained on him.

"I wish to communicate with my ship," said Picard. "Tell Crichton that. And tell him if he and I talk we can settle our misunderstanding and the Enterprise won't have to retaliate."

The orderly set the tray down, and the two of them backed out, without a word, and shut the door.

Picard had to begin considering escape as an option. He feared that if he couldn't reason with Crichton and he was forced to remain here, then the Rampartians, with their brain wave technology, might be able to alter his thoughts and actions. He could be forced against his will to betray his own ship.

He looked again at the camera and brain wave antennae. Planning an escape was impossible; the antennae would pick up the plan. The only feasible options would have to occur as spontaneous inspirations. He would have to act on them without deliberation.

"Deal with that," he said to the antennae.

Picard watched the screen for another hour but there was nothing more about Riker or Data, and though he half expected to see it, there was nothing about himself.

As he watched more news images of Ferris and other CS officers in their exploits, he reflected that here on Rampart, where fiction was a capital crime, the people were forced to twist their own psychological needs and cast real-life public figures as pseudo-mythical heroes. Ferris was not, in reality, a hero, he was a monkey who did what he was told, but because the people of Rampart had no other outlet for their minds' unconscious needs, they made Ferris a hero (after all, he looked like one) and the Dissenters an evil force for the hero to vanquish.

On Earth, in the present twenty-fourth century, a man like Ferris would be an object of ridicule, thought Picard. He had been satirized there for three thousand years; even in cla.s.sical Greek comedy the goose-stepping soldier had been made into a buffoon.

Picard's door opened again. Three CS men and a one-eye entered.

The CS men all had weapons drawn.

"Time for your sentencing," said one of them.

Picard was handcuffed and led out of the room.

He made them stop.

"I must speak to Crichton," he demanded.

There was no reply; the CS men simply heaved him along.

They flanked him as they took him along several hallways lined with cells like the one he had just left.

At one point Picard noticed a group of CS men with a woman who also wore a CS uniform, though on hers the logo was red rather than blue. She was unarmed, and wheeled a cart full of electronic gear.

Picard had already noticed that in CephCom certain jobs were reserved for men while others were only for women, as though here equality between the s.e.xes had still not been accepted. He supposed the Rampartian settlers all left Earth before equality was achieved, and once they were here, no speculative thought on changing the situation had been allowed.

The equipment on the woman's cart had switches, meters, and CRT tubes. It could have been anything. On top was a rounded cap-like dome with color-coded wires sprouting from its electrodes. He was sure the cap was meant to fit on a human head and somehow interface with a human brain.

As it happened, the group with the CS woman entered a room in front of Picard and his guards. As Picard was brought past, he stutter-stepped to slow himself and was able to catch a glimpse of an adolescent girl on the bed, restrained with straps. As the cart was wheeled in she cried out hysterically. Her panic washed over Picard in a wave. It made the fine hairs on his neck stand on end. Her cry reminded him of an animal caught in a trap.

The CS men roughly pulled Picard back into line with them.

As they continued to walk, Picard began to understand the staggering size of the place. The corridors went on forever, filled with CS officers, soldiers, administrators, and one-eyes traveling alone or in patrols of a dozen. He saw doors inscribed "Psycho-surgery Division," and "Interrogation," and "Chemical Corps."

Two high-ranking officers emerged out of the latter and walked along behind Picard and his escorts. He could catch only parts of their conversation.

"... new kind of pharmacological attack on the brain ..."

"... scopolamine, methamphetamine, atropine sulfate ... cla.s.sic goofball effect ... provide every officer a truth-kit to use in the field ..."

Picard's guards brought him to a sudden stop. There was a commotion ahead. A CS soldier had suddenly been surrounded by a dozen one-eyes. Within instants the soldier was arrested and taken away.

The incident confirmed something Picard had already guessed. He'd noticed antennae and cameras mounted along the corridors. Now he knew what they were for: One of the CS's tasks was to spy on its own staff. Subversion could happen anywhere, even here. Maybe especially here, where the CS was in constant contact with the enemy-the Dissenters they'd arrested.

Picard's forced march ended in front of black double doors. A nameplate read "Director of Cephalic Security." The CS guards who stood on either side opened the doors and Picard was taken in.

Crichton was shuffling papers on his desk. He was wearing a protective helmet but the rasters were clear enough for Picard to see his eyes.

Picard was made to stand at a spot in front of the desk, like a naughty schoolboy. He noticed that in this spot he was covered by several camera lenses and antennae situated along the walls.

Crichton stood. He seemed to be avoiding Picard's stare.

He read aloud from a doc.u.ment.

"For the high crimes specified in the Code of the Council of Truth, pursuant to and as a result of doc.u.mentation gathered and on record, the detainee before me, Jean-Luc Picard, is hereby sentenced to death, such sentence to be imposed without delay."

Crichton sat down. Not once had he actually looked Picard in the eye.

"That's all," he said, and began to collect some of the papers on the desk.

The guards began to pull Picard toward the double doors.

Picard dug in his heels.

"Wait!" he cried, twisting around to see Crichton. "You have two of my officers as prisoners-what's going to happen to them? What is happening on my ship?"

"Your two officers, your ship's crew, will all receive the same penalty as they have committed the same crime. Everyone on Rampart who commits that crime is likewise penalized."

Picard's face reddened with rage. "Don't you have trials here? Aren't people told the nature of the charges against them? Don't they have a right to defend themselves?"

The CS men pulled him again.

"Get off of me," he growled.