O'Connor, who was sitting next to Geordi amidships, glanced back at the captain. "We're getting out of here," she said.

Picard nodded. He could see through the shuttle's observation port that they were accelerating, putting distance between themselves and the station.

Getting to his feet, the captain made his way forward to determine how his chief engineer was doing. He was pleased to see Geordi's head rotate as he approached.

Picard bent over him and smiled. "How are you feeling, Mr. La Forge?"

Geordi shrugged. "I've felt better, sir." A pause. "But I have to admit, I've also felt worse." His head rolled again as he turned to face Barclay. "Your grandfather was wrong, Reg."

The thin man's brow creased. Obviously, he didn't understand. "Wrong, sir?"

The commander chuckled. "You're not rubber after all. Considering what you just pulled off, I'd say you're made of some of the toughest stuff around."

Barclay grinned. "I am?"

"You are," Geordi affirmed.

Picard looked from one of them to the other. "Rubber?" he repeated.

The commander grunted. "A private joke, sir."

The captain nodded. "I understand." Patting Geordi on the shoulder, he got up again and deposited himself in the seat beside Data. The android had locked one of his monitors onto a view of the station as they left it behind.

The place was convulsing with one violent flash after the other. Then, as Picard watched, a piece of the station started to come away. And another. And finally, the whole structure erupted in a blossom-cloud of blue-white light. What's more, the cloud hung there long after the station itself had been turned into debris.

Data turned to the captain. "It is a pity," he observed. "There was still a great deal we might have learned from it."

Picard frowned, intent on the spectacle. "No doubt," he replied, sincerely. Or was it, perhaps, better this way?

There were some things best left unknown, he mused. And some places best left unvisited. He sighed and, sitting back in his chair, closed his eyes.

Before long, they'd rendezvous with the Enterprise. Until then, he wanted only to sleep.

Lieutenant Harold had used the last of his strength to drag himself out of the bunker, which had been the colony's main residence complex until just about a day ago. The bunker was where the last of the colonists had huddled after the invaders destroyed the brave people in the administration center.

To the best of Harold's knowledge, he was the outpost's only survivor. And then, only barely. The skin on one side of his body was dark and cracked, the result of severe radiation burns. And something inside him had been damaged. Every few minutes, he coughed up blood and had to clench his teeth against the intolerable pain.

But at least he was alive. The others-the people with whom he had shared the bunker-were gone. Just like that, without a trace, except for the stink of disruptor energies that yet lingered in the still, hot air.

If he hadn't been buried under a collapsing interior wall during one of the heavier salvos, he probably would have been just as dead as the rest of them-just as untraceable. As it was, the concealing debris had probably saved his life. It had kept the lizard-beings from finding him and frying him like the others.

Harold shivered at the thought of the invaders. He had only caught a glimpse of them, but it had been enough. They were as cruel-looking, as cold-blooded, and as efficient as their fiery green beams. Like many of his comrades, he had screamed for them not to shoot. After all, there were women and children in the bunker.

But none of that made any difference to the lizard men. They had simply fired their weapons of destruction. And fired. And fired.

And where were they now? Had they left, their h.e.l.lish job accomplished? Or were they still here somewhere? Gazing across the plaza, Harold saw no evidence of them, only waves of shimmering desert heat. But then, it was difficult to trust his senses, what with all he had been through.

Steeling himself, he tried to pull his body forward again, in the direction of the ruined administration building. Maybe the communication system was still intact, he told himself. Maybe he could call for help, warn other colonies about the horror that had overcome them.

But as he inched ahead, a wave of nausea overtook him, and he started to dry-retch uncontrollably. Finally, spent, he looked up-hoping that he had made some progress toward the administration center, knowing full well that he hadn't.

Gritting his teeth, he took another stab at it. This time, movement came a little easier. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not, but he continued crawling. And, eventually, reached the debris that was all that remained of the administration building.

Setting his back against a partially destroyed wall, he took a burning breath and let it out. There was no communication equipment here. There wasn't anything at all, except a few twisted hunks of metal and some severed cables.

Then something caught his eye. Something moving across the plaza. His heart thudded in his chest. The invaders?

No. Not them, he realized. It was a handful of men in Starfleet uniforms. A landing party-a couple of them in gold shirts like his own, another one in the red shirt of operations, three more in the blue of science and medicine. And they were coming his way, as if they had spotted him and wanted to help.

Unless ... they were a mirage. They could have been, too. An illusion born of suffering and fever, of wanting and needing, aided and abetted by the blinding rays of the afternoon sun.

No. Illusions didn't talk. And he could hear these men talking, their words getting louder and louder, more and more distinct as they approached. Finally, they were right in front of him, and there was no doubt as to their authenticity. They were close enough now, and tangible enough, for him to see that one of them was a Vulcan.

Two of the men knelt beside him-a goldshirt with captain's bars on his sleeve and a doctor. The physician pulled up one of Harold's eyelids as he activated his tricorder.

"Shock," he announced. "Radiation burns, internal injuries for certain. He's in a bad way, Captain."

The other man frowned. "Keep him alive, Bones. I want to know what's been happening here."

Harold felt a pressure against his arm and heard a hiss. The doctor had given him something for the pain, he realized. He could feel himself getting woozy.

That's when the Vulcan spoke up. "Getting another life reading, Captain."

The goldshirt stood. "Survivors?"

"Not survivors," the science officer corrected. "Not warm-blooded. Living creatures. But not human."

Harold could have told them that. He had seen the lizard-beings. He knew that they were anything but human.

"Where?" asked the captain.

The Vulcan consulted his instrument. "Azimuth ninety-three degrees, range one-five-zero-seven yards."

Nodding, the captain directed the redshirted security officer to move forward, to take a look around. The man's name was Hurlihy, apparently. Doing as he was told, he seemed to catch a glimpse of something in the distance.

Harold tried to tell him to get down, to watch out for the lizard men's disruptors. But he couldn't get the words out, just a rasping sound that barely got even the doctor's attention.

"Calm down, son," said the medical man. "Conserve your strength."

"Captain," said Hurlihy, "I see something... ."

Suddenly, he was caught in a greenish aura. Turning the color of blood under the glow, the security officer grimaced and disappeared.

"My G.o.d," breathed the doctor.

Then the ground around them erupted with bomb blasts. The captain opened his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise. Lock on transporters. Beam us up."

Harold couldn't hear the response, but there seemed to be a problem. And then he realized what it was: the invaders' ship. It would be up there in orbit somewhere, attacking the Federation vessel, forcing whoever was in charge to defend himself.

"Keep those screens up," commanded the one called Kirk. "Fire all phasers."

There was a moment of silence, during which even the invaders' bombs stopped falling. Then the captain spoke again, as if in response to some new information.

"Take all action necessary to protect the ship," insisted the captain. "We'll hold out here."

Harold heaved a sigh. It still wasn't over, was it? Maybe it would never be over. Maybe it would be like this from now on, now that the lizard-beings had shown up.

"Keep those screens up," shouted the goldshirt. "Worry about us when the ship is safe. Kirk out."

Abruptly, the bombs started falling again-started shaking the ground with their thunder. Geysers of fire and black smoke shot up all around them.

The captain shook his head. "If they lower those screens to beam us up," he told the Vulcan, "they'll be open to phaser attack."

The other man nodded. "We are hopelessly out-numbered here, Captain. With those disruptors versus our hand phasers ..."

Kirk waved away the Vulcan's pessimism. "We're stuck with it, Mr. Spock. We'll have to make do with what we've got." Turning to look back at Harold, he gestured for the doctor and two others to pick him up. Then, together, they headed for the shelter of the still-intact residence structure-the place where the survivor had just come from.

Bombs shattered the air all around them. Despite the painkiller, Harold could feel the heat of their blasts on his tortured flesh. And being moved this way awakened new agonies inside him. But if the alternative was to be torn apart by the invaders' barrage, he would endure whatever he had to.

The captain turned to a couple of his officers. "Kelowitz, Lang ... flank out. Lay down fire on the coordinates Mr. Spock gave you." And then, as they departed: "Even if you don't see them, keep your heads down."

Turning to the Vulcan, he noted: "We're helpless down here. And the Enterprise ..."

The response was meant to rea.s.sure him. "Mr. Sulu is an experienced combat officer, Captain."

But the man called Kirk shook his head. "It's my ship, Mr. Spock. I should be there." He cursed their fate. "We can't even get at them."

"Nor can they at us, at the moment," replied the science officer. "Not unless they move their original position. That intervening high ground ..." He gestured to the hills.

The captain nodded. "You remember the layout of this place? The a.r.s.enal ... ?"

The Vulcan pointed. "About one hundred yards in that direction. But after an attack as thorough as this one ..."

Kirk set his jaw. "I'll risk it," he said. Abruptly, he darted out into the plaza, drawing enemy fire on all sides. Harold couldn't see if he got hit or not.

"Is he ... all right?" he asked the doctor, who was kneeling beside him. The man looked down at him.

"He's fine," he answered. "For now." A pause. "What happened here, son?"

The lieutenant thought about it. It all seemed like a vast, dark nightmare. He couldn't remember who had done what, or when. The only things he could picture in his mind right now were the green disruptor beams that had walked the ground in long, deadly strides, and the screams, and the pain. Everything else was a blur.

Vaguely, he recalled a man he'd been ordered to look after. The man had meant something, hadn't he? He'd been important to someone. But Harold could no longer remember why. The man, and many of the other details of the ma.s.sacre, were already receding on the other side of a shadowy veil-one he never wanted to pull away, no matter the cost.

"It's all right," the doctor a.s.sured him, seeing he'd get no ready answer. He smiled pleasantly. "We'll talk about it after we get you up to the ship." Reacting to a nearby blast, he peered out at the plaza through narrowed eyes.

The lieutenant winced as a bead of perspiration traced a path along the charred skin of his cheek. Yes, he told himself. Maybe then, he could tell some things. Some.

But others, he would keep behind the veil, where he wouldn't have to think about them. Not ever.

As Picard entered his ready room, he had the distinct feeling that something was different. Looking around, he checked off each furnishing in his mind, rea.s.suring himself that all was as it had been several days ago, before his time-s.p.a.ce accident.

Not that he would have been surprised if Commander Riker had made some small changes in his absence. After all, there was no harm in tailoring a place to one's own needs-even on a temporary basis. But nothing was out of order. The room was just as the captain had left it, down to the lionfish swimming in his small, round tank.

Then why the feeling of alteration? Even before Picard had completed the unspoken question, he believed he knew the answer.

It was he who was different. He who had changed since he'd last walked this deck and performed the duties of a starship captain here. A week earlier, he had been interested in the past, even intrigued by it. Now he was involved with it. He was part of it.

And though he had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from the trap that snapped shut on the doomed colonists of Cestus III, he had not escaped it completely. He had left a portion of himself behind.

Abruptly, the chimes outside his door sounded, alerting him to the presence of someone on the other side of it. "Come," he replied, tugging down on the front of his tunic. '

A moment later, his first officer was framed in the open doorway. The man smiled in that way that seemed to come so easily to him and walked in.

"How do you feel, sir?" asked Riker.

Picard shrugged. "I am glad to be back," he noted sincerely, allowing his fingers to brush the hard, polished desktop alongside him. "Very glad, in fact. And grateful to those who made it possible."

The first officer tilted his head slightly. "All in a day's work," he demurred. "If there's credit to be given, it belongs to the crew. And, of course, to Ensign Ro. If she hadn't convinced me to enlist the help of the Bon Amar-"

The captain felt his spine stiffen. "The Bon Amar?" he repeated. "What did they have to do with this?"

Riker swallowed. Apparently, he had ventured onto dangerous ground without thinking. "Uh ... are you sure you want to know, sir?"

Picard felt a surge of disapproval-but it was instantly tempered by an appreciation for the outcome. "You asked the Bon Amar for a.s.sistance," he concluded. "And are they the ones who found me? Or rather, my communicator?"

The first officer nodded. "They were," he confirmed.

The captain frowned. "You know that was a breach of Starfleet policy?" he asked.

Riker nodded again. "I do. But at the time, it seemed like the only way to get you back. And as it turned out, it was. If not for the Bon Amar ..."

Picard held up a hand. "It's all right, Will. No need to continue." He paused. "Under the circ.u.mstances, we'll call it a forgivable offense... ." A subtle smile played at the corners of his mouth. "An eminently forgivable offense ... and leave it at that."

The first officer seemed relieved. "Agreed, sir."

Picard came around the desk and sat down. Riker just stood there, waiting patiently for the captain to acclimate himself.

"We're headed for Gorn?" asked Picard finally. Tentatively, he leaned back, getting the feel of his chair again.

"At best speed," his exec a.s.sured him. "With any luck, we'll be there in time to salvage the situation."

"Good." The captain sighed. "I suppose I should prepare myself," he said meaningfully.

"Of course," responded Riker. "I'll leave you to it."

But halfway to the door, he stopped and turned around again. Noting the first officer's hesitation, Picard looked up at him.

Riker shook his head, as if in envy. "I was just wondering," he said. "What it was like. To see history unfolding like that, right before your eyes."