POSSESSION
by
J.  M. DILLARD 		and 		KATHLEEN O'MALLEY

POCKET BOOKS

Young SKEL woKE with a start, opening.  his eyes to the moonless black
of Vulcan night.  A noise had roused him-a soft, subtle sound that had
merged into his alrea4y- .fading dream, a sound that had been meant to
warn him.

Just in time ...

In the cool darkness-thin arms propping him into a sitting position,
palms pressed hard against his warm cot-Ykel struggled to suppress a
gasp.  The desperate thought had not been his own.

In time for what?   he asked its source silently.

In time to save your life.

A telepathic message?   Hefurrowed his brow, concentrating, but the
sense of it was gone, and as he mindfully controlled his breathing, the
panic slowly eased.

Look about you, Skel, he urged himself Here you sit in your home, in the
town of Rh'lahr, peaceful as all Vulcan towns are peaceful.  You are in
your own comfortable bed, surrounded by your own things, and but two
doors down the hall, your parents lie sleeping.

... He was only ten years old, but a good student, interested in the
quantum sciences.  His teachers said his emotional control was advanced
for someone his age, and he knew that brought honor to his parents.

Then why are you sitting up in your bed in terror?

He was calmer, yes-but the unease persisted.  Perhaps he had had a
nightmare,- he had read of such possibilities.  Vulcans rarely dreamed,
and nightmares, even among children, were uncommon.

No.  He retrieved a few fragmented scenes from his dream.  It had been a
distinctly unstartling review of activities at school ... Then why- the
fear?

Because I heard something.  Or sensed something.

Something-I cannot recognize.  Something alien.

Something-evil.

His intense self-honesty demanded that he correct his own thought.- Not
sensed.  Sense.  Even now ...

Silently, he drew back the lightweight blanket that covered him and
slipped from his bed, bare feet padding across the coolfloor.  At the
doorway, he paused, swiftly manipulating the door's control mechanism
before the simple sensor detected him and opened it.

Instead, the door slid open a few centimeters, its wellcared-for
mechanism making no sound at all.  Skel peered through the crack-beyond
lay the expected wall, with its holographic display of his own childish
artwork, created at school, draped in the dark of night.

Yet the illogical feeling of terror-that despite the normal appearance
of his surroundings, something terribly abnormal hovered
nearby-persisted.  Skel pushed back a fringe of brown-black hair away
from one long pointed ear, which he pressed to the opening to listen.

There would be nothing, of course, except the soft sound of his parents
sleeping,- thus reassured, he would return to sleep.  Yes, this was a
logical way to handle a most illogical feeling.

A heartbeat of silence, and then-a sound, low and quiet, soft as a
@reath.  Yet not a breath, for it held an undercurrent of pain.  it was
a moan-a low, quiet moan.

One of his parents was sick-his mother, he decided, when the so)t
complaint came again.  Skel's slanted brows furrowed with concern.

Once, when the family was camping, his mother, TReth, had fallen,from a
the sight of her shattered the, spattered with emerald the fracture
on-site, but ashen lips, though hours pass re t ey rea a healer.

If his mother had uttered this gentle murmur of pain, she must be
gravely ill,- no doubt his father would be tending her.  Skel could
provide some service.  He was not an infant, after all.  He was ten, and
advanced in his emotional control He would help his mother.

He moved to press the door controls, then pulled quickly away, prevented
from touching them by an internal force-an emotion, a sensation of such
fear and revulsion that it shamed and perplexed him.

He was reacting like an infant, and yet- the emotion was so compelling
that he yielded to it and dropped his hand Soft, familiar footfalls
emanatedftom the corridor, moving toward his parents'bedroom; he
listened with a mixture of wild, unreasoning fear and a sense of relief
This would be his father, who no doubt had ben moving about the house to
summon the healers and tend to his mother's illness.  Skel pressed a
nightadapted eye to the crack.  Perhaps the reassuring, normal sight of
his father would help Skel collect himself and shed these childish
fears.

He watched until a figure emerged from the shadows.- his father, just as
he had known.  Skel dampened the surge of intense, irrational relief he
felt as he watched the older Vulcan turn the corner of the hallway as if
coming from the meditation room.  His hands appeared first: they grasped
a large heavy object of gleaming metal that took Skel some seconds to
recognize as a lirpa, an ancient ceremonial weapon that had belonged to
his mother's ancestors.

Th@ sight made no sense to the bewildered boy's eyes,- of @ll things,
his father should have carried a medikit to tend to his s@ffering wife.
But as his father passed near Skel's door and turned to reenter the room
he shared with his wife, his face became clearly visible-providing Skel
with an even more disturbing sight.  F6r the elder Vulcan-a gentle,
serene man devoted to the study of logic-was ...

Smiling?

Smiling?   His father?

No, not smiling.  Skel recoiled from the sight, scarcely daring to
breathe.  He had seen humans and Andorians smile, and this was not a
smile-but a leer.

A grimace.  An expression, he knew from his studies of other cultures,
ofpure sadistic evil.

As he stepped back from the door, he closed his eyes,yet the horrifying
im@ge of his ' father's face remained.

It was an image, Skel knew, that would remain forever imprinted on his
memory.

In that instant, such terror consumed him that Skel grew convinced he
was still dreaming-trapped in a nightmare, and all his logic, all his
training could do nothing to dam the flo@ of fear and anguish that
engulred him.

Another sound& his mother's soft low moan from the bedroom.  But this
time, it rose shrilly into a scream-a scream which made him want to clap
his hands over his sensitive ears.

"Run!   Skel, run' I" He froze, too horrified to believe such a warning,
until it pierced not only his ears, but also his mind, as his moiher
TReth cried out to him with her dying thoughts.

The sound of her mental screams throbbed in his head, drowning out the
terrible, real sound of her strangled shrieks.

RUN!   RUN, MY CHILD, RUN!   DO NOT RETURN.  RUN AND HIDE!   NOW!

RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!   AND NEVER, EVER LOOK INTO ANY VULCAN'S EYES!

The terrible voices would not stop-not the one in his head, not the one
in his ears.

RUN!   RUN!   RUN!

All his carefully honed Vulcan discipline fled as Skel became what his
ancient ancestors had been before the Reformation.  Like a wild animal,
he bolted for his window, opening it wide to the cool night air of the
desert, and leapt from the low-built dwelling in sheer, animalistic
panic.

He obeyed the voice, and ran and ran and ran, over the soft, cold sand
toward the distant black mountains.

His short legs pumped frantically with all his youthful energy, until,
more than a kilometer away from his own house-his house where logic and
rational thought had once reigned-he slammed into an immovable object,
and looked up to see ...

His father's leering face.

The elder Vulcan's eyes were wide, demented, and blazing with bizarre
emotions as he clamped powerful hands around his son's head, forcing
Skel to stare up, open-eyed, at that terrible visage.  The voice inside
the child shrilled louder, DO NOT LOOK INTO HIS EYES.

NEVER INTO HIS EYES' As Skel's father roughly pulled the boy's small
face toward his, the child fought with all his strength to look away, to
escape those imprisoning hands.  But the crazed countenance of his
father loomed closer, closer, until there was nothing left for Skel to
do but disobey the terrifying, commanding voice in his mind The boy
blinked, and against his will, he stared up into those once familiar
golden-brown eyes, eyes once serene that now burned with murderous rage
...

And found the face he confronted was his own.

The Vulcan, Skel, sat bolt upright in.  his bed, panting heavily as if
he'd been running.  For a flickering second, the nightmare's grip
persisted and he stared fearful into the darkness, expecting to see his
father's hideously leering face.

But no one stared back at him in the intense Vulcan darkness; there was
no one, nothing at all before him except his own hands, raised as if to
ward off danger.

With unutterable relief, he studied them.  They were the broad large
hands of a middle-age Vulcan maleslightly lined and laced with prominent
veins, fingers spread wide.

And these were his quarters at the Vulcan Science Academy, the same
quarters he had slept in for the last twenty-five standard years.

Skel immediately lowered his hands and reigned in his dream-induced
panic, slowing his heart rate, lowering his blood pressure, coming back
to the present.  He was no longer a child of ten prone to irrational
night terrors, but a scientist of ninety, a master of physics, a
respected researcher.  Automatically, he assumed his normal meditative
position-cross-legged, spine straight-but could not achieve the passive
state he needed to quiet his mind.

Finally, his comm beeped softly in the dark room.

He sighed.  suffer a relapse of his It was embarrassing enough to
emotion-laden nightmares; to rouse others because of his psychic
emanations was humiliating.

He composed himself, then fingered a control on the comm console.

"Yes, Healer T'Son."

The screen filled with the placid face of his personal physician, every
jet-colored hair of her elegant braid perfectly in place, her clothing
as professional and crisp as if it were two hours past sunrise, not
three hours before it.  "Skel, I sensed your dream.  Are you well?"

She had worked with him for years to rid him of these nightmares.

They were mentally linked; there was no logic in being evasive.

"I am ... managing.  It was particularly vivid.  It has been years since
the images were so strong.  But I am all right now.  Thank you for
calling me."

"I am your healer," she reminded him-a gentle chide that it was not
logical to thank someone for doing their job.  "You have been working
long hard hours.  Your sleep patterns have been disrupted.  You have
neglected your nutritional requirements.  And you are striving to
complete a difficult task before the Federation's TechnoFair.  These
factors, no doubt, have triggered the resurgence of your dreams."

She was gently trying to tell him he was too concerned about his work
and the upcoming deadline.  She was reminding him that it was unseemly
for a Vulcan to feel such emotional pressure.  She would have been
correct, too-for most Vulcans.  But in Skel's lifetime, the
unpredictable return of his childhood fears often presaged danger,
either for him or for those near him.  It was as if his mother's
mindtouch could reach beyond the grave and still protect him, even
though her katra had been lost, loosed upon the wind.  Healer T'Son
found no logic in this explanation, preferring to focus on more rational
explanations when his dreams resumed.  Her steady reliance on reason and
science helped Skel through the chaos of his nightmares.

With T'Son's help the dreams had become rare.  Which made it even more
disturbing to Skel that they should recur now.

As if she understood his mixed feelings about his problem, she reminded
him, "I understand how your history might affect your regard for your
work.  And 1 understand how important it is to you.  Because of your
special circumstances, we must take extra care to ensure your health."

Your mental health is what she meant, but she was too polite to say
that.

"Of course, you are correct, Healer," he agreed, feeling calmer.

It always astonished him how merely talking to her could reassure him.

It was one of the reasons she insisted they link telepathically.

She did not feel that she could be as effective hearing about the dreams
hours after they had occurred.  It had been a good choice of therapy.

T'Son had been a great help to him over the years.

"Remember, Skel, you are not the only Vulcan that lived through the
madness.  There were many affected-the survivors all have difficulties.
That is why healers share our knowledge of these experiences, to help
our patients restore the balance in their lives, and regain their logic
and stability."

"Yes, of course, Healer.  I will remember."  How could he forget?

As a young man, he'd spent years talking with groups of others like
himself and their healers, trying to recover from the terrible memories,
the horrifying experiences.  The memory of his mother's screams, her
savage, sadistic murder at his father's hands-his father, who had been
the gentlest, most logical of men.  His father had never recovered from
the responsibility of his actions after the madness was cured.  He had
died young, broken by guilt.

"Please, come by my office before you begin work this morning, Skel,"
T'Son said calmly.

He stiffened, anticipating her request.

"It is best if we meld," she told him, "so that I can try to remove the
most difficult dream memories.

Many healers believe this prevents the same dream from recurring
repetitively."

He swallowed, but said with the same calm as she, "I will do that,
Healer.  In your office, before I go to my laboratory."

"Try to sleep, Skel.  You have not rested enough over the past few days.
If you can't sleep, take one of the herbal sedatives I've given you."

"Yes, Healer," he promised.

She nodded, and the screen went dark.

He stared at the blank screen a long moment, knowing sleep was
impossible for him now.  He should take the sedative.  He should do as
she suggested.  It was the logical choice.

But he could not shake the sense of danger the dream had evoked.

He moved to his dresser, removed his night clothes, and donned his
normal attire.  There would be few in the laboratory at this hour.

While the Vulcan Science Academy normally employed few security devices,
the work he was doing was always tightly secured and restricted.  He
could check the security system and all the foreefields.  It would only
take a moment.  Perhaps, having reassured himself, he could then sleep.
It was not logical, but he would do it anyway, for he had learned as a
child that reassurance was the most efficient strategy for dealing with
irrational fear.

Then he would be rested before he went to T'Son's office.  Before he had
to meld.

As he left the living quarters and moved silently through the nearly
empty stone hallways of the Vulcan Science Academy, he tried not to
think about the upcoming appointment.  It was illogical to dislike the
meld-dislike of anything was illogical by its very nature.

Nevertheless, he hated melding after his nightmares.  It brought all the
terrifying images to the surface and made him relive them again, even
though, afterward, he rarely suffered from the exact same images.

It just meant his memories-his mother's warning-had to take different
paths to break through to his dreams.

The sensors turned the lights on in his lab as he entered it.  All
seemed as it had been when he left but a few hours before.  He swallowed
and forced his mind to be calm.  He reminded himself the lab was often
disturbing to him after a dream.  Even the healer recognized that there
was a certain logic in that.

He walked over to the containment area and checked the computer console
that managed his experimental subjects.  The multiple force fields were
all in place, under complex codes that only he and two others knew.
Everything was as he had left it.  He stared at the console.  No, not
quite everything.

A telltale was out.  His fingers flew over the controls.

A routine cell replacement was necessary.  In fact, the telltale had
already been reported and a security maintenance worker had taken
tricorder readings, no doubt to effect the correct repair.  It was a
minor matter-not enough for him to have been notified.

Could his dream have been triggered by something so trivial?

T'Son would dismiss this as coincidence, and no doubt, she would be
right.

Skel noted that the maintenance worker had not left an identifying code.
That was contrary to regulations, and he would have to look into it.
This area was offlimits to all but the most experienced technicians, as
it was too risky to have insufficiently trained workers in this
laboratory.  Perhaps the senior technician had been on a more
significant emergency.  He would check into it.  He was rigid about
security; the very nature of the project demanded it.

He moved away from the console, going now to the observation port where
he could view his subjects as they lay passively behind multiple Vulcan
force fields.

Such innocent-looking things they were, these elliptical containers
small enough to be held in the palm.

They always reminded Skel of a beautiful creature he had once seen while
visiting a Terran beach-an oyster, for though they were onyx in color,
there was a prismatic, mother-of-pearl sheen to them, glints of metallic
blue, green, and rose that shifted constantly like a tide.

Even after a lifetime of studying them, Skel found it hard to believe
such simple, elegant objects held such a terrible force; in truth, these
two small objects contained a peculiarly vicious disease, a murderous
madness that had infected the cities of Vulcan eighty years before.  The
disease had been cured, but its legacy remained.

Survivors, like Skel and his father, had been forced to continue with
their lives despite the horrible consequences of the disease.

Many of them, like Skel's father, never fully recovered.  Many, like
Skel, were still recovering.

Part of Skel's therapy had been to assume the work of his predecessor
twenty-five years ago.  And in spite of well-supported research and some
of the finest minds of the Vulcan Science Academy, little had been
learned of these objects-objects that generated their own impenetrable
force fields without any perceivable power source or mechanism.  Though,
lately, Skel believed he might have unlocked one secret of the fields.
It was a discovery he wanted to share with other Federation scientists.
Together, they might harness this advanced technology to serve the
Federation as a defensive protection against more aggressive species
such as the Romulans.

It had been driving him for years, the need to derive something,
anything, positive from these terrible alien artifacts.  He blinked
wearily as he stared at the beautiful, deadly containers.  He would have
years to study them yet, learn of their origins, determine who their
creators were.  Years.  But not if he did not sleep.

He signaled the sensors to dampen the lights, watching the glow his
subjects radiated on their own.

As he did, he heard the warning clearly, unmistakably in his mind:

RUNI RUN, MY CHILD, RUNI NOWI RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!

Wearily, he shut his eyes.  Would the memory of T'Reth's voice finally
drive him mad?

Mother, please!   You are gone, your katra scattered to the winds.

Do not torture my sleep, my waking hours.

There is no logic to your warning.  There is no danger here.

There is only your son, an aging scientist wor ryabout his own deadlines
and the inexorable march 0 time.

The frantic voice faded to a whisper and was gone.

Skel was turning to leave the lab and return to his bed when his
sensitive hearing detected the slightest of sounds-a faint rustle of
cloth.

Freezing in place, he fought the urge to flee as his heart rate
accelerated and his body prepared for conflict.  Who would be here, in
his laboratory, at this hour-hiding?   There was nothing of value here.

Nothing but ...

His eyes moved back to the alien containers.  Certainly, no one would be
so foolish as to attempt to- The thought was interrupted by sound and
sensation: the sound of a light footstep, so swift that Skel had no time
to turn and face its perpetrator, and the sensation of something hard,
cold, and metal being shoved against his lumbar spine.

A weapon, he knew immediately, though his experience with weapons was
limited.  From the feel of its muzzle against his back, he judged it to
be a phaser; from the diminutive height of the individual wielding it,
he judged his visitor to be of Ferengi origin.

"Master Scientist Skel," came a faintly highpitched, nasal voice which
confirmed the Vulcan's hypothesis, "this is an honor.  Your assistance
would be most appreciated."

"Who are you?"  Skel asked, studying the distance between his left hand
and the computer's emergency response button, and contemplating whether
he would be able to reach it before his visitor fired the weapon.

"Consider me ... your business partner.  There are things you will share
with me that will profit us both."

The weapon dug deeper into Skel's back.

"If you leave now," Skel said, modulating his voice into the calmest,
most emotionless tones, "you will be able to successfully make your
escape.  No damage has been done.  I give you this opportunity."

"There are opportunities unlimited in this room," the intruder hissed.
"And you will give them all to me.

"I will not assist you," Skel informed the stranger.

He had never meant anything more sincerely in his life.  He had already
faced a greater fear than most sentient beings would ever know.

There was nothing this intruder could to do coerce his cooperation.

"Oh, you will, Master Scientist.  You will assist me in all that I wish
.  . ."

Skel felt the power of the blast envelop him, felt his body lose
control, felt himself falling like a stone to the floor.  And then,
blessedly, he felt nothing at all.

SHIP'S COUNSELOR DEANNA TROI stood uneasily in Captain Jean-Luc Picard's
ready room.  She'd placed herself almost directly between the captain,
who was seated behind his desk, and the chief medical officer, Dr.
Beverly Crusher, who stood, arms crossed, several meters away.

"Doctor," Picard insisted, in his clipped, most precise tone, "you have
yet to answer the singular question: Why?"  His hazel eyes were narrowed
disapprovingly not at his medical officer, but at a report on his
computer screen-an autopsy report.

"I've told you why, Captain," Crusher said wearily@ beneath the
exhaustion was a clear undercurrent 0 anger.  "You're just not
listening."

Deanna winced, inundated by waves of powerful emotion from these two
strong-minded people, but, of course, that was why she, a half-Betazoid,
was here: to sense their conflict and help resolve it.

However, this time, she doubted whether she had any answers.

Death and the raw anger and grief it evoked were, of all things, most
difficult to explain.

"It was an accident, " Beverly explained again, in a tone so exasperated
it bordered on insubordination.

She ran a careless palm over her pale forehead as if to soothe the
thoughts there, in the process sweeping back a lock of copper hair.

"Crewman Janice Ito either forgot-or deliberately disregarded-safety
regulations when she went into the power fluctuation in the plasma
stream.  She went alone, with minimum equipment.  No power neutralizers,
no safety shields.

Just herself, a handful of tools, and a tricorder.  She wasn't
experienced in working in such a small place with major power conduits,
and the shock killed her instantly."

Picard looked up from the report at last and gave a terse shake of his
head, as if casting off the very notion that such a thing could occur.
"What happened to her training?   Where was the senior officer working
with her?   How could an intelligent twenty-year-old ensign, in the top
ten percent of her Academy class, do something so damned stupid?"

Beverly straightened, bristling-every bit as angered as the captain,
Troi knew, by the needless death; perhaps more so, since she had fought
vainly in sickbay to resuscitate the young woman.  And Beverly's
frustration and grief were about to well over and cause her to say
something she would later regret.

What is stupid here, Captain, is your refusal to listen.

Troi smoothly intruded, before Crusher had the chance to give the
thought utterance.  "I believe, sir," Deanna said calmly, "that that's
why it's called an ,accident."' Picard turned his scowl on her.  "This
is the Starship Enterprise, the flagship of the Federation.  We , re not
supposed to have 'accidents'-especially not senseless, fatal accidents
with promising young officers."

He rose, straightening his uniform, his actions as taut and precise as
his speech, and stepped around his desk.  "I will tell you this: there
will not be another.

I'm ordering a complete shakedown of the crew.  I want training sessions
reviewed, new officer orientation reevaluated, emergency procedures
reconfigured, and the entire drill process reassessed.  And when that's
done, we'll do it all again!"

Deanna drew a slow, even breath, allowing herself to sense the others'
feelings while still maintaining her own inner calm.  "Captain . . ."
she began gently.  "All of that is well-considered, and may even prevent
some future tragedy.  However, in light of the fact that we're on a
tight schedule, the timing of extensive drills could be a problem."

Picard simmered a moment, his lips drawing into a tight thin line as he
gave her a sharp glance, then he looked away, down, and sighed,
surrendering slightly.

"That damned thing!"  he grumbled.

This was not the time to remind him that he had eagerly volunteered the
ship and her crew for "that damned thing"-a heavily scheduled transport
assignment to support the Universal TechnoFair.

The Enterprise had been picking up and transporting a major contingent
of Federation scientists for at least a week now, and there were still
several more stops on the schedule.  The TechnoFair would not wait for
them-no matter what had happened on board.

"Right now," Deanna continued, in her consummately conciliatory
counselor's tone, "both of you need to come to grips with this tragedy.

You're both blaming yourselves for something only one person could have
prevented-Ensign Ito, who violated procedure and risked herself
unnecessarily."

She glanced from Picard to Crusher, but neither officer met her gaze;
instead, they each glowered at separate, far-distant points as they
pondered her words.  There was still anger, yes, but Deanna sensed it
weakening.  Wisely, she kept quiet until, at last, Crusher broke the
silence.

"Janice's Academy roommate is on board," Beverly said, her voice
strained, her eyes still focused on an unadorned patch of bulkhead.

"She told me that Janice had made some technical blunder right after
she'd been assigned here.  The senior officer, Lieutenant Singh, handled
it properly, but it was the first major error Janice had made in her
career.  She'd been golden at the Academy-completely unused to failure.
Her roommate thinks that she was determined to make up for the perceived
screw-up, especially in light of our preparations to pick up those
scientists.  So she took too many risks."

Crusher paused and drew a breath; her gaze seemed to turn inward, toward
a painful memory.  "I had her in sickbay in seconds.  We used
everything, did everything possible, but I couldn't stabilize her.

She'd suffered so much brain damage.  . ."

Deanna herself drew a breath, steadying herself at the wave of sorrow,
defeat, and failure that emanated from her friend.  She regretted
Beverly's suffering; at the same time, she admired the compassion that
made her such a good doctor.

"The worst thing about it is," Beverly continued, her voice near
breaking, "one of the scientists already on board-a surgeon, Dr.
Ellis-has developed a technique for replacing damaged brain cells with
synthetic tissue.  It's still experimental, but ... with his technique,
it's theoretically possible to stabilize a damaged brain until the
victim's own cells can be cloned and specialized.  Had I known he was on
board, had I known of his work-it would've been a risk worth taking.  .
."  She lowered her face in a gesture of utter defeat.

"Beverly.  . ."  Deanna moved to stand beside her friend and put a
gentle hand on her arm in support.

"There's no way you could keep track of all the people we've been
picking up this last week.  It's easy to think this doctor might have
helped Janice, but there was more than brain damage involved."

Crusher nodded slowly, but her expression remained grim.  Even so, Troi
sensed the transformation of pure outrage into grief, mixed with the
first glimmerings of acceptance-and so she again remained silent for a
moment, until Picard sighed, and said, "I had to speak to her parents.
Of all the responsibilities that I dread, this is the worst"-he gestured
at his computer terminal-"to send my regrets to the parents of that
promising young officer."  He turned away from the two women to look out
at the moving backdrop of stars, his hands clasped tightly behind his
back, as if to hold in the surge of emotion.

Deanna felt it all the same.  "The entire crew mourns Janice's death,"
she reminded him softly.

"Her body has already been shipped home.  But perhaps a memorial service
might help those of us still on board to cope with our own sorrow."

Picard turned and nodded quickly.  "Of course.  Of course.

Deanna, may I ask you to organize it?"

"Certainly, Captain."

"And, Doctor," he said, his tone conciliatory, "please don't blame
yourself.  You did everything medically possible.  She could have had no
better care."

"Yes, sir.  Thank you," Crusher replied, managing a wan smile to match
the captain's.

Picard dismissed her with a nod.

Crusher left, and the instant the doors closed over her, Deanna took a
step closer to the captain.  "You're taking this very hard, sir.

As hard as Dr.  Crusher.  As hard as Lieutenant Singh, Ensign Ito's
senior officer.

As hard as Commander La Forge, the chief engineer-"

"Shouldn't we be?"  he interrupted sharply, meeting her paze.  "She was
her parents' only child-the pride of tfieir life.  It's an inconsolable
loss.  Not all deaths are needless; some serve an important purpose. But
this .

. ."  He shook his head.

"I understand your anger, Captain.  And your guilt.

If Ensign Ito had come to speak to the ship's counselor about her
perceived failure, perhaps her foolhardy act could have been
circumvented.  If I had talked to her, maybe .  . ."

Picard drew back in mild surprise at this revelation; his expression
softened.  "You're right, Counselor.

The death of a crew member affects everyone."

Troi did not quite smile.  "Yes, sir.  And I know you don't really
regret involving us in the TechnoFair transport.  You've been one of its
greatest supporters."

He nodded.  "It is an innovative idea, gathering so many of the galaxy's
renowned scientists together in one place for the express purpose of
promoting the free exchange of ideas.  But I'm afraid this tragedy has
taken much of the joy out of it for me.  Perhaps if I hadn't pushed the
crew to such spit-and-polish .  . ."

He trailed off as she cocked her head to one side, ready to remind him
that there was nothing they could do to change what had happened.

"I thought," she suggested, "we might have a small service in Ten
Forward."

He considered it.  "That's sensible."  The after-duty lounge had already
been emptied of all furniture in preparation for the TechnoFair
displays.

"Then, after the service, we can allow our guest researchers to set up
their demonstrations, as we had originally planned?"

Picard sighed in reluctant acquiescence.  "We must.

It's the only way the crew will get to see any of the exhibits, since
we'll be too busy ferrying to attend the Fair itself.  And ... life does
go on in spite of tragedy, doesn't it?"

She allowed herself an instant of silence, in acknowledgment of her own
grief and anger at a Universe that could permit the young and brilliant
to die.

At last she said, "I'm afraid if death teaches us nothing else, it
teaches us that."

"Yes," Picard agreed bitterly, "but how many lessons must we endure?"

"Geordi," Data asked, with the same implacable patience he always
exhibited, "even though I have studied this topic thoroughly, I still
fail to understand why humans insist that attending memorial services
makes them 'feel better."' Geordi La Forge, the Enterprises chief
engineer, was busy recalibrating the power conduits that caused the
untimely death of Ensign Ito.  Now Data, being an android, could
recalibrate the conduits, discuss philosophy and the mortal condition,
and learn an entirely new violin sonata at the same time-but Geordi was
a mere human and, as such, needed to concentrate.

Even more so considering the tragedy that had prompted his task.

He hadn't been on duty when Ito had died, hadn't-like poor Lieutenant
Singhheard the hum of the power surge followed a split second later by
the thump of her fall.  But his shift had overlapped with hers, and he
had called a good-bye to her as he left.

'Bye, Janice ...

See you later, Commander ...

She had been leaning over a console, but she had glanced up and turned
her head so swiftly that her short, straight hair had swung about in an
arc.  Then she'd smiled brightly and given him an impish little wave.
Swift and bright: those were the words for Janice.  There was a
brilliance to her, a radiance that couldn't be captured by any holo. The
likeness of her in her Starfleet file showed a plain-looking Asian woman
with a broad face, dark eyes and hair; nothing special, nothing
exceptional.  Ordinary.  Until you met her, shook her hand, and were
dazzled by the light in her eyes and smile.

As swift and bright and focused as a phaser beam, yet so constantly
cheerful, so apparently at ease that the stresses that came with being
at the top of her Academy class-and later, the brilliant new ensign
aboard the Enterprise-never touched her.

Or so Geordi had thought.  But something had to have touched her, to
have rattled her, to have eaten at her, for Janice to have made such a
stupid mistake.

If he had only been on duty ...

He clutched the cold metal calibrator in his hand and stared down at the
bright-colored conduits in front of him, imagining how Janice must have
looked when Singh found her, with all the light gone out of her.

"Geordi?"

"Oh.  Sorry, Data."  He returned to the present with a sigh.

"You'd just asked about memorial services, didn't you?"  His
concentration wasn't at its best at the moment, and if he didn't answer
Data's question, he'd lose even more time.

He did the sensible thing, and handed the android the calibration
device, so that Geordi could concentrate on something less critical
while answering the question.

"I thought you had this whole mourning thing figured out, Data," he
said, watching the android perform the calculations at a staggering
speed.  "Wait, wait a minute-don't forget to figure in the power
curves.... Yeah, that's it."

Data nodded his long, pale face and continued the recalibration work.
"As I said, I have analyzed this topic before-when Tasha Yar died, and
also when I was planning your memorial service.  However, I received
mixed messages about the need and usefulness of such a service.  I
understand that it is intended to comfort the survivors, and yet that
does not seem to be the case at all."

Geordi smiled faintly, flattered by the fact that Data liked to discuss
things with him, and often let him know that he didn't feel a topic
fully explored unless he'd gotten Geordi's opinion.  It was one of the
things that assured him he and Data were truly friends.

"Memorial services do help," Geordi said, thinking of the service for
Ensign Ito they had just attended and how strange it had seemed that Ito
herself hadn't been there with them.  "They let the people who are
grieving bring everything to an end.  In a funny kind of way-they do
make you feel better."

Without a pause in his calculations, Data said, "No one at the service
today looked like they felt better.

Everyone seemed quite sad.  That was true of Tasha's service, as well."

"Well, we were.  Losing a crew member in a preventable accident is hard
to accept.  But having the service reminds us of the value Ensign Ito
had, of what a fine person she was.  And it reminds us of our own
mortality."  He fell silent, realizing that perhaps Data had difficulty
comprehending the subject because, technically, he had no mortality.

It was one thing for which Geordi was grateful; here was one friend, at
least, he didn't have to worry about losing.

Data continued his work, but the tilt of his head and faintly distant
look in his eye showed he was analyzing Geordi's statement.  At the same
time, the android finished the recalibration figures and handed the palm
computer to the engineer to check.  Geordi scanned the results and
smiled, pleased.  It would have taken him more than twice as long to
come up with the same results-and he would have had to concentrate.

"So you are saying," Data continued, "that memorial services are not
designed to brinp- immediate relief of sadness.  That they mark the
beginning of a grieving process for the survivors."

"Yeah, that's the truth.  Grief is a process.  It takes time for the
living to accept and adjust.  The memorial service allows us to begin
doing that."

Data gave a single approving nod.  "A concise explanation.  Now, about
the concept of the afterlife .  .

Geordi plugged Data's figures into the main computer and initiated the
program.  "Hold on, Data.

Discussions about the afterlife have been going on for thousands of
years.  You and I don't have time to explore that right now.  We're
supposed to help set things up for the TechnoFair scientists.  Now that
we've got this recalibration going, that's next on the agenda.  The
afterlife will ' just have to wait!"

Data drew back with his quizzical "analyzing" expression, which quickly
resolved into a look of satisfaction.  "All!   'The afterlife will have
to wait." Because, of course, that is what the afterlife-if there is
one-does.  It waits for the living to transcend this life and join the
afterlife.  Sophisticated humor bordering on pun.  Very clever, Geordi."

"Thanks, Data."  La Forge took his analytical friend's arm and steered
him into the nearest turbolift.  "Ten Forward," he told the 'lift, then
turned to Data again.  "Look, we've got a lot to do.  We've got to
provide portable power packs for each holo display, make sure each
scientist gets enough room for his or her setup, and decide if we're
going to have to set up more space in the auxiliary lounge next to Ten
Forward."

"I have already arranged for extra power packs," Data answered smoothen,
without a shift in tone, as if they had been discussing business instead
of the afterlife all along.  "And, based upon the information the
scientists have offered me, at least eight will need to be set up in the
auxiliary lounge."

"Excellent, Data, thanks!"

The turbo doors opened silently onto the large expanse that, a day
before, had been the crew's observation lounge and relaxation area; a
few hours before, it had been the scene of Janice lto's memorial
service.  But the arrangements for the service had been simple and had
already been cleared.  Now there was nothing but vast open expanse.

"Good thing Guinan stopped off at Andoria to attend that bartenders'
convention," Geordi said.

"She hates it when they move all her stuff."

"Bartenders' convention?"  Data tilted his head and actually managed to
look startled.  "I though it was a spiritual retreat.  She called it a
'relaxation seminar."' "Same thing," Geordi insisted with a small smile,
as he walked across the vacant lounge, trying to decide who should be
set up where.  "She said she'd be useless here, since scientists don't
believe in being 'off duty." Well, let's start arranging tables and
defining areas."

Data moved to a wall computer and used it to tap into the console in his
quarters.  "Here is a list of the dimensions of space the scientists
have said they will require for their displays.  I compiled that
information along with the dimensions and parameters of Ten Forward, and
the subject matter of the displays, and have come up with a tentative
arrangement that best utilizes space and takes topic matter into
account."

Geordi grinned broadly for the first time since Janice Ito's death.
"That's great, Data.  You've thought of everything!   That's why I
volunteered us for the setup when we could have had a few ensigns do it.

I wanted it done right."

To his surprise, Data frowned.  "Geordi, I could not possibly think of
'everything." That is too broad of a concept, even for me.

For example, I am not sure the aesthetics of my arrangement will be
satis@ for the less technical crew members.  Would it be best to place
the display of force field technology next to the particle physics
hologram, or-"

"Aesthetics be damned, Data," Geordi said, scanning ct the list.  "We're
in a hurry.  That's something the Te no fair designers can worry about.
Your plan looks fine; I like the way you set Dr.  Tarmud between that
surgeon, Dr.  Ellis, and the ocular specialist, Dr.  Danneike.  Their
work complements each other's."

Data straightened with something suspiciously Similar to pride.

"Thank you."  He processed for a moment, then added, "Geordi, you seem
very eager to meet Dr.  Tarmud."

The engineer clapped his android friend on the shoulder.  Data worked
hard to master the "give and take" of a conversation, and he was doing
well with it.

On some level, Geordi knew that his compliment of Data's work had
triggered a program response that told Data to touch on an area of
Geordi's interest.  He didn't care.  Data was showing he cared, and
Geordi was happy to respond.

"You're right about that," he told Data.  "I've been wearing his VISOR
for a long time."  He touched the silvery eye shield that permitted him
his own type of vision.  "This invention changed my life, and the lives
of others like me.  It's broadened my abilities and given me more
freedom.  I can't wait to meet the man and shake his hand!

Besides, how many scientists get to meet the actual recipients of their
work?   He'll probably get a kick out of meeting me, too."

Geordi moved away from the computer and approached the stacked tables
and temporary walls they would use to set up the displays.

"Come on, Data.

We've got work to do!"

"It's not often I have three handsome men escort me to a fair," Deanna
Troi teased her entourage as they strolled down the corridor toward Ten
Forward.

Commander William Riker's bearded face broke into a sly grin.  "We
decided that after wrangling with a cross Captain Picard and speaking at
a very sad memorial service, you deserved a night on the town."

"The commander is correct," Lieutenant Worf added in his deep bass
voice.  His stern tone lacked the good humor of Riker's-and his dark,
fearsomely Klingon countenance showed no hint of a smile-but the black
eyes beneath his prominent skull ridges contained the very faintest hint
of amusement.

Though the best we could do is the impromptu 'Science Fair in Ten
Forward.  Still, the displays should be interesting ... and
educational."  This last he directed pointedly at his son, Alexander.

The young Klingon/human child glanced up at Troi, whose hand he was
holding.  "That means boring in Klingon," he told her, and rolled his
eyes in a purely human gesture.

Deanna and Riker struggled to smother their smiles as Worf growled low
in protest.  He and his young son rarely saw eye-to-eye.

"Oh, come now, Alexander," Deanna replied, trying to help Worf save
face.  "You don't find school boring.  Your teacher tells me you're in
the top ten percent of your grade.  She says you're fascinated with
physics and calculus and have enough curiosity for five students."

As she expected, the compliment embarrassed the boy; he stared at his
feet, his dusky skin tone darkening.

"I guess Alexander knows," Riker added, "that a warrior can't just rely
on his strength.  He also must be more cunning than his opponent."

"Well said," Worf agreed, mollified.

As they passed through the open doors of Ten 		i Forward,
the adults paused to take in the massive	i 	changes to
the once-familiar space.  Deanna hadn't	i 	realized just how many
scientists the Enterprise had 	picked up, nor the extensive
scope of their work.

	It was Alexander who put the entire thing in 	context for
them, as he grabbed his father's hand and, 	pointing with the
other, announced excitedly, 4'Lwk, 	Father!   There's a holo display
of a giant eyeball!"

	He towed the hapless Klingon over to it.

As Worf allowed himself to be dragged toward a huge floating eye that
seemed to be following him and his son, the Klingon studied the human
female who controlled the display.  She was extremely fair, almost
colorless, her skin so pale it seemed translucentwhat Commander Riker
would no doubt refer to as a 61 real blonde."  Indeed, the hair she'd
braided tightly into one long complicated plait was almost white.

Tiny tendrils of the fine hair that escaped the braid fell in wisps
about a long face that was attractive by human standards, but seemed far
too delicate to the Klingon.

"Dr.  Kyla Dannelke, opthalmologist," the holographic banner beneath the
giant eye proclaimed and, Worf decided, the face was the only thing too
delicate about Kyla Dannelke.  For she was tall for a human woman,
nearly eye level with the grown Klingon, and when she stood her back was
straight and strong.  She had good shoulders, too, and large handsome
hands.  There was a strength about her that Worf found appealing Too bad
about her7@ce, he thought, peering again at the bright blue eyes small
nose, bland straight teeth, and full lips.  But then, human males were
far less particular than he.

The woman spied Alexander as the youngster gaped at the large graphic
hologram.  "Finally!   A spectator!   I knew my big eyeball would suck
someone in."  She leaned down conspiratorially to the startled boy. "All
the other scientists were only worried that their displays would be
accurate.

Concise.  Ed-u-cation-aL " She said this last as if it were supremely
distasteful, making Alexander grin.  "But not me!   That's too boring.

I went for the sensational-the big eye!   The window of the soul."

She fiddled with a remote device, and suddenly the great optical
hologram looked down at them and blinked.  Suddenly, the eyelid turned
into an antique window shade and snapped up, rolling around and around
as if broken.

Alexander giggled helplessly, and the happy sound touched Worf in a way
little else could.  This bright difficult boy was all he had left of his
mate, K'Ehleyr; his son's honest laughter was so like hers, it pulled at
his heart.

"Now, watch this," Dannelke said, and made another adjustment.

The display above their heads shifted as the great eye became
translucent.  Even Worf's lips parted in amazement as the blood vessels
feeding the organ pulsed and throbbed.

"Wow!"  Alexander breathed.  "You can see all the rods and cones."

He pointed up at the eye.  "And look-there's the lens inside, and way in
the back, the optic nerve!"

The scientist smiled in surprise, pale pink lips stretching wide to
reveal white even teeth.  "Hey, you know a lot about this."

"He took top honors in his elementary anatomy class," Worf said, trying
not to sound too proud.

"They covered four species."

Dr.  Dannelke looked at Worf squarely for the first time, and the
Klingon had the uncomfortable sensation that she was eyeing him as
blatantly as he had her not a moment before.  Then she bowed her head in
Alexander's direction.  "Pretty impressive.  You should be running this
display, not me.  Come over here."

Alexander glanced at Worf for approval; when his father nodded, he
hurried over to the scientist.  She handed him the remote and said,
"Okay, let's see what you can do with this."

As the boy studied the small device, Dr.  Dannelke turned to Worf and
said quietly, extending her hand, "Dr.  Kyla Dannelke."

Worf took the hand, careful to hold his strength in check.  Her grip was
weak-for a Klingon's-but impressively strong for a human female.  "So I
gathered," he said, nodding at her name on the holo display.  "I am
Lieutenant Worf.  And this is my son, Alexander."

She nodded, glancing back for a moment with unfeigned pleasure at the
boy, then turned back to Worf.  "When I realized how few of my
colleagues were interested in appealing to the children on board, I
decided my work was a natural.  His obvious interest is quite a reward!

Is he really good at the life sciences?"

"When he applies himself," Worf said honestly.

"But I think his central interest is in physics.  He wants to know how
starships fly.  I don't have to prod him in that area."

"Physics?"  She turned to study Alexander with amazement.

The boy was in complete concentration, his tongue tip peeking out
between his lips as he carefully used the remote to display the layers
of connective tissue that surrounded the eye.

"That's wonderful," Danneike said, but there was a note of clear
disbelief in her tone.

"Pardon me, Doctor," Worf said, "but you sound inordinately surprised."

Her pale skin flushed-a reaction that distracted Worf, as he watched
capillaries bloom, spreading flame across her white cheeks and neck.
"Well, it's just-I mean-" She stammered, then stopped, clearly
reconsidering what she had been about to say.

"Forgive me, but I've had only limited exposure to Klingons.  I would
have thought his interests would be in the ... less abstract sciences.
And perhaps in contact sports."

Worf pressed his lips tightly together as he felt his temper climb, but
controlled it with the ease of long practice.  He drew a long even
breath and said, "It is true that Klingons excel in those areas.
However, we have specialists in all fields of science, as must any race
who would maintain its technological expertise."

Something about her direct eye contact unsettled him, and with a sudden
flash of insight that came from being raised by humans, he realized she
was attracted to him-and growing more attracted as his temper flared.
The reaction was something he would have expected only from a Klixigon
female, and it startled him.

"I'm sure that is the case," Dr.  Dannelke agreed smoothly, her strange
blue eyes focused directly on his, her lips quirking faintly upward in a
coy halfsmile.  "However, no Klingon scientist agreed to join the
TechnoFair."

Worf felt blood rushing to his own face.  "You misunderstand.  To a
Klingon, revealing scientific findings to the public at large grants
knowledge to friend-and foe-alike.  The Klingon High Command considers
participating in the TechnoFair a security risk."

"Of course," she agreed-too easily.  "And the science that is your area
of expertise?"

He swallowed, realizing he'd been trapped into fulffiling her
stereotyped view of Klingons.  "I am in charge of tactical on the
bridge.  I am chief of security.  91

"Well," she said, still with that faint little halfsmile, "I'm sure no
one would even dream of violating the rules around here, knowing who
would come to escort them to the brig!"  She paused.  "Does Alexander
take after his mother?"

They both glanced at the child.  For one split second, Worf was caught
off-guard by the apparent non sequitur-and then it occurred to him:
Alexander's ancestry was visible even to this stranger's eye.  The boy
was paler, smaller, more delicate than his father, with less
well-defined skull ridges that betrayed his human blood.

Worf's eyes narrowed and he breathed slowly through his nose.  It was
not the first time he'd heard the kind of veiled innuendo he detected in
this woman's question.  He'd heard it all through his childhood, all
through his years of study in the Academy, even as he came up through
the ranks.  He was no longer used to it, though; he had certainly never
heard it since he'd come aboard this ship.

In the quietest voice he could manage, he murmured, "Dr.  Dannelke.  Are
you implying that, as a full-blooded Klingon, I am incapable of passing
on to my son the intelligence he needs to study the sciences?"

Her eyes widened sharply, but at the same time, she gave the impression
of being secretly-and vastlyamused.  "I wouldn't have the nerve,
Lieutenant."

Before Worf could think of a response, Alexander interrupted, crowing,
"Look, Father!   Look what I made it do!"

Both adults glanced up at the hologram as the giant eyeball slowly
blinked, then began to melt, dripping green and red ooze as the eye
stared about itself in horror.

"Yes, I'd say he was your son, all right," Danneike said, grinning.

Swallowing a Klingon expletive, Worf grabbed the boy's arm.  "Come
along, Alexander.  There are many more displays to see."

His son handed over the remote and thanked Dannelke politely; as Worf
hustled the youngster away from the stand while unsuccessfully
struggling with his resentment, Alexander looked up at him and said
happily, "That was fun, Father!   I'm glad we came.

And you know what?   I liked that lady!   She kind of reminded me of
Mother."

Worf could only swallow his outrage at his son's innocent statement.  As
calmly as he could, he growled, "That woman is nothing like your
mother!"

Moments earlier, as Worf and Alexander left to explore the fascinating
hologram, Deanna suddenly felt Will's hands on her shoulders.  He leaned
down to murmur softly, "Are you all right?"

She looked at him quizzically.

"Do you think you're the only one who can sense things?"  he teased.
"I've known you a long time, Deanna.  I can tell when you're troubled.
Let me counsel the counselor.  What is it?"

She patted his hand.  "You're a good friend, Will.

Thank you for noticing.  The last few days have been trying.  The
sadness aboard the ship, the tension of maintaining our schedule, the
captain's unhappiness with Ensign Ito's accident, the scientists'
anxiety about their projects and displays .  . ."  She sighed wearily.

"I found myself wishing I could have gone with Guinan to that relaxation
seminar."

"The bartenders' conference?"  he asked in amazement.

Deanna grinned and lowered her voice confidentially.  "She told me there
would be an entire day devoted to nothing but the 'llse of Chocolate as
an Entertainment Consumptive!"' Riker looked suitably impressed.  "Look,
why don't we just skip this carnival and go relax in private.  We'll
pull something nice out of the replicator, maybe watch a holo play. Some
hot chocolate.  A leisurely back-rub .  .

To another woman, it might have sounded like a planned seduction, but
Will was simply offering Deanna her favorite forms of relaxation.

46I don't dare.  Not after I made the captain go through with this.

I'll be all right.  But I'll hold you to that back-rub when this is
over!"

He smiled warmly.  "It's a deal."  Sensing a touch of anxiety and
heightened anticipation, Troi spotted Lieutenant La Forge.  Beside him
stood Commander Data.  She moved toward them, with Riker following.

"I must compliment you both on the setup of this mini-fair," she told
them.  "It's laid out very well.  It must've taken a lot of planning."

Geordi merely glanced at her, smiling distractedly as he scanned the
room, confirming what she'd sensed.

"Thank you, Counselor," Data said.  "The physical setup took a great
deal longer than either the planning or the design.  It only took me
three-point-five seconds to compute the room's layout; however, the
design took a good twelve-point-three-and I am still unsure that it has
the correct appeal."

"Data's thinking about a new career," Geordi teased.  "Convention design
coordinator.  But he's torn between that and furniture mover, since he
excels at both."

Data tilted his head and gave his friend a perplexed glance; he appeared
to be about to correct the engineer when Riker interrupted.

"You both did a superlative job in here.  I'm sure the captain will be
pleased."

"Thank you, Commander," Data replied.  "It would be nice if our endeavor
aided in improving his humor.

Are you sure he will attend?"

"He'll be here," Riker promised, just as Picard and Dr.  Crusher came
through Ten Forward's doors.  Spying Riker's tall form above the rapidly
growing crowd, the captain approached his first officer, as Beverly
accompanied him.

"Number One," Picard said.  "Counselor.  Congratulations Mr.  La Forge,
Mr.  Data.  Excellent.Job on short notice."  But even as the captain
mouthed the pleasantries, Deanna sensed his distraction, as he coped
with his own anger and grief over the lost crew member; the painful
conversation with Ito's parents still weighed on him.  "Is there some
reason you're all milling about here at this closed pavilion?"

. "We are awaiting the arrival of Dr.  Tarmud," Data informed the
captain helpfully.  "He is the inventor of Geordi's VISOR."

"Ahh," Picard murmured, in partial understanding, as he raised an
eyebrow in curious amusement at the others.  He glanced over at the
adjoining display, with its rotating eyeball hologram that continued to
fascinate Worf's son, and caught sight of the stately blond woman
attending the booth.

"That must be Dr.  Kyla Danneike," Crusher commented softly to the
group, as she nodded toward the fair-haired female.  "She's one of the
most foremost scientists in the field of reconstructive opthalmology.

She's currently working with a Vulcan expert on the development of
personal force fields that would be directly linked to ocular control."

Picard seemed impressed.  "Very interesting research.  Could be
breakthrough technology, especially useful to away teams, eh, Number
One?"

Riker nodded, looking with increased interest at the display-or was it
the scientist herself he found so fascinating, Deanna wondered, amused.
She resisted the urge to scan his emotional level to be sure.

"She's also working with Dr.  Tarmud on some of his current research,"
La Forge advised the Captain.

"Really?"  Picard said, no doubt surprised that his chief engineer was
that up-to-date on this particular branch of science.  "Well, she's
certainly made an impression on Worf's boy."

The entire group watched, amused, as the attractive scientist
entertained the Klingon youngster with her attention-getting holo
display.

"Who ended up being responsible for the refreshments?"  Picard wondered,
glancing at the perimeter of the mini-fair.  Deanna sensed that he'd
just realized he hadn't eaten all day.

"Ensign Alvarado," Riker offered.  "Her parents are professional
caterers.  She volunteered for the assignment."

That seemed to mollify the captain, as he said 	irritably, "Guinan
picked a damned inconvenient 	time to go on a religious retreat."

	The officers all exchanged guilty glances, but when Data
bep-an to interject a comment, Geordi nudged 	him, and the android
closed his mouth.  In the next 	second, the engineer grasped his
android friend's	I 	elbow and nodded toward the entrance of
Ten For	ward.  A tall, well-built, middle-age human entered the room
and approached the covered display they	I stood near.

	"Well, hello there," the sandy-haired stranger announced
cheerily.  He had a pronounced widow's peak 	and an open pleasant
face.

	Deanna recognized his accent as originating from 	the part of
Earth still incongruously termed New 	England.  He'd turned the word
there into a two-	I 	syllable construct that sounded more like
"they-uh."

	The diversity of accents from her father's planet always
amazed her.

	"Are you all waiting for me to start my display?"

	the stranger asked the group.  "I didn't mean to be late."  He
was only a little shorter than Will; he had 	friendly, bright,
hazel eyes, with a strong nose that gave his face an attractive
character. He turned on his display equipment and prepared his booth.

"Well, if you're Dr.  George Tarmud," Geordi said softly, "I've been
waiting for you."

The fiftyish scientist turned to the chief engineer, raising his
eyebrows expectantly.  "Have you been reading my latest papers?"

Deanna sensed Geordi was a little nonplused.  He touched his VISOR
self-consciously.  "Actually, sir, I just wanted to talk to you about
this.  The VISOR.  You are the George Tarmud that invented the VISOR,
aren't you?"

Tarmud startled them with a full-bodied, hearty laugh, and he clapped a
friendly hand on Geordi's shoulder.  "Oh, that," he said, smiling.  "I
came up with the design for the VISOR a long time ago, my friend, right
after I'd finished my post-graduate work.

It was just the beginning of my real work, barely the start.  It was
actually an undergraduate student of mine that finished the practical
design of the VISOR that you're wearing.  So, I stopped thinking of it
as mine a long time ago."

It didn't take an empath to realize how startled Geordi felt.  He
frowned, then finally said, "Well, since I'll never meet that student,
Dr.  Tarmud, I had kind 19 of hoped I could express my appreciation to
you.

"I'm certainly happy someone's getting some use out of that pilot
research," Tarmud said cheerily.

"But there's no reason to thank me.  The VISOR was just the first step
in a very long journey."  He turned on his displays, a wraparound visual
board with multiple screens; the sophisticated imagery included graphs
and filmed sequences.  Tarmud cocked his head to one side and eyed Data
speculatively.  "A journey that, I hope, will help me tread some of the
same paths as that eminent scientist, Noonian Soong.  I believe you must
be Commander Data."

Data glanced at Geordi and blinked too rapidly, a reaction that
indicated momentary confusion, Deanna knew.  In spite of the fact that
the android was the one individual aboard the ship she could not sense,
like most of his crewmates, Deanna didn't find Data hard to "read."

"Yes, that is correct," the android told the scientist quietly.

He gazed at Geordi again, his face registering bafflement.  "But I am
afraid I do not understand your reference to Dr.  Soong."

"As I said, it's a long journey, but at its end, I hope to design a
construct as physically capable as you, Commander."  He touched one of
his display screens, and each one blinked in turn until they were all
showing the same image-a blank, colorless, featureless humanoid form
rotating in space, then standing erect, then slowly walking.

Now everyone seemed cautiously interested.

"You're researching the development of androids?"

Beverly asked as she followed the images on the display screens.

"In a manner of speaking," Tarmud told her.  "I hope to make a
functional humanlike android that could be used to house the mental
engrams of a living person."

As he said this, the screens changed, showing scientific overlays of the
human brain, the pattern of engrams, and a complicated schematic for an
engramtransfer device.  The scene shimmered, changing to an animated
sequence of memory engrams being transferred to the featureless humanoid
form.

The officers stood in silence for a moment, then Crusher finally asked,
"For what purpose?"

"Why, to defeat death, of course," Tarmud told her, smiling.

Deanna nearly staggered from the collective reactions of her friends.
His statement shocked them, making them all relive their grief at their
crewmates recent death.  She had to blink and take a deep breath to get
a grip on their feelings.

She looked up to see that, eerily, the face of the android in the film
sequence had begun to change as the engrams were transferred into its
"brain."  Its features went from bland to animated, lifelike.  It opened
clear human eyes-not like Data's, but true eyes that showed emotion-and
smiled at Deanna as if it knew her, knew everything about her.  She felt
herself shiver and rubbed her arms.

"If I can perfect an android as sophisticated as Soong's," Tarmud
continued, nodding again at Data, with all the physical capabilities and
functional brain that his androids had, but without its own personality,
and use that android to house the mind-the soul-of a human, then that
human can be spared death.  Instead, after a full life, when the body
begins to decay, that mind can be saved transferred, if you will-into an
immortal, indestructible shell."

"Ah," Data said.  "Then you are attempting to build on the work of Dr.
Roger Korby-" Tarmud banished the thought with an impatient wave of his
hand.  "That was almost a century ago; Korby's androids were crude,
incapable of the level of sophisticated sensory input you experience,
Commander, and prone to eventual decay and obsolescence after a few
hundred years.  I'm speaking about bodies such as yours:
self-maintaining, selfrepairing-truly immortal."

For a moment, no one spoke, then Beverly asked, "How close are you to
finalizing your research?"

He gave another of those hearty laughs and said, Not nearly close
enough, I'm afraid.  The VISOR was one of my first studies, to help me
develop artificial sight for the android and work out certain neural
sequences.  I've got a fairly functional body now admittedly not quite
as good as Soong's, but getting there-but I'm having some problems with
the brain.

And, of course, the engram-transfer technology is still in the planning
stages."  He eyed Data again covetously.  "Oh, what I wouldn't give for
a few months to spend with you, my friend.  A few months in my lab-I
could learn so much, and shave years off my work."

.Deanna almost smiled as the group clustered around Data, Geordi
actually standing protectively in front of his mechanical friend.

"We don't exactly consider Commander Data a research subject, Dr.
Tarmud," Geordi said softly.

"He's a senior officer of our crew."

"Oh, I'm well versed in Mr.  Data's career," Tarmud assured him.

"And I meant no offense.  But for me as a scientist, the commander
represents the pinnacle to which I aspire.  You can't blame me for my
curiosity."

Deanna looked at Crusher, who, she realized, was still reacting to
Tarmud's desire to defeat death.

Troi was about to say something to her when Captain Picard said softly,
"That's an interesting theory, Dr.  Tarmud.  And, of course, every
medical doctor fights to defeat death every day.  However, as much as we
might hate it, death is a part of life.  If everyone knew there was an
immortal android waiting to spare them their inevitable end-it might
change humanity completely."

"Of course it will change humanity," Tarmud agreed brightly.  "For the
better!"

"I hardly think-" Picard began, but Tarmud interrupted heatedly.

"Captain, your reaction is typical-and, if you'll forgive me, almost
medieval in its superstitious insistence that we must yield to death
because that's the way it's always been.  Why?   Why yield to such a
curse, P05SE55ION

any more than we should yield to disease, to suffering, to poverty? Our
greatest thinkers could be preserved to serve the Universe forever! Each
of us could fulfill our destinies without the endless ticking clock that
follows our every hour.  Young victims of accidents could be saved to
live out the life they were intended to."

As a second wash of emotions buffeted Deanna, Beverly made a slight
strangled sound, then spun on her heel and left the area before Troi
could speak to her.  Picard's reaction, likewise, was so strong that the
Betazoid moved toward him, trying to think of something, anything she
might say to help him resolve his anger over Ito's death.

But one look at his face told her now was not the time.

"I m sorry," Tarmud said, visibly confused by everyone's reaction.

"My intent was only to make you think about your prejudices, not to
upset you."

"The crew has suffered a recent loss," Deanna explained gently.

"Our memorial service was just a short time ago in this very room.

I'm afraid it was a needless death."

"How tragic," Tarmud commiserated, his emotions clearly sincere.

"But, really, Counselor, all deaths are needless."

Troi glanced at Picard, saw him visibly struggling to contain his anger.
His jaw worked, then he said in a low voice, "Excuse me, Doctor, but I
can think of at least two Enterprise captains who would have disagreed
with you."

Before the scientist could respond, Picard's communicator beeped.

He slapped the device on his chest harder than was necessary and
growled, "Picard here!"

"Sorry to disturb you, Captain," said a female officer from the bridge,
"but there's a priority message coming in from the planet Vulcan."

"Send it to my ready room.  I'll be right there.

Picard out."  Then he pivoted, spine rigid, and strode away.

Geordi and Data sidled away from the display uncomfortably as Deanna
turned to her tall escort.

"Will, I think I'll take you up on that offer now.  Take me out of here,
please."

Riker nodded and escorted her away from the man who was determined to
defeat death.

As PICkard emerged from his ready room to the bridge, he straightened
his jacket and checked his appearance before calling for the message
from Vulcan.  He wanted to be sure his exterior wasn't as ruffled as his
interior felt.  Dr.  Tarmud must think him the most irascible captain
he'd ever met, but, frankly, Picard didn't care about that right now.

Assured that he appeared as captainlike as usual, he placed himself
before the small viewscreen and signaled for the call.

The screen went black.  The starkly simple logo of the planet Vulcan
appeared a scant moment later, then was abruptly replaced by the austere
features of an aged Vulcan male.

Master Scientist Skel?   Picard almost said, assuming that his
soon-to-be Enterprise passenger was contacting the ship to confirm the
pickup arrangements.

But before the words could pass his lips, the white-haired Vulcan-clad
in somber aubergine robes that marked him as a government
official-lifted his gnarled hand in the classic Vulcan salute.

"Captain Picard.  I am Senat, chief of planetary security.  You were
scheduled to pick up the scientist, Skel, from the Vulcan Science
Academy tomorrow at 0300."

Picard scanned the schedule for the next day on a small screen by his
hand, checking the hour and location.  "That's correct."

"It is because of Skel that we have sent this emergency call.  He is
missing; we believe he has been abducted and removed from Vulcan."

Picard frowned in confusion.  "I don't understand.

Who would do this?   And why?"  And why am I being told about a lone
missing scientist by the chief of planetary security?

The Vulcan paused as if considering how much to reveal.  "Skel's work on
force fields was a sideline of his original research; his primary field
of investigation was the study of alien artifacts discovered by a Vulcan
research team over eighty years ago.  Those objects exposed members of
that team, and subsequently, the population of this planet, to a deadly
disease which caused insanity, chaos, and often death.  We still do not
understand how the disease was spread, what the agents of infection are,
or how to control it once it is released.  Once the disease was
conquered, the objects were secured in a safe facility and have been the
subjects of study for eight decades.

Skel has been doing research on these agents and their containers for
over fifty years.  His predecessor studied them for thirty prior to his
involvement.  We maintained strict security at the research lab that
held the device show ever, the origins and the danger of the artifacts
have become obscured over the years.  The information I have given you I
learned myself only a few hours ago.  The security around the artifacts
became more and more localized, and eventually geared toward the general
population.  Obviously, securing anything from Viilca-ns is quite
different from securing it against unscrupulous outside forces.  Now,
Skel-and the objects he studied-are gone."

Well, that explains your involvement, Picard thought wryly.

Nothing like securing the barn afterward.  "You're sure it was
abduction?"

"He had an appointment with his healer and never arrived.  He has never
missed one before, never even been late.  She immediately initiated a
search.  There was no trace of him to be found-except for the lingering
residue of a phaser blast in his laboratory, which was picked up by our
tricorders."

"Do you think he was killed?"

The Vulcan shook his head slightly.  "No, there was not enough residual
energy to account for it, and his healer, with whom he was mentally
linked, reports no sense of his death.  That is why we believe he was
taken.  In his childhood, Skel was one of the original victims of this
disease.  His knowledge of these objects is invaluable.  It would be
logical for whoever wished to steal the artifacts to take the galaxy's
sole expert on them as well."

"Do you have any suspicions or leads?"

"Only that they carried Federation phasers."

That wasn't much to go on.  Phasers were no harder to obtain through
illegal means than any other type of weapon.

"And," the Vulcan continued, "only five ships left Vulcan during the
time frame of Skel's disappearance.

A Federation starship, two Vulcan science vessels, a robot supply
barge-and a small Ferengi runabout."

Picard nodded, not liking the probable scenario.

"Any scheduled flight plans from that runabout?"

"No, but we have been able to trace its ion'trail until it left the
system.  I will send you the coordinates, of course.  I will also send
you all the information I have uncovered about Skel's artifacts.

However, most of the original information was taken along with the
objects.  After eighty years, the duplicate material has become archived
and hard to retrieve."

The captain frowned, but he wasn't surprised.  Even meticulous record
keepers like the Vulcans could become buried in data after all that
time.  In the meantime, the crew would be able to grid a probable route
for the Ferengi shil) and start searching.  He considered communicating
with the Ferengi homeworld, but decided against it.

"As soon as we receive your information," he told the Vulcan, "we'll
start looking.  I'll keep you informed."

"As I will you, Captain, if we receive any new word, or ransom demand.
Another thing," the Vulcan said as Picard prepared to sign off.  "The
Federation has a top-secret file regarding those artifacts.

I have requested that they transmit it to you for your perusal.

We are hoping the information in it will help you should you find Skel's
abductors and his research subjects.  However, the disease outbreak had
a far less significant impact on the Federation.  They are having
similar problems retrieving their files and, I suspect, may not add much
to our store of data."

"Thank you, Chief Senat.  Any information anyone can give us on this
problem can only help us.  Live long and prosper."  He returned the
Vulcan salute that began their conversation, and the transmission ended.

Skel fought the healing trance.  His brain struggled to keep his
consciousness submerged so that his muscles and the connective tissue
surrounding his skeleton could recover from the terrible force of the
energy blast he had absorbed from point-blank range, but the Vulcan
could not wait-dared not wait.  The urge to run, to flee, was more
powerful than his body's need to recover.  Even now another part of his
mind gave warning.

BE CAUTIOUS MOVE SLOWLY.  YOUR ENEMY IS NEAR.

His mind tried to lure him back into the healing trance, but he could no
longer submit to it.  He needed to know where he was, who had taken him,
why they had done so, and-most importantly-where they had taken the
artifacts.

He opened his eyes the merest slit, so much like the boy who'd peered
through the narrow opening in his bedroom doorway that the analogy
rattled him.  His vision was blurred, too blurred to make sense of the
alien setting.

"I see you are back with us again, Master Scientist Skel."  That
annoying voice was the one familiar thing in this whole tableau; it was
the same grating noise he'd heard just before he'd been rendered
unconscious.

Skel blinked as his vision began to clear and slowly turned his aching
head in the speaker's direction, first taking the time to scrutinize his
surroundings.  This s was no doubt the interior of a small space vessel:
aging, ill-kept, but in warp drive, judging from the hum vibrating
through his body.  A Ferengi runabout, Skel judged, given the fact that
his calves, ankles, and feet hung off the edge of the uncomfortable rank
smelling cot.

The planetary origin of his abductor was confirmed when his gaze tracked
to the left and settled upon a lumpish meter-high figure that coalesced
into an adult male Ferengi.  A Ferengi, Skel noted with a distant trace
of alarm, gripping a phaser.  At the sight of his waking captive, the
Ferengi growled threateningly and raised the weapon.  Skel immediately
lowered his gaze.

Never look into their eyes, my child ...

But he dared an utterance.  "I assume we are no longer on Vulcan."

"Very logical," the Ferengi taunted in his grating, nasal voice.

The modulations of this species' language had always irritated Skel's
sensitive hearing-made doubly sensitive now by the effects of a full
phaser strike.  "Very scientific.  And very correct: We are no longer on
Vulcan.  And you are no longer in control of what may be the most
valuable pair of objects in the galaxy."

The weapon wielder moved away from Skel toward a Ferengi-size console
where another, even shorter male stood.  Skel blinked, forcing his mind
to wake up and perform its job, demanding that his body respond to
whatever the brain might order it to do.  But he had not had enough time
to heal.  He gazed at his two captors, realizing, that he was quite
helpless.  At the moment, escape was logically impossible.

"Your research," the taller Ferengi prodded.  "It appears to have been
going quite well."

Skel merely gazed silently at them; the Ferengi took his silence as
confirmation and continued.

"You will explain to my brother, Nabon, and myself-Dervin, the DaiMon of
this ship-about this force field research," the Ferengi said sternly.

"You will explain everything.  And then we will be business partners."

"if you have kidnapped me to learn of my research," the Vulcan said
tiredly, "you have planned poorly indeed.  I would have revealed all my
pertinent discoveries at the TechnoFair.  You had but to come and you
would have learned all you wish."

"But then we would have to share."  The Ferengi spat the word out as if
it were the most loathsome concept.  "No, Master Scientist, that is not
our interest.  You will give your research to us alone.  We will be
partners.  Consider this an opportunity for your species to learn more
about the philosophy of profit making."

"That is not possible, as you well know.  My research is for the
advancement of knowledge, of understanding, .  ."  He trailed off.  Of
understanding the small compartments, the artifacts that hold the deadly
disease.  The artifacts ...

Skel sat up smoothly, in one swift move, startling both Ferengi.

Dervin, the armed one, straightened as he clutched the phaser more
tightly and moved shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother.  It was a
simple matter to ignore pain, even disorientation, once one could focus
on something significant.  Skel was focused now, and the two Ferengi
must have realized it, because they both seemed much more wary.  Skel
was physically more imposing and a great deal more powerful than either
of them.

"What have you done with the artifacts?"  He asked calmly, softly,
rationally-but the Ferengi heard the subtle undercurrent of danger in
the question and aimed the phaser at Skel's heart.

"The artifacts?   You mean, your treasures?   Why, they are as safe as
can be, Master Scientist.  Where could they be safer than in your
presence?"

The two aliens stepped away from each other to reveal two palm-size
black receptacles lying on the console-unshielded, exposed for the first
time in almost a century to the open air.

To unwitting victims.

Only ninety years of discipline and training in Vulcan philosophy kept
Skel from gasping aloud in terror as he stared at the objects of his
research for the first time without the protection of multiple fail-safe
force fields.  How benign, how passive, how insignificant they
appeared-and yet how elegant and lovely in their simplicity: the dim
flickering light inside the Ferengi vessel reflected upon them, causing
a shimmering play of rose and turquoise mother-of-pearl highlights to
dance across their shining black surfaces.

Skel immediately clamped down on the surge of powerful emotion.

He was a Vulcan.  He would handle this logically, emotionlessly ... for
only through calm thoughtful logic could he solve this problem.

And the galaxy was depending on him to solve it here and now.

"It is totally unsafe to house the artifacts as you have them," Skel
said in the most rational of tones.

"To expose them to a normal environment, without protective force fields
around them, will cause them to degrade.  In only a few hours, they will
deteriorate completely and be worthless.  They must be protected if they
are to maintain ... their value."  He did not look at the Ferengi as he
said that, because to look at them would be to see the artifacts so
close by ... to see his father's grinning face.

"I told you, Dervin," the smaller Ferengi, Nabon, hissed at his brother.
He was speaking softly, but Skel heard him clearly.  "I told you they
kept these behind force fields to protect them."

"'To protect them from theft, " Dervin said, sneering, "as though any
Vulcan would have the sense to steal them.  He's just trying to keep us
away from them.  Keep us from finding out what secret they hold inside."

Dervin was indeed correct about that, Skel mused.

He would do anything to protect these aliens from what was inside those
artifacts; he would even give his life.  But the cultural perspective of
the Ferengi would never permit them to believe that.

"You could be correct, DaiMon," Skel said with the same calm tone, "but
if you are wrong, you could be destroying the very treasure you seek."

Dervin's face ran a gamut of repellent emotions as the Ferengi tried to
rationally work the problem out.

Instead of coming up with an answer, though, he merely fired more
questions at Skel.  "The Vulcans have less security than any other race.
So why are these small things so jealously guarded?   Tell us that,
Master Scientist.  If you do not, I will let them deteriorate-if that is
in fact what they will do-and watch all your years of study go to waste!
What is in these containers?"

"Brother, listen to me," Nabon implored.  "If the Vulcans saw fit to
keep these things secured, they must be dangerous.  The Vuleans have no
interest in profit.

They must have been safeguarding the objects, either to keep them safe
from their world, or to keep their world safe from the objects.

It can do no harm to secure them.  It will even prevent the Vulcan from
trying any mind-trickery on us to try and steal them back."

How eminently logical, Skel thought, admiring the smaller Ferengi's
rationale.  Interestingly enough, Nabon seemed terrified of the objects,
as if he already suspected the danger they presented.

Dervin considered his brother's words, but only for a moment.

Impulsively, he grabbed one of the containers with his free hand and
brought it up to his face, staring at the alien script engraved across
it writing the Vulcans had yet to translate, except for a short phrase
that told them little.  Baffled by the alien language, Dervin shook the
palm-size object, holding it near his ear.  It took all his Vulcan
control for Skel to hold his ground and not lurch forward to wrest the
shelllike object out of the Ferengi's abusive hands.

"Dervin!"  Nabon protested.  "What are you doing?"

"I hear nothing inside," the DaiMon insisted.

"This thing could be part of some bizarre Vulcan ritual, and hold
nothing of value at all.  We must see what is inside, Brother!"

"Stop this at once," Skel insisted.  "You will harm-"

"Harm what, Vulcan?"  Dervin demanded.  "This trinket?"  While still
holding the rifle in one hand, the angry Ferengi used his free hand to
try to pry open the two halves of the artifact.  "Damage this toy? This
religious object?"

Skel contemplated tackling the Ferengi then, but the muzzle of the
energy weapon was still aimed directly at Skel's heart.  If Der-yin's
reactions were good and he managed to kill the Vulcan-then the
receptacles would be left in the fumbling hands of these two ignorant
thieves.

"Dervin, stop!"  Nabon insisted.  He reached out and grappled with his
brother, frantically trying to wrest the artifact away.  "There's no
point in damaging it!   We must make him tell us how to operate it!"

Skel watched, waiting for an opportunity to join the melee without
risking his own death, as the two Ferengi wrestled for the weapon and
the artifact at the same time.  Why doesn't it open?   Why doesn't it
release its deadly cargo?

Yet as the brothers struggled, Skel realized that their warring forms
were limned by a faint unearthly light: beyond them, lying placidly on
the console, the untouched artifact had begun to glow from its own
internal light-a light that grew brighter and brighter as a seam of
brilliant color gleamed from the slowly parting shells.

RUN!   RUN, MY CHILD, RUN!

The voice was stronger than at any time in his life, but this time he
could not obey.  No, Mother, I cannot run.  For I am in space, and there
is nowhere to go.

As the small inconspicuous artifact slowly opened, Skel averted his eyes
and seized his most desperate opportunity, lunging for the battling
Ferengi and the weapon they held.  As soon as his hands closed around
the phaser, the high-pitched whine of its discharge sang through the
small area.  The blast scarred the ceiling, shattering a light fixture,
charring tiles, then swung wildly and hit the control console, exploding
it in a dangerous shower of sparks and metal debris.

The errant phaser beam streaked across the cramped quarters, searing a
black diagonal across Skel's cot, bisecting a chair whose two halves
clattered to the deck.  Alarms blared; the Ferengi shrieked, all against
the pulsating glow from the opening Pandora's box.  Yet no warning
sounded louder than that which shrilled silently in Skel's brain: RUN,
MY CHILD!   RUN ...

On the Enterprise's bridge, Geordi La Forge decided that the only time
he really appreciated the vastness of space was when he was forced to
search for something in it.  The enormity of the task was punctuated by
the diminutive size of the sought-after object: a Ferengi runabout.

The ion trail the ship had left after departing Vulcan indicated the
general direction of its flight, and Picard had them plotting search
patterns around the focus of that trail; they'd been scanning for hours.

"Any progress, Mr.  La Forge?"  Picard asked behind him.

An improvement, Geordi thought; this time, Picard had waited almost half
an hour before repeating the question.  The engineer glanced at Data,
who sat beside him at the console they shared, as together they adjusted
the scanners, trying to pick up something anything-that might be out
there.  But the android could only offer a short shake of his head.

La Forge sighed.  "Sorry, sir.  We're still scanning.  it may be best to
move the ship again.  Maybe keep moving along at impulse and extend the
scanners as far as they'll go.  We might miss something that way, but
it'll give us the best range."

Picard turned to the helm.  "Make it so, Mr.  Braxton."

"Aye, sir."

Geordi doubted this new move would make any difference; his normal
optimism was fading fast.

"Captain," Commander Riker interjected, "it's pretty late.  This crew
has already worked a double shift, and between the memorial service, the
TechnoFair in Ten Forward, and this ongoing search, I think they've been
stretched pretty thin.  I'd like to suggest a change in crew, so that
the senior staff can get some sleep."

Picard considered it, scowling.  In times of crisis, Geordi knew, the
captain preferred to have his most experienced crew around him, but
Riker was right.

They were all dead on their feet.

Before Picard could respond, Worf interjected, "Excuse me, Captain.

I believe you should see this.

We are getting an unusual reading at the periphery of our scanner
range."

Picard moved at once to the Klingon's tactical station as Geordi and
Data both brought up Worf's readings on their screens.  "Is that a
distress signal?"

La Forge wondered aloud.

"Nor precisely," Data replied.  "It is an energy pulse-perhaps a tractor
beam or something similar-that is cycling on and off."  He frowned.

"But it is definitely coming from a ship."

"Could it be a code?"  Picard asked, as he squinted at Worf s tactical
screen and lightly fingered the controls.

"I have already cross-referenced the pulse pattern with all known codes,
sir," Data said, "but there is no match.  The computer suggests that it
is a malfunctioning generator."

Picard glanced over his shoulder at Geordi.  "Can we pinpoint the
location of those pulses?"

"Already done, sir," La Forge assured him.  "I've sent the coordinates
to helm.  Whatever is sending that signal is still moving, but we'll
catch up.  We should be alongside in less than an hour."

"Very good."  Picard moved back to his chair.

"Let's keep our position onscreen, and as soon as you can get a make on
that ship, I want to hear about it.

With the way our luck's been going, we'll find ourselves chasing a
broken-down robot barge with a faulty tractor beam."

La Forge and Data exchanged another glance, then went back to adjusting
their scanners.

Nabon's sensitive ears ached from the scream of the alarms as the ship
attacked smoldering bits of debris and extinguished the many small
blazes.  The noise, smoke, and confusion grew too much for the younger
Ferengi, who suddenly lost his grip on the phaser and his courage, all
at the same time.

He scrambled out from under the melee and dashed for cover as his
brother and the Vulcan continued to fight for the weapon and the small
alien device.  As he crouched behind the surviving chair, Nabon realized
that the second device, the one sitting on the counter, was almost
completely open.  He stared at it in terror.

He could see the glow of power coming from within the small shell-like
container.  It pulsed as if alive.

Without realizing he was doing it, he crept closer to the container.
When he was close enough, he peered inside the strange thing.

POWER.

A purely electrical " jolt of power surged through his body, causing him
to cry out-a sound that was lost amid the tumult.  For the briefest of
instants, pure horror overwhelmed him-the horror of a mind, a soul,
consumed by something greater than itself, followed by a hellish hunger
that could never be sated.

Abruptly, the terror and craving subsided, entirely forgotten.  In its
place was contentment, belonging, peace.  Nabon stared into the heart of
the shell and saw only a lovely swirling mist, brightly lit from within,
as though the mist surrounded a source of power.  Why had he feared such
beauty?   He looked closer.  The colors of the pulsing power were
enticing, almost hypnotic.

Both his brother, Dervin, and the Vulcan still struggled for the energy
pistol, but Nabon knew that the only reason the Vulcan hadn't succeeded
in pulling it away from his brother was because he was concentrating on
saving the artifact from damage.

Dervin was right; the alien devices must be both valuable and powerful,
but Nabon sensed the Vulcan was right, too.  They would bring no profit
to them, only grief.

(No, no-the artifacts must be protected at all costs .  . ) Nabo'n shook
off the oddly intrusive thought and continued his original reverie: he
had begged his brother not to pursue this theft.  But once Dervin had
uncovered the old data on an abandoned vessel they had salvaged, an
ancient report that referred to the valuable artifacts brought to
Vulcan, he would not be swayed.  Nabon didn't want to think about how
much latinum had been spent to enable them to get past the Vulcan
security devices that had guarded the artifacts, nor how many months of
planning.  Dervin's ambition was powerful; it was possible he would
fight to the death for these artifacts, and bring nothing but ruin to
them all.  But if Nabon could get the devices away from him, put them in
an airlock, send them into the vacuum of space(No, never.

They must be cared for, like the jewels they are ... ) His brother would
hate him, disenfranchise him, but they would live.  Nabon was willing to
risk anything, even poverty, if it meant he might save his and his
brother's life.

Nabon crept over to the command console and reached into a compartment
beneath it.  Pulling out another hand-held phaser-which, like the first,
had been stolen at great risk from a poorly guarded Federation cache-he
carefully set it to stun ... then reconsidered. Vulcans massed so much
more than Ferengi; would the same blast that could render his brother
unconscious fell a mature Vulcan male-or merely remove his logical
inhibitions and give full rein to his anger?

Dervin must've seen what he was doing, because he shouted, "Hurry,
Nabon!   He has the artifact!   Fire the weapon!   Kill him if you
must!"

At that moment the Vulcan turned his head, staring directly into Nabon's
eyes, and what the Ferengi saw there chilled his blood.  Skel's dark
slanted eyes bore into him with fearsome intensit This must be Vulcan
rage.  Y@his must be what happens when they lose their precious
emotional control ...

"No!"  Nabon shouted, unsure of what he protested.

"No!   You won't!   You will not!"  He squeezed the trigger.

A bright eye-paining blast engulfed both the Vulcan and Nabon's brother;
for a bright millisecond, both turned to regard him in surprise.  Dervin
fell to the deck first, followed-a harrowing second later-by the Vulcan.

Both had gripped the rifle, which clattered to the deck beneath them.
Nabon darted over and, gasping, dug the weapon out from under the
unconscious bodies.  But the small black shell was still gripped tightly
in the Vulcan's hand.

Nabon pried the artifact from him, painfully extracting the thing finger
by finger.  Then he turned, ready to slam the lid down on the other and
take that as well.  To his surprise, the artifact on the counter was
closed again and sealed, showing no signs of inner light.

He grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket with the other one, then
leaned over his brother.

Dervin was alive, facedown, breathing easily thanks to the prop provided
by his prominent orbital ridges.

Oh, he'd be furious by the time he came to, totally furious.

Nabon shook his head at the prospect of facing his brother's wrath-but
he knew he was doing the right thing.  He would save them from his
brother's insatiable greed and poor judgment.

A sudden spasm of hunger shook him-a hunger such as Nabon had never
felt, one that tormented not his belly but his mind.  For the most
fleeting of seconds, a sudden image crossed his mind: himself, standing
over his unconscious brother with the phaser, lifting it high above his
head, bringing it down on Dervin's thick stupid skull again and again
and again to the spattering of blood and brain ...

"No." Nabon wheezed, his entire arm trembling as he suppressed the urge
to lift it and the rifle high.  "He is my brother.  . .

The sensation passed as abruptly as it had appeared; Nabon opened his
grip and let the weapon clatter to the deck.  At the same instant, the
Vulcan moaned softly and stirred.  Nabon swallowed back the panic and,
clutching the phaser, backed away quietly as the alien pushed himself
into a sitting position.

Blinking, the tall Vulcan peered around, obviously searching for the
only thing of any importance to him.

The Vulcan turned his head, once more staring into Nabon's eyes.

"Bring them back," Skel demanded, his lower lip curling in a most
un-Vulcanlike fashion.

"Give them to me.  They are mine."

(Yes, give them back.)  (We must be protected at all costs.)  "No,"
Nabon whispered.  "This is a trick.  A Vulcan telepathic trick!   Get
out of my head!"

Shoot him, Nabon, he urged himself.  You have the phaser, you have the
opportunity-usethem!Now!Kill the.  Vulcan!

(The Vulcan must not be harmed.)  Yet, try as he might, he could not
change the setting from stun to kill, could not even manage to squeeze
the trigger-as if the Vulcan gripped him even from this distance.  With
a terrified yelp, he spun on his heels and raced for the nearest
airlock.  Even as he fought with himself to increase the stun setting on
the phaser, he could hear the quiet sounds of the Vulcan scrambling to
his feet and setting off in pursuit.

"It's true we're well within scanner range now, sir," U Forge admitted,
"but I can't really tell you what's going on.  The readings are chaotic.
There are two Ferengi and another reading that I'm pretty sure could be
Vulcan.  But there seems to be complete confusion on board!   It looks
like the ship is just moving along on a preset course-to where I can't
say-while at least two of the people on board are running all over the
ship!"

Picard considered that for a moment.  "Any chance of beaming the Vulcan
out of there?"

"Not at this range, sir.  We'll have to get a lot closer."

Picard nodded.  "Increase speed to maximum."

"You think they might have been exposed to the disease?"  Riker asked
softly.

Picard turned and gave him a pointed look.  "We don't know enough about
it.  The Ferengi are ... an excitable people.  Anything could be going
on.  The Vulcan could be fighting them for possession of the artifacts.
We'll just have to wait until we're closer."

As he huddled in a storage closet, Nabon reflected sourly on the amount
of damage a few phaser blasts had done to the workings of their small
ship.  The random shots had hit the engineering control panel and
disrupted almost every single function of the ship.  Only with enormous
physical effort had he "It is traveling under inertia," Worf told his
captain as they drew closer to the object of their pursuit.  "The
shields are down.  Its tractor beam is still pulsing, but we can easily
stay out of its path."

"Well, it's certainly a Ferengi vessel," Picard remarked, pondering the
ship's odd situation.  He wished he knew more about the complexity and
danger of the disease-harboring artifacts.  He didn't want to risk his
crew unnecessarily, but neither could he leave those deadly objects with
unscrupulous Ferengi thieves.

"It's also the same vessel that left Vulcan after Skel's disappearance,"
Riker told him.  "The markings on the vessel match the information the
Vulcans gave us."

"Mr.  Worf, why isn't the ship using power to travel?"  Picard asked.

"Unknown as of yet," Worf replied.  "According to scanners they have
power to spare.  There has been serious internal damage, possibly from
phaser fire.

Life support is functional, but everything else is either off line or
marginal."

"How many on board?"  Riker asked the Klingon.

"There were two Ferengi, but one is dead.  The other is alive and on the
move.  Several areas of the ship are sealed off.  There is one Vulcan."

"Alive?"  Picard wondered aloud.

"Alive and conscious," Worf confirmed.

"A Vulcan could've easily killed that Ferengi to save his own life,"
Riker surmised, "or to protect the artifacts."

"Could have," Picard agreed, "but-would have?   I don't know.  This is a
scientist, Number One, not a Starfleet officer."  Picard turned to the
ship's counselor.  "Thank you for joining us, Deanna.  I know it's been
a very long day for you.  But can you sense anything aboard the ship?"

The Betazoid stared at the drifting ship for a long quiet moment.
"Terrible confusion.  Fear.  The gamut of emotions is nearly chaotic. Of
course, the Ferengi are an excitable people, but this is a magnified
emotional outlay even for one of them."

"Can you sense the Vulcan?"

She nodded.  "He's there; I sense his calm, his sense of purpose, his
center of logic.  It's as if he's in the eye of a hurricane of emotion.
It must be terrible for him."

Nabon rubbed his face roughly.  It was covered with sweat, even as he
shivered with the cold.  He was sick, he knew-sick at heart.  Sick in
his soul.  But he now understood the value of the artifacts.  They had
infected him somehow, given him some disease.  He was thoroughly
confused.  The Vulcan Skel had supposedly been working on force field
technology, not bioagents, but the little shells had given Nabon some
ailment.

Could it be fatal9 He trembled.  It didn't matter; Der-yin-his brother,
his friend, his DaiMon-was dead.

In his flight from Skel, Nabon had circled completely through the small
ship, barely staying ahead of the crafty alien, frantically trying to
seal him behind bulkheads.  Every time, the being who had once been
their prey escaped.

And now Nabon was back in engineering, standing over the cooling body of
his brother.  When he first touched him, Nabon feared it had been his
phaser shot that had somehow ended his brother's life, since Dervin lay
facedown on the deck, almost exactly where Nabon had left him.

Then Nabon had gently turned the corpse over and seen the savage
bruising that covered his brother's face, chest, and lower body.  Every
inch of Dervin's face and frontal lobes had been crushed as if struck
repeatedly with a heavy blunt object.

A phaser?

No, no-I never would have harmed my own brother...

But then, he had at first thought he'd shoved the artifacts out the
airlock.

No.  No.  This murder had been carried out by someone physically
stronger.  Dervin's savaged body told him the frightening truth:
Whatever disease was carried by these strange shell-like objects, they
had infected the Vulcan.  Skel was mad, rampaging around the ship, no
longer interested in retrieving his precious artifacts.

All he wanted to do now was indulge his dark fantasies on Nabon.

It was a horrible disease indeed that could turn a peace-loving Vulcan
into a crazed killing machine.

No one deserved to die like this, not even his beloved brother.

Soon, Nabon knew, he would be as crazy as the Vulcan, and he would no
longer have the sense to run from his inevitable fate.  The lapses into
violent fantasies were becoming more frequent-soon they would overtake
his conscious mind completely.

He looked at Dervin's destroyed face again, and instantly images of the
Vulcan pounding the life out of his DaiMon came unbidden to his mind.
Images so real, so intense, he shuddered from the brutal force of
them-despite the simultaneous thrill of pleasure that arose in him.

This was too terrible a disease to foist on any people, even your
enemies.

It was good, Nabon reflected, that they would all die here and no one
would ever be exposed to it again.

Picard frowned at Counselor Trois report; he didn't like the way things
sounded.  Still, the Vulcan seemed normal.  And who knew about the
Ferengi?

Troi might sense that kind of chaos from them over a business deal.  He
didn't say anything to the crew, but Picard decided that if the disease
had already spread aboard the Ferengi vessel, he'd destroy it with all
hands aboard-including the Vulcan scientist-to prevent infecting the
Enterprise.  The political repercussions would be horrendous, but he
couldn't worry about that in the face of a disease that hadn't been
cured in eighty years.

"What about an away team?"  Riker, standing at Picard's side, asked.

"Let's wait," Picard decided.  "I don't want to risk exposing our people
to danger or disease.  We will not bring the ship- aboard for the same
reason.  Mr.  Worf, get a tractor beam on that vessel and slowly bring
it to a halt."  He touched his comm badge.  "Picard to Crusher."

"Here, Captain."

"Make sure a quarantine unit is available, Doctor.

We may have to beam several patients into it."

"Aye, Captain.  We'll be ready."

"Mr.  La Forge."  Picard turned toward the engineer.

"Do we have the isolation units ready for the artifacts?"

"Yes, sir," La Forge assured him.  "Coordinates are in the computer. All
we need to do now is find them."

That, at least, was reassuring.  The medical quarantine units should be
able to safeguard the rest of the crew from any infectious agents.  And
the isolation units for the artifacts were doubly secured.

"Captain," Worf interjected, "the Ferengi vessel is now stopped.

And I think I have managed to establish a communication link with it.

Their communications are damaged, but I have routed a message through
some auxiliary boards at their comm station.  What I do not understand
is why they did not take the time to do it themselves."

"Perhaps we can ask them that, Mr.  Worf.  On screen, please."

Nabon turned as he heard the sound of an override sequence click and
engage; the doors to engineering opened narrowly, then halted.  But the
crack was wide enough for a slender Vulcan to step through.  As soon as
Skel set foot on the bridge, the partially opened doors sealed shut
behind him.

Nabon edged away from the battered body of his brother until his back
pressed up against the cabinet that supported the damaged control
console.  Terror surged through him, a terror like none he'd e er v
known in his short profitless life.  The Vulcan seemed abnormally tall
and severe in his black tunic.  His hands clasped a small device-a
weapon, Nabon thought at first until he recognized a small stasis
chamber from the runabout's storage.

To his surprise, the Vulcan stopped and remained near the doorway.

"There is nowhere else to go," Skel said quietly, logically. "There is
no reason to continue the chase.  Give me the artifacts, and it will be
ended."

Nabon trembled.  All ended for me, as I join MY brother at your killing
hands.

"Give them to me, Nabon," the Vulcan said, his tone all too normal, even
kindly.

The Ferengi's tortured mind worked furiously.  If I do what he wants, he
will be distracted.  Then I might escape.  It was madness to think that,
but he was mad now, wasn't he?   He reached into his pocket and pulled
out the two artifacts, once again tightly sealed.

He placed them on the floor and pushed them to the middle, then
retreated back to his brother's body where it lay beneath the console.

Cautiously, the Vulcan approached the artifacts, then picked them up and
returned to his place by the doors, as if he feared Nabon as much as the
Ferengi feared him.

Skel studied the artifacts.  "They are still sealed," he said, and his
voice sounded relieved-if a Vulcan's voice ever revealed such feeling.
He opened the small stasis chamber, placed the shells inside, then
activated the device.  The energy field awoke with a hum-at which point,
Skel released an audible sigh.

If my foolish brother had only done that simple thing, Nabon thought
sadly, he might still be alive.  But now it is too late to secure the
monster.  He has his treasure.  There is nothing now to stop him from
killing me.  Desperately, Nabon hunkered under the console and thought
of himself battling the Vulcan hand-tohand.  The ridiculous image
provoked a sudden edgy giggle.  If he were still alive, Dervin might
have attempted such foolishness, but Nabon knew his limits.

"There is no need for you to hide from me, Nabon," the Vulcan said
calmly.  "The artifacts are contained.  We are safe again.  Together we
can effect repairs to the ship's communications relay and send a
distress signal so that we might be rescued."

Nabon blinked and tried to concentrate.  What kind of trickery was this
Vulcan up to now?   His father had always said they were the most
foolish of people, having no interest in profit, warfare, or even
mating.

living if they cared for none of those things.  Skel had not left his
position by the door, which puzzled Nabon.  It was as if the Vulcan were
being deliberately nonthreatening.

"You don't want to repair the ship's communications," Nabon grumbled.
"You just want me to come peaceably-to my death!"

The Vulcan paused, and Nabon flinched, fearful that some
incomprehensible mental probe would snake into his brain.  "Why would I
kill you, Nabon?   I only pursued you to obtain the artifacts that are
my research.  There is no logical reason why I would attempt to harm
you, except self-defense."

Nabon's head pounded.  What was he talking about, (Yes, give them ...
Nabon could never figure out why they bothered logic?   The Ferengi
lifted the body of his brother, still lying facedown on the deck, and
pushed it over on its back so the Vulcan could see the smashed face, the
broken skull.  "Where is the logic in this, Vulcan?   Yet here it is. My
brother.  Dead-murdered at your hand!"

Skel took a short step back, as if the sight startled him, even with all
his discipline.  "Nabon.  I assure you.  I am not responsible for this.
I left your brother here to pursue you through the ship.

You saw me gaining on you, and fled.  When would I have had time to do
this?   There must be someone else on board.

Unless you did this."

Nabon's eyes widened as he stared horrified at the Vulcan.  "Me!

Why would I do this to my own brother, my DaiMon?"

You threw the rifle out the airlock, remember?

Remember?

No!   Nabon cried out silently at the intrusive thoughts.  I can't
remember...

"I do not understand the causes of violence among people so accustomed
to strong emotions," the Vulcan was saying.  "But it was clear to me you
were furious with him.  If there are only three of us on board, and I
did not kill him, then logically-" Nabon shook his head woefully.  "You
killed him.

My only brother.  My DaiMon."

Skel had opened his mouth to counter the charge when a hailing whistle
sounded loudly in the stillness, making Nabon jump.  For a second he
thought, The Vulcan is right, there is someone else on board!

But then he realized what it was as a computerized voice interrupted:
"You are being hailed by the Federation Starship Enterprise.  Please
reply."

We are saved!   Nabon thought hopefully.  Then, immediately after, he
thought, The disease!   That ship will hold hundreds of beings,
families, children....

They will be exposed to insanity and terrible death.  He gazed at his
brother's brutalized body.  I cannot allow that to happen.  Not even to
a Federation ship.

(But the artifacts ... the artifacts must not be harmed ... ) The
automated hail answered again while Nabon's brain warred with itself
between self-sacrifice and self-survival.

Picard turned to his viewscreen as the image of the drifting ship
blinked off and a static-filled picture of an unstaffed Ferengi control
room appeared.  He had Worf end the automated hail and stepped forward
to address the crew himself.  "This is Captain Picard of the Federation
vessel Enterprise.  Is there anyone who can acknowledge our hail?"

There was only silence and the eerie image of the vacant cabin.

"According to scanners," Data said quietly, "everyone aboard is within
range of that screen-the surviving Ferengi, the deceased one, and the
Vulcan.  Also, scanners indicate that there is a small stasis chamber
out of camera range, with two small objects in it."

"The artifacts?"  Picard wondered aloud.  Had Skel convinced the Ferengi
to contain them properly?   A stasis chamber was hardly adequate, but it
was better than nothing.

But none of that could be seen in the camera's view.

The image was small, almost claustrophobic.  All they really could see
was the area immediately around the console.  The console was severely
damaged, with charred areas and a devastated control panel.

Normally, he suspected, an officer would be manning the station, with
the screen's camera focused on his face.

He wished he had a better view of the rest of the area.

"Anybody home?"  Riker asked as they all peered at the strange sight.

"Mr.  Worf," Picard began, "get a lock on the Vulcan, and that stasis
chamber.  Be prepared to beam them up on my word."

"Aye, sir," Worf assured him.

"If the Vulcan scientist Skel is close enough to hear me," Picard
announced to the other ship, "be prepared to be beamed aboard the
Enterprise.  Now, Mr.  Worf."

"Energizing now, sir," Worf said quietly.

As soon as they heard the whine of the transporter beam on the deck of
the Ferengi ship, the survivor suddenly popped his huge head up over the
console, as if he'd been down on the floor, and nearly leapt at the
screen.  The Ferengi's huge ears and multilobed skull filled the
viewscreen so rapidly that the entire crew drew back in surprise.

"Federation Captain!"  the Ferengi shouted in a panic, "do not take the
Vulcan aboard your vessel!

You must leave this area!   Get away!   Get away!   You are not safe!

None of us are safe!   He's a madman!   My brother-" Picard signaled
Worf to cut the audio on the ranting alien and turned to the counselor
for an interpretation.

"He's terrified," Deanna told the captain.  "He fears for us.  For our
safety.  But he is so hysterical, I can't get anything more than that."

Picard turned to Riker.

"Do you think he knows about the threat of the disease?"  Riker
speculated.

"Do you think there's a chance he has it?"  Picard shot back.  He
touched his comm badge.  "Dr.  Crusher, do we have the scientist Sket in
the quarantine unit?   And if so, what is his condition?"

"He's here, sir," came Crusher's assuring voice.

"His research artifacts are safely contained in the lab and seem
undamaged.  And except for a bit of wear and tear, Master Scientist Skel
appears in perfect health.  The biofilters found nothing, and intensive
scans reveal nothing, either.

He's lucid and calm, if a little tired."

Picard glanced at Troi.

"I sense nothing but normal Vulcan composure," Deanna said.

"Do we have another quarantine unit available, Doctor?"  Picard asked
Crusher.  "We have a Ferengi aboard the vessel who is in questionable
condition."

"Another unit is in place, sir," Crusher told him.

"Mr.  Worf, restore audio, please," the captain requested. -not
listening to me, Federation Captain!   You don't understand the danger!
You don't know about-"

"Thank you for your warning," Picard said forcefully, interrupting the
Ferengi's diatribe.  "We would like to beam you aboard our ship, to
determine the status of your health.  We will beam over your deceased
crewmate for an autopsy."

The eyes of the wild Ferengi opened even wider.

"No!   No, you mustn't beam us over!   And you must return the Vulcan
and his artifacts!   You cannot-" Picard was about at the end of his
patience.  "Now listen here-we are going to beam you onto our ship,
whether you come willingly or not.  Once you are aboard this vessel, you
will be placed under arrest for kidnapping, theft, violation of
interplanetary treaties-" Picard ground to a halt as the little alien
suddenly plunged his hands into the battered control panel and began
working furiously.  "Lieutenant Worf, what is he doing?"

Worf paused for a second, then said, incredulously, "He-he's opening the
plasma conduits of his batteries, and flooding the battery storage area
with an incendiary gas!"

Picard turned to the tactical station, but before he could bark an
order, Riker shouted, "Disengage tractor beam!   Shields up!"

The captain was peripherally aware of Data, La Forge, and Worf working
in concert to obey that command, just as the Ferengi bridge still
pictured on their viewscreen turned into a fireball of light so
brilliant that Picard raised a hand to shield his eyes.

He realized that the tractor beam had been disengaged, and the shields
engaged at precisely the right moment, as the ship rocked from the small
explosion happening so close to her, but was unharmed.  A second later,
there was nothing on the viewscreen but the image of space, and a small
cloud of debris.

"The Ferengi vessel, sir," Worf announced, "is no more."

Why?   Picard wondered, baffled.  "Did you get any clear motivation from
him, Counselor?"

She seemed thoroughly shaken by the destruction of the ship; Riker
noticed it, too, and took her by the elbow and led her to a chair.  She
eased herself into it while collecting her thoughts.  "His mental panic
is hard to describe.  There was a flood of images right at the end-his
love for his brother, his grief over his death-"

The deceased Ferengi, Picard thought. -a residual terror of being
pursued by the Vulcan, and a terrible fear of being beamed aboard this
vessel."

"He knew he was facing serious charges," Riker rationalized over this
last.

But Deanna shook her head.  "No.  He didn't fear imprisonment.  He
feared for us.  At the very last second, there was a surge of emotional
outlay-fear, sadness, terror, hatred, violent rage- all of it triggering
a sickening pleasure in the Ferengi.  But under all that was a core of
courage, and the determination that he alone could save us. He destroyed
the ship to save all of us."

The bridge was silent.  Finally, Picard said, "He must have been
convinced he'd been exposed to the disease.  I can't explain it any
other way."  He touched his communicator.  "Dr.  Crusher, are you still
convinced that Skel is free of any alien organism?"

"Yes, Captain," Crusher responded.  "I've treated him through the
quarantine unit for a variety of abrasions and the residual effects of
close-range phaser fire, but other than that he is perfectly healthy."

"Can you determine if the research artifacts have been damaged, or
opened in any way?"

"According to scanners," Crusher replied, "they are completely intact.
As far as I can determine, they have never been opened, and Skel assures
me that they escaped damage while in the hands of the Ferengi."

Picard stared at the slowly expanding cloud of debris that had once been
the Ferengi vessel.  "Dr.  Crusher, please keep the scientist Skel under
full quarantine until I've had a chance to speak with him."

"Certainly, Captain," Crusher agreed.

Picard turned to his crew.  "It's unfortunate the Ferengi officer chose
to take his own life before we could learn more about this incident.
However, Skel and the artifacts are safe and apparently unharmed.

Number One, please effect a change in crew immediately.  You all deserve
a good night's sleep.  Well done, everyone."

Picard started for the turbolift, then had a moment's reconsideration.
"Counselor Troi?   May I impose upon you?"

Riker stared at Deanna, clearly concerned about her condition.

She smiled wanly at the commander, then stood up and moved to join
Picard by the lift.

"Of course, Sir," she assured him with forced cheer.

"I'll be happy to accompany you to inter-view Scientist Sket."

Picard nodded in gratitude.  As they both entered the lift, however, he
couldn't help but wonder just what it was he had beamed aboard his ship,
and whether he could afford to ignore the ranting of one suicidal
Ferengi.

DR.  BEVERLY CRUSHER watched with admiration and concern as, behind the
transparent shield of the quarantine facility, the Vulcan scientist
attended to his own minor abrasions.  Skel had assured her he was
well-versed in the use of medi-scanners and tissue regenerators, and the
ease with which he used the facility's medical equipment testified to
his proficiency.  Lean and tall, his dark hair streaked with silver,
Skel moved with the serenity and grace typical of his people; yet
shadows gathered beneath his calm eyes, and his complexion seemed
sallow.  He was exhausted, Beverly decided, and her assumption was borne
out by the diagnostic readouts on the unit.  The scientist was still
recovering from the effects of phaser fire, he'd had no nourishment in
over twenty-four hours, and he was suffering from fatigue and the
effects of extreme stress.  Minor stuff, most of it, especially for a
Vulcan.

"After the captain talks to you, Skel," Beverly said, "I want you to
eat.  Then you can rest and let your body take over your healing.

There's no reason you can't go into a healing trance for as long as you
need."

He glanced in her direction, then lowered his gaze.

"I doubt I will have time to do that, Doctor, though I appreciate your
consideration.  I am still due to present my findings at the TechnoFair.
I have colleagues aboard this vessel that I must collaborate with before
then.  I have lost valuable time already."

Beverly sighed.  She knew better than to argue with a Vulcan about
putting personal needs before duty.

"Well, you can at least spend some time-" In the outer rooms behind
them, the doors opened; that would be the captain, Beverly knew.

"Excuse me, Skel, there's something I must attend to."  The scientist
nodded at her, and continued his self-healing.

Picard and Troi met her in her office off the main sickbay area.

"Report, Doctor," Picard said succinctly.

Crusher nodded.  "Nothing has changed since I spoke to you on the
bridge.  Skel has some minor injuries, which he's treating right now in
quarantine.  I can't find any evidence of a contagious organism either
in him or in those containers we've beamed aboard.  I've also compared
the scanner readings from the artifacts with the scanner readings sent
from Vulcan.  As far as the computer is concerned, the artifacts haven't
been tampered with at all."

"So in your opinion Skel is free from disease, and the alien artifacts
have not been breached," Picard reiterated.

"That is my opinion, Captain."

Picard straightened his jacket and gave a short sigh-whether of relief
that the disease was contained, or of reluctance to possibly expose his
crew to it, Crusher could not say.  And then Picard glanced at Troi.
Crusher followed his gaze, quizzical about Deanna's purpose here; no
doubt her curiosity showed in her expression, for Picard softly
explained, "I wanted the counselor to evaluate Skel as well. From the
little we know of the disease, it affects the mind, causing delusions,
hallucinations, and madness.  If Skel is in the beginning stages of the
ailment, it's possible an empath can sense it."

Crusher nodded again in approval; while she might be convinced that Skel
harbored no contagion, it was impossible to be too cautious when dealing
with such a horrific disease.  She turned to Deanna.  "Do you want to
meet him now?"

"Of course," Troi agreed, smiling.  "But first, I must tell you,
Captain, that I can already sense his center of Vulcan calm.  All the
strong emotions I felt coming from the Ferengi vessel are gone.  He
knows he is safe now, that his artifacts are no longer in danger.  His
mind is blanketed by that unique sense of logic, that warm containment
of rational thought."

As Picard listened to his counselor, the worried crease in his brow
slowly eased, then disappeared.

"Counselor, if, when you meet the Vulcan, you are as assured of his
health and sanity as you are now, I'll order his release from the
quarantine.  Doctor, do you agree?"

"Most certainly," Crusher said.  "I see no reason to keep him confined
if he's not ill."

Picard nodded at his two officers.  "Well, let's welcome our newest
guest properly then."

Troi followed Crusher and Picard into the quarantine area, using the
slight distance between them to collect her thoughts.  The incident with
the Ferengi ship was disturbing to everyone involved, and as tired as
she felt, it was hard for her to filter out the rush of emotions of the
crew, especially from the people she knew best.  The entire day had been
an unusual emotional roller-coaster ride, starting with the death of
Lieutenant Ito, the pressure of the TechnoFair schedule, and the
disturbing incident with Dr.  Tarmud.  Everyone around her, with the
single exception of Data, was still reacting to the difficult events, so
much so that it was difficult for her to concentrate on sensing the
Vulcan's mental health.

Picard, in particular, was under a very unique emotional strain.

In spite of his cool reserve and professional exterior, he was as prone
to the same emotional stresses as anyone else.  His physical proximity
wasn't helping her segregate this one Vulcan over all the other minds on
the ship.

She focused as she entered the room, pushing all the other minds and
feelings to the outer edges of her senses, leaving herself more open to
the one individual she had to analyze: Skel, who sat at a small computer
terminal, apparently already attempting to contact his colleagues on
board.  He was an attractive male by Vulcan standards, with a narrow
angular face and sharply sculpted cheekbones and chin; most striking to
Deanna were his eyes-bright green irises rimmed with black, emeralds
encircled by onyx.

Their gaze was so striking that Troi would have liked to have studied
them, but Skel almost immediately lowered his lids.

"Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Master Scientist Skel," Picard said.  "I
am Captain Jean-Luc Picard.  I truly regret the need to confine you in
quarantine."

He stood consummately erect, hands clasped behind his back, and while
his tone was warm, it was also consciously formal.  Nor did he smile, in
order to make his guest as comfortable in his presence as possible; his
manners were, Deanna reflected, impeccably Vulcan.  She took care that
her own posture and expression were appropriately reserved.

"It is not logical to apologize for taking a sensibly cautious approach,
Captain."  The Vulcan's tones were quiet, moderate, and unemotional.

Almost serene, Troi thought, focusing on that voice, opening her mind to
him in his clear confined booth.

It was in many ways a relief after the intense human emotions she'd
recently experienced.

"The safety of your crew is paramount," Skel continued.  "I am
completely comfortable here, and Dr.  Crusher has made available to me
everything necessary to heal my minor injuries.  I can even sleep here
or consult with my colleagues.  You have gone out of your way to make
the confinement as tolerable as possible' "

"The least we can do, sir," Picard assured him.

"Captain Picard, did you beam aboard the Ferengi Nabon, and the body of
his brother, Dervin?"  Skel asked.

Picard hesitated slightly, then said smoothly, "I'm sorry to inform you,
but the surviving FerengiNabon, did you say?-managed to destroy his ship
just as we were beaming you, and your artifacts, on board.  We were
fortunate we were able to get you out of there before Nabon, his
deceased brother, and their vessel were completely obliterated."

Troi sensed Skel's surprise, and a strange surge of emotional reaction
to the news.  The emotions, however, were quickly analyzed and
suppressed in the same type of rational pattern most Vulcans employed in
emotional control.

"I truly regret hearing that, Captain," Skel said.

"While Nabon participated in my capture and the theft of the artifacts,
he was quite logical in his handling of the artifacts and tried to keep
them safe.  I regret the loss of his life; indeed, the entire incident.
I will have to reexamine the security situation at the Vulcan Science
Academy.  I fear that I and my colleagues have become too complacent
since the disease last ran rampant."

"Skel," Picard pressed on, "the Ferengi's behavior, in general, seemed
quite odd.  Do you have any fears that they may have been exposed to the
disease?   That could account for some of Nabon's reactions, and
perhaps, his destruction of the ship."

"I cannot explain the Ferengi's behavior, Captain," Skel admitted.

"However, had the disease escaped the artifacts, they would have been
left open and powerless, and when I confined them in the Ferengi stasis
chamber, they were both still sealed.  We do know that contamination
occurs when the top shell opens and a victim is exposed to the contents.
Once the victim is infected, the shell is left 'empty' and appears dead
powerless."

"When the artifacts arrived in the Ferengi stasis chamber, they were
completely sealed, Captain," Beverly assured Picard.

"Can you tell us how Dervin died?"  Picard asked softly.

Skel sighed.  "No, Captain, I cannot.  Dervin was attempting to force
open the two halves from one of the artifacts.  Fearing he would
succeed, I grappled with him, but hesitated using the force necessary to
subdue Dervin while he had both hands wrapped around the artifact.

His brother, Nabon, eventually stunned both of us, then took the
artifacts and ran.  I woke up from the phaser fire first, and went to
pursue Nabon.  At that time, Dervin was unconscious but alive.  I
circled the entire ship and ended up where we started-the
bridge/engineering center-and that was where I found Nabon huddled over
the body of his brother.  I can only assume that Nabon killed Dervin,
possibly over their disagreements about the handling of the artifacts.

It is the only way I can account for the elder Ferengi's death."

Picard turned to glance at Troi.  He would not insult the Vulcan by
asking her to verify his story, but she knew that was the reassurance he
needed.  By this time, she'd succeeded in suppressing all the myriad
feelings from her friends and crewmates and opened herself solely to the
mind of the Vulcan before her.

She found nothing but the same rational center of logic and serenity.
Closing her eyes, she pushed a little deeper: RUN!   RUN, MY CHILD!
THERE IS DANGER HERE!

Troi took one staggering step backward, then another, as the desire to
flee, to escape, overwhelmed her with a primal terror.  She groaned and
took another step backward before bumping into Dr.  Crusher.

"Deanna, what is it?"  Beverly asked, gripping her arms and holding her
in place.

Trois heart rate had accelerated wildly, and she was panting.

Picard stared at her, alarmed.  She swallowed, stood up straight, and
collected herself.

"Counselor?"  Picard demanded.  He glanced between Troi and the Vulcan
suspiciously.

Skel would not look at her.  His face was as composed as any Vulcan's,
but she knew now he was not like any other Vulcan she'd ever scanned.
She turned to him for an explanation.

"Forgive me, Counselor," the scientist said softly.

She thought-to her amazement-that he sounded ashamed.  "I have never
been scanned by a Betazoid before.  I was hoping you would not sense
it."

"Sense what?"  Picard snapped.

Crusher had a medical scanner out and was running it over Deanna, then
comparing the readouts with the ones from the quarantine unit.

"Yes.  I'd like to know the same thing."

Deanna swallowed again, and Picard moved to bring her some water.

"It is my fault, Captain," the Vulcan explained as Deanna drank from the
offered glass.  "I should have warned her, but I did not think-" He
exhaled in a rush and started over.  "When the disease caused by the
artifacts infected the planet Vulcan, I was a child of ten.  My father
was infected.  He went mad and killed my mother, T'Reth, through brutal
torture.  Her last act was to save my life, by mentally calling a
warning that woke me from my sleep and allowed me to escape.  However,
the experiences I suffered during that period-seeing my father's
madness, sensing my mother's torment and death, hearing her mental
screams-have caused me long-term psychological damage.  In times of
stress, my mother's warning and the fear it induced come to me unbidden,
affecting my sleep and my reactions to normal stimuli.  Being kidnapped,
having my life threatened, fearing that the artifacts might reinfect
others again-it reawakened my childhood fears and made them new again.
It is as if my mother's voice is running rampant through my mind."  He
glanced at Deanna, his face somber.  "I apologize again, Counselor.  I
thought I could shield you.  I should have warned you."

"I-I'm all right," Deanna told her worried crewmates.  "Your explanation
puts the raw sensation into perspective.  It was just such a surprise. I
usually only pick up feelings, impressions.  But-it was as if I could
hear your mother's voice.  That must have been so terrible for you,
Skel.  I am so sorry that you must live with that difficult memory."

"T'Reth's voice, though disconcerting, has often warned me of imminent
danger," Skel told her.  "It is not logical to believe so, but over the
years, I have come to know it is true.  My mother was a brave and
courageous woman.  I could do far worse than to have her voice in my
mind, still warning me, still fighting to preserve my life all these
years after her tragic death.  I appreciate your understanding."

Deanna realized she'd never given Picard the information he needed, that
he was still waiting.  "Master Scientist Skel has told us the truth as
he knows it.  The sense of strong emotion that traces back to his
childhood is understandable in the light of his past.  He appears to be
mentally sound and totally uninfected by any force or organism."

Picard asked pointedly, "You feel it would be safe then to release Skel
from quarantine?"

She glanced back at the scientist, at the placid Vulcan exterior, at the
calm outer shell.  "Yes, I believe it is safe."

"Why take the chance, Captain?"  Skel interjected.

"This facility will allow me to do my work, and to meet with colleagues.
In a few days we will arrive at the TechnoFair.  By then you will have
your answer as to my state of health.  Why do I not simply remain here
to be safe?"

Picard looked as if he were seriously considering it, when Crusher
intervened.  "Captain, perhaps you would feel more self-assured if you
viewed the artifacts that Skel rescued from the Ferengi."

"Excellent idea, Doctor," Picard said, as if relieved to have a change
of atmosphere.  He turned to the Betazoid.  "Counselor, are you up to
accompanying us?"

"Aye, sir," she said.  She looked at the gray-haired Vulcan once more,
but could not make herself scan him again.  She would do almost anything
to avoid reading that terrible childhood memory.

"I appreciate your suggesting the change of scene, Doctor," Picard said,
as they entered the primary area of sickbay on their way to the
quarantine lab that held the artifacts.  "Deanna, are you really all
right?

You went white as a sheet!"

She placed a reassuring hand on the captain's arm.

"I'm quite fine now, sir.  It was just the shocking jolt of emotion-a
child's emotion, perhaps the strongest there is-and from a Vulcan it
made it doubly odd.  I was simply unprepared.  But his story is clearly
true, Captain.  You can certainly release Skel from quarantine."

Picard turned to Crusher as if for confirmation of Trois story.

"The readouts I got from Deanna when she was reacting to the Vulcan's
mind matched his so closely," Crusher said, "I knew she was really
linked to him.  This wasn't her normal Betazoid scan where she picks up
feelings or senses an emotional state.

Since he's a telepath, yet burdened with these vivid emotional memories,
he may have inadvertently augmented her mental scan."

The three continued walking to the quarantine unit.  "Well, since you
both feel releasing him is appropriate, I'll agree," Picard said.

Crusher took the lead as they entered the lab, leading the others to a
transparent container that looked like a miniature version of Skel's
facility.  In its center sat two innocuous-looking black receptacles.

They resembled, Deanna thought, some of the beautiful jewellike
shellfish from Betazed; the light caught the artifacts' smooth black
surfaces and reflected shimmering pastel colors-yellow, green, blue,
pink.

Crusher held a hand out toward the container.

"There they are!   There are double containment fields surrounding the
artifacts on the interior, and a safety force field blocking entrance or
egress.  The force fields and containment fields have special on/off
codes set up by the computer.  Only you, Captain, and I have access to
the codes."

"You mean," Picard said, incredulous as he stepped up to the field, "all
this fuss is over those two little things?"

"I'm afraid so."  Crusher gave a gentle shake of her head, clearly as
unable as the captain to believe it.

"They look no more imposing than a Terran clam!"

He leaned down to get a better look.

"That may be so, Captain," Crusher agreed, "but looks can be deceiving.
I can't exactly tell you what's in there, but I can tell you it's kept
inside by a selfgenerating force field fueled by an unknown power
source. It can't be opened from the outside, not with all the force we
could generate from this starship.  It can only be opened by trigger
mechanisms from ithin-mechanisms still only vaguely understood.

WWe don't have the technology to create anything like this; we can only
speculate about the people who did."

"The Vulcans think this was deliberately created, then?"  Picard asked.
"They don't think it's alive, that it evolved?"

"The current theory is that they may have been a delivery method for an
advanced germ-warfare-type weapon," Beverly said.

Picard nodded.  "They're quite old, I understand.

Have they been able to translate the writing on the shell?"

"Not yet.  I think they have a phrase, but that's all."

"Maybe Mr.  Data would like a crack at it," Picard mused.  "He's got a
singular talent for crossreferencing language matrixes.  He might have
an insight on this that the Vulcans couldn't have.  I'll talk to Skel,
see if it's all right with him."  Picard stood up straight again and
turned back to Deanna.  "You don't ... 6 sense' anything from them, do
you, Counselor?"

"How could she?"  Beverly wondered aloud.

"They're not intelligent.  I'm not even sure the Vulcans consider them
'alive' in any sense."

Deanna had been listening to the two officers as she stared at the small
unimposing artifacts.  She felt odd watching them like this, as if she
were observing a venomous snake caged in a glass tank-a snake that knew
it was in a tank and therefore made no attempt to strike.  A snake that
was content to sit, wait, and bide its time.

"Counselor?"  Picard asked again.  "Are you sensing anything?"

She heard again that terrible voice, that primal scream of a mother
protecting her child.

RUN!   RUN, MY CHILD!   RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!

Only this time it was her own mother's voice she heard-Lwaxana pleading
with her to flee, to get out of there, to save herself ...

Troi gave herself a mental shake, knowing that she was just reacting to
the shocking effect of Skel's memories.  Deanna glanced at Picard, then
turned back to the artifacts.

Vulcans were primarily touch telepaths, and obviously, with these
objects contained behind multiple force fields and the danger of
infection, no Vulcan would ever be allowed to put hands upon these.  If
there was any chance there was life in these pods, or even, however
remotely possible, intelligence, she was obliged to discern that.

Hesitantly, Deanna opened her empathic sense to the artifacts sitting in
the containment field.

POWER!

It hit hard, like a blow to the skull, as a torrential flood of sensory
input invaded her mind.  Her head snapped back as if she had been
physically struck, causing her instinctively to hold up her hands to
ward off the attack.

"What's happening to her?"  she heard Picard demand, worry etched in his
voice, but she could not respond to him.  She could only fight for her
own sanity.

Something was grasping her arms: Crusher, Picard, followed by Beverly
shouting, but Deanna could no longer understand the words, could no
longer do anything except fall into a maelstrom of emotion, hatred,
rage.  Dimly, she was aware of Picard lifting her in his arms and
running out of the room, as if he could outrace disaster and impending
doom.

"Deanna!   Deanna!"  Beverly shouted, as the empath spiraled down, down,
down into hell.

"Deanna, break the connection!   Break it!   You can do it!   Come on!"

A slap ... distant and faraway, a quicksilver glimmer of physical pain
like a lifeline in the middle of overwhelming rage, fury, terror,
despair.  Troi mentally grasped at it.

Another slap.  Another, stronger ...

The blows rocked her; she sucked in a lungful of air like a newborn, at
last breaking the connection.

The sensation of normalcy, of freedom from mental anguish, brought
infinite relief.  Deanna inhaled shakily and examined her surroundings:
she lay on a diagnostic bed in outer sickbay, as far as possible from
the receptacles, with both Picard and Beverly gazing down at her with
expressions of profound alarm.

"Deanna, thank God!"  Crusher exclaimed, as she stared at her
medi-scanner readout.  "You're all right now.  But that was close."

Picard turned to Crusher, a mixture of worry, indignation, and the need
to know warring on his face.  "What happened in there?"

"Her bodily functions were shutting down," Crusher said incredulously,
still studying the readout, "while her brain-" The doctor shook her
head, struggling to explain.  "Her brain was trying to reformat its
neural pathways into something completely different!

I've- never seen anything like itwell, maybe once.  Over a century ago
on Reydovan Four, there was an unusual virus that reformatted the brain
to its needs.  The victims were alive but no longer humanoid, trapped in
a nightmare world of consciousness not of their own making. That's the
only analogy I can come up with.  But Deanna's body was dying, even
though the brain was showing no response to the organ failures.  I don't
understand it.

Not at all.  It doesn't make any sense."

"What did you feel while this was happeninle" Picard asked Troi gently.

"What I just experienced," Deanna said shakily, 46was a thousand times
more horrible than Skel's terrible memories.  What is in those
containers, Captain, is not life as we understand it.  It is something
different.  It is organized, powerful, conscienceless, rapacious.  But
it's not exactly life-not a virus, but far smaller than that, and far
more dangerous.  And its hunger, its needs are insatiable.  it is
completely, totally evil." Picard drew back at that final word,
then-after a moment's reflection-asked, "Was it constructed, or did it
evolve?"

She shook her head carefully.  "Perhaps both.  The core of it, its
essence, is something from nature.

Something that, I think, was captured, discovered, then refined to its
purest essence-as if you could capture the banshee and put it in a
bottle.  It was artificially refined, augmented, and improved.  I
believe the Vulcans are right about its origins: it was designed for
warfare."

She closed her eyes, trying not to relive the terrible moment of
connection with the unworldly power.  "It devoured its enemies and its
makers alike ... until none were left to stop the madness they created."

Worf walked quietly into his son's room.  Alexander slept soundly now,
but he must have been dreaming earlier, since his covers were everywhere
except on his body and his pillow was on the floor.  In the corner at
Alexander's desk, a holographic eyeball was suspended near his computer
station, blinking at Worf as if it were intelligent.

Now, where did that come from?   the Klingon wondered.  He went over to
it, moving to turn it off, but the eye glared at him so balefully that
he pulled his hand back.  Of course, Worf realized, it is the all-seeing
eye of a Klingon warrior!   He chuckled and let it be, amused that the
eye would watch over his son all night.

Carefully, Worf picked up the pillow and eased it under the boy's head,
then straightened the covers and tucked the youngster in. Alexander
would have been outraged at the tender gesture if he had been awake, but
Worf had clear memories of his father doing the same to him when he
thought his little son was asleep.  Worf loved his child with a
warrior's fierce devotion and a father's gentle caring.  Few outside of
the Klingon family unit ever saw that side of the warriors, but it was
there.  Worf only regretted having missed the time of Alexander's life
when he could have been gently cradled in strong arms as his father
murmured stories of glorious battles and ferocious one-on-one combat to
his infant son.  Alexander would have none of that now.

He bowed over the boy, meaning to kiss his skull plate, when the soft
chiming of his door startled him.

Who could be here at this unseemly hour?   if it were ship's business,
either the captain or Data, who had the conn on the late-night shift,
would have called him on the communicator.

He left his son's room and went into the general living quarters.

"Enter!"  he called gruffly.

He was stunned to find the scientist Kyla Dannelke at his door.

She was dressed now in an attractive, lowcut velvet tunic of sapphire
blue, which made her pale eyes dazzling in her unsettlingly pale face,
and she had brushed her pale hair out so that it fell, unbraided, on her
shoulders.

The sight of her evoked conflicting feelings: Worf's outrage at her
prejudice was tempered by her forthright behavior and her clear
willingness to change her views.

And, of course, there was no denying the fact that-despite her human
features-she was a strong attractive woman.

The mental admission brought forth a surge of guilt, as though he were
being unfaithful to his dead mate, to K'Ehleyr's memory.

Yet at the sight of him, Kyla smiled-an expression of such honest,
unashamed happiness and appreciation that the Klingon could not entirely
resist its charm.  He pressed his lips together and permitted the
corners of them to quirk a bit; it was the closest he could come at the
moment to returning the smile.

But he kept his tone formal, serious.  "Dr.  Danneike," he said before
she could speak, "it is late.  I have just now gone off duty.

There is another crew on board that can answer your needs.  You have but
to ask the computer-"

"May I come in?"  she interrupted-and before he could refuse her, she
stepped into his quarters far enough to let the doors close behind her.
Boldly, she walked about the general living area.  "Well, this is not
what I expected!"

Worf's lips parted in amazement; never had he seen a human demonstrate
such forward, brazen behavior: why, she was behaving like a Klingon!

The thought sparked both guilt and anger, the same anger he had felt
when he scolded Alexander: That woman is nothing like your mother!

"Dr.  Dannelke, I do not know what it is you want but-" He blinked,
finally reacting to her last statement.  "What do you mean, this is not
what you 'expected'?"

"These aren't a Klingon warrior's quarters," she announced with a grin.
"Klingon quarters are austere.

Warriors sleep on slabs of unyielding stone or metal.

Comforts are for the weak.  I looked it up this afternoon, after our
talk.  I'm right, aren't I?   So, what is all this?   Pretty cushy
place, Lieutenant."

Worf ground his teeth and took a slow calming breath.  This was the most
exasperating female!   "I have served aboard Klingon vessels and
Federation vessels.  When aboard Klingon vessels I have Klingon quarters
as you have described.  When aboard Federation vessels, I live as a
Federation officer.  It is practical and makes my fellow crew members
comfortable when they visit.

If it is any business of yours!"

His annoyance made no impression on her.  "But surely your private
quarters-your bedroom-is in true Klingon style.  Hard slab.  No pillow."
She moved toward the door that led to Alexander's room, no doubt
assuming it was Worf's.

"Wait!"  he called out quietly, worrying his son would bear them and
wake up.

His hesitation allowed her to step close enough to the doors to open
them.  Worf drew up beside her as she realized whose room it really was.

"Oh, isn't that sweet!"  Dannelke murmured softly, as the Klingon eye
glared at her from the computer station.  "He sent me a message through
the computer after the TechnoFair, along with a program he'd made that
would allow him to have a small eye just like the big one I have over my
display.  He needed some help with it.  I cleaned it up and sent it back
to him.  But he's changed it!   Originally it was a human eye, but now
it's clearly Klingon.  What a clever young man."

Worf felt his anger dissolving as the scientist plainly admired his son.
He took her arm respectfully and pulled her away from the room, so the
door would shut and allow his son to sleep.

"I thank you for spending the time on his program," Worf said sincerely.
"I know this close to the TechnoFair, it was time you no doubt needed
for your own work."

"That's a charming kid you've got there, Lieutenant," Dr.  Danneike
said.  "He's hard to turn down.  I notice he doesn't sleep like a
Klingon, though."  Had there been even a hint of sarcasm in her tone, he
would have lost his temper completely; but her comment was simply
curious, the comment of one who was sincerely interested in the child.

"Alexander's mother was half human, so he has a mixed heritage," Worf
admitted, with no small amount of discomfort.  "He is much more like her
than he is like me.  I am content exposing him to Klingon culture and
letting him choose what parts of it he cares to adopt."

For the first time, Dannelke's brazenness faltered; she lowered her
eyelids as she glanced guiltily around the quarters.  "And Mrs.  Worf
... she's asleep?"

The question's purpose was so blatant that Worf could not resist a faint
smile; at the same time, it increased his sense of awkwardness.

"Had she been asleep, the scent of an unknown female in her quarters
would have brought her instantly awake.  No, Dr.  Danneike, there is no
'Mrs.  Worf." My mate K'Ehleyr, Alexander's mother, was killed by an
enemy of ours some time ago."

She brought a hand to her mouth as if to contain an expression of
surprise.  "That's awful.  Oh, I'm so sorry, for you, and especially,
for Alexander.  I've really botched this up, Lieutenant!"

He had no idea what to say; he therefore said nothing, but waited for
her to gather her composure.

"I'm here for two reasons," she admitted at last, "but the first and
most important one is to apologize.

Instead, I've barged into your life, invading your and Alexander's
personal space, and bringing up sad memories.  I feel terrible."  She
stepped closer to him, meeting him eye to eye like an equal.  It was a
bold act, and he couldn't help admiring her for it; most nonKlingons
would have never had the nerve.  "I wanted to apologize for my behavior
earlier.  I acted like a prejudiced, backwater ignoramous.  I insulted
you, and I'm sorry.  I have no excuse.  I am very ignorant of your
culture and your people and have little opportunity to interact with
them.  I promised myself tonight I would remedy that and have started
reading up on these issues, but you have a complicated culture, and we
will be long separated before I know enough to keep from making a fool
of myself again.

Will you accept my apology for the foolish things I said before-and the
foolish things I will no doubt say in the future?"

Worf felt a strange sensation uncurl in the pit of his stomach as he
realized, Alexander is right!   She is much like KEhleyr!   The
realization was like a bittersweet knife to his heart.  He wet his lips,
his mouth suddenly dry, as he searched for the right thing to say.

"Dr.  Dannelke, you are an important scientist.  It is hardly necessary
for you to come to an officer's quarters to make such an open apology
for a momentary misstatement."

"You thought it was a lot more than that this afternoon," she reminded
him.  "Your face was like a darkening stormcloud, threatening to hurl
lightning everywhere!   But what you're trying to say politely-is that
you think I have ulterior motives for apologizing."

He started to protest, but she held up a hand to stop him.

"That's okay.  You're right.  I am really sorry I said what I did.

That's the honest truth.  But, there is a favor I need to ask, and
that's the truth, too."

"And that is?"

"I want to know what's going on!"

"Excuse me?"  he said quietly.

"Now, look, Lieutenant.  We were on our way to Vulcan to pick up the
scientist, Skel, with whom I happen to be working on a very important
project.

The next thing I know, the stars outside my quarters look funny, and the
computer tells me we're no longer on our way to Vulcan, but won't give
me any more information than that.  We're going to miss the TechnoFair
for some Federation emergency, aren't we?"

Worf sighed.  He couldn't very well share with her ship's business, but
he could reassure her.  "Doctor, on my word, you will arrive at the
TechnoFair on time."

"How?   We're still not heading for Vulcan, and if we don't pick up
Skel-" He supposed it would do no harm to tell her.  "Sket is already on
board, Doctor.  He is currently in sickbay, but as soon as he is free to
leave, I am sure he will contact you.  I cannot give you more
information than that."

"Skel's here?   On board?"  She let go a breath and almost smiled,
making her plain straightforward features beautiful again.  "Well,
that's a relief.  But I can't talk to him?"

Her single-mindedness about her work was admirable, if exasperating.

"Dr.  Dannelke, you must trust that our medical staff has Skel's best
welfare in mind.  It is late.  No doubt he will call you in the
morning."

"I suppose you're right.  Thank you for that information, Lieutenant."
She looked at him wryly, a mischievous glint back in her eye-which made
him straighten warily.  "I really am sorry about this afternoon.  There
are times when my mouth gets the better of me, when I just blurt the
most embarrassing things out.  It always seems to happen at the one
moment when I wouldn't want it to."

"And when is that?"  Worf wondered aloud.  How many TechnoFairs can this
woman attend?

She grinned at him unabashedly.  "It just always seems to happen when I
meet a man I'm attracted to."

His eyes widened in shock.  That was the last thing he had expected her
to say.  "Dr.  Dannelke!"

She moved closer to him again, grinning and narrowing her eyes like a
Terran wolf.  "I've always had this terrible weakness for tall, dark,
handsome men, Lieutenant Worf.  And it makes me say the most foolish
things.  So, do you think there's any chance we could get past the
'Lieutenant Worf-Dr.  Dannelke' stage anytime soon?"

Worf found himself working to suppress his own smile and heard himself
thinking that, yes, they might have a very good chance of getting past
that stage quite soon.

Deanna stood before the food replicator in her quarters, irritably
drumming her fingers.  She'd wanted a hot chocolate, but was afraid the
mild stimulant in the drink would interfere with her sleep-and if there
was anything she needed after this interminably long and depressing day,
it was sleep.  So she decided that she would instead order a hot milk
laced with honey and vanilla-but she really wanted the chocolate.

So she found herself locked in indecision, staring at the food
replicator as if it were an altar on which she should make an offering.

There was too much on her mind, too many thoughts swirling in her
brain-particularly the last discussion she'd had with Picard: "Captain,
destroy them.  Throw them out an airlock.

Send them into space, " she'd insisted after she'd come out of the
trance the artifacts had produced.  "They're too dangerous to be kept on
boardthe Enterprise."

"But they don't belong to us, " he'd reminded her.

"What effect would that have on Skel's research, if we did such an
outrageous act?   How would we explain ourselves to the Vdlcans?"

"If you had felt them the way I have, you would understand- " "Deanna, "
he'd said patiently, placing a comforting hand on her arm, "you know I
trust your judgment.

But you have had two difficult mental encounters after a long day with
too much sorrow in it.  I don't doubt that the impressions you picked
up." from those artifacts would've shaken anyone.  But we have no right
to destroy them.  However, I can make arrangements to pass on the
responsibility of holdin them to someone else.  I will ask the Vulcans
to arrange a rendezvous with their nearest science vessel.

With luck, we can unload the artifacts before we arrive at the
TechnoFair.

After all, Skel's original plans did not call for having them at the
science gathering." It had not been nearly sufficient, Deanna knew, but
she'd understood it was the only compromise she would get.

And it would have been a fair one under normal circumstances.

"Another thing, Counselor, " Picard had said sternly.  "Until those
artifacts are off this ship, I want you to stay as far away from them as
possible.  And @l, also."

"Captain?"  she'd asked, surprised.

"You've been through enough for one mission.  I want .you to take a day
offand relax.  ]Forget about scientists, artifacts, TechnoFairs, and
schedules.  Deanna, you need time to recover from the mental stress
you've endured today.  I'll make apologies to Skel.  He's a telepath.

Heti surely understand."

"But, Captain, I don't think this is necessary-"

"That's an order, Counselor, " he'd announced, ending the conversation.

Now Deanna knew he was right, but she hated to admit that.  And in
truth, she was grateful not to have anything more to do with the
artifacts.  If she was being honest, she would also admit that she would
be happy not to see Skel again either.  What a tragic figure he was;
what a burden he had to live with.  But if Vulcan healers could not help
him, there was nothing a lone Betazoid counselor could do.

"Just water, cool," she finally told the replicator.  It obliged
immediately, providing a frosted, sweating glass; she lifted it and
drained it in a swallow.

Before she finished, a soft chime came at the door.

She glanced at the time, then immediately sensed the scientist, Skel,
outside her door.  Her heart rate instantly accelerated.

But the captain saidShe took hold of herself when she realized how upset
the Vulcan's presence was making her.  She was acting like a child.  No
doubt Picard hadn't had a chance to say anything to Skel, and didn't
think that at this late hour the scientist would want to do anything but
sleep.  But, of course, Vulcans could do without sleep for days.

What harm could there be in seeing him?   she asked herself, but never
waited for the answer.

"Come in," she bid, and the doors opened, showing her the scientist
she'd already sensed.

"I was not sure whether you would still be awake," he said softly from
the hallway.  His demeanor was calm, reassuring, gentle.  His serene
emerald eyes were politely downcast, yet she could not quite shake her
irrational sense of alarm.  "Am I disturbing you?

Surely, you need to rest."

"Well, I will need to rest soon, but we can talk until then.

Won't you come in?"  She waved him graciously over to a couch.

"Thank you," he said, without sitting.  "I just wanted to be sure you
were well.  I feel responsible for the shocking mental image you
received."

Deanna sat down by herself when the Vulcan didn't.  "Please don't
concern yourself.  I'm fine.  I thank you for your interest."

He bowed slightly.  "Counselor, after you left to see the artifacts, I
never spoke to you again.  Did you get to see them?"

"Yes," she said, looking away, not wanting to think about the disturbing
things.  "Yes, I did."

"You are a telepath, Counselor," he said in that same calm, quiet tone.
"Did you ... sense anything from them?"

The very question evoked a panic that stole her breath; she forced
herself to inhale and exhale calmly, slowly, to collect her thoughts.

"Forgive me for pursuing you on this topic," Skel apologized, apparently
sensing her dismay.  "But in eighty years of study, no Vulcan has ever
melded with or received any telepathic impression from the artifacts. If
you have, it would help our understanding of these things enormously."

Deanna warred with irrationally wanting to order the Vulcan out of her
quarters, or being the professional counselor and discussing his problem
with him.  As usual, the professional counselor won out, and Deanna
found herself bitterly resenting that woman.

"It was, for me, a ... difficult moment," she admitted to him.

Recalling the instant of connection, she found herself starting to
tremble.  She focused on her tightly clasped hands, not wanting to
embarrass the Vulcan with a display of emotion.

"Then you felt them?"  he asked softly.

Them.  She blinked, hearing his tone, feeling as though his words opened
up an understanding for her.

"You believe there is something alive in there?   Something, possibly
intelligent?"

Skel looked about her quarters-at the artwork covering the bulkheads, at
the soft pastel grouping of furniture, at a holo of Lwaxana-at every
item in the room except Troi.  "To answer your question-no.  I am a
scientist, and nothing that we have learned about the entities residing
within the shells indicates intelligence, any more than a virus is
intelligent when it invades a host's DNA.

However, I am also a survivor of the madness the entities induced.

And sometimes, when I think of whatever it is that resides in those
artifacts, I see the grotesque mask of my father's face after he was
infected.  And so, for me, the entities have an appearance, an
expression.  They wear the soul of my father's madness.  So we may say
that the survivor of that disease sometimes sees the entities as them.

" It was a difficult confession for him, she realized, one that might
only be given to a counselor who had glimpsed into the soul of that
survivor.  For a brief second, she thought of her lost opportunity with
Ensign Ito; she could not pass up this chance that was being offered to
her, no matter how personally difficult it might be.

"I did not sense them, Skel," Deanna told him.

"But I sensed something.  Something frightening, and hard to
comprehend."  She tried to describe for him the exact sensation she'd
received when she had stood beside the container that held the
artifacts, but even as she mouthed the words she felt their inadequacy.

"I'm sorry," she concluded.  "Language can be so limiting."

"Something any telepath can understand," Skel agreed.  "I hesitate to
suggest this, Counselor, but you are an empath, so I will trust that you
will understand my request, and the nature in which I offer it.

If-I could meld with you-" RUNI RUN, MY CHILD, RUN FOR YOUR LIFEI Deanna
sat as rigid as stone as Lwaxana's voice shrilled in her brain.

Had her contact with the artifacts made her psychotic?

"For just the briefest moment," Skel continued blandly, unaware of the
panic the counselor was feeling, "I would receive the exact same mental
sense that you received from the artifacts.  We would not need
inadequate words.  I would receive the image and understand.  This meld
would advance my knowledge of these subjects I have studied so long-"
RUN!   GET OUT OF THE ROOM!   GET AS FAR FROM HIM AS YOU CAN!

Mother, please!   Deanna heard herself scold the person she could not
possibly be sensing.  Lwaxana was light-years away, so far out of mental
range as to be ludicrous.  She blinked, forcing herself to listen to
what the Vulcan was saying.

"I know it is a great imposition to ask of you," Skel continued.

"But this would allow me to share this impression with my colleagues and
the healers on my planet who are still working with living victims of
the disease.  Will you agree?"

Deanna counted every ridge on her knuckles as she stammered, "A Vulcan
mind meld?   To capture the impression I received from the artifacts?
Well, that certainly makes sense-" Her urge to flee the room, to flee
from Sket was so overwhelming she couldn't help but wonder if he could
sense it.  No, of course not, Vulcans were touch telepaths.  He would
have to touch her.  Suddenly, the thought of him placing his hands on
her face, of making the neural connections with his fingertips, and of
becoming one with her mind was so repellent that she knew she couldn't
go through with it.  In Vulcan society, it was one of their most
intimate acts.

No.  No, she couldn't.

Apparently taking her bland comments as consent, Skel approached her,
one hand already outstretched.

"If you will just remain as you are, we can do this in the briefest
moment.  I will be swift, and will touch no part of your mind but where
the impression lies.

Counselor, will you look at me?"

He touched her chin and raised her eyes to his.

Troi gasped as their eyes met for the very first time.

Lwaxana's voice shrilled in her brain for her to escape, to run.

She thought wildly that Skel would hear her mother, that he would be
insulted, then realized what a ridiculous thing it was to worry
about-when there was so much more to fear in the depths of those Vulcan
eyes.  She had to get away!   But she could not make herself move from
the couch.

Skel brought his hand toward her face.

Abruptly, the door chimed again, which sounded this time like the
loudest thing she had ever heard.

She pulled away from the Vulcan's hand.

"Come in!"  she cried, rising in one smooth, sudden move away from him
and toward the door.

The doors slid open to reveal Will Riker, his dark eyebrows rising at
the sight of Skel.  The Vulcan stood, hands clenched, perfectly poised,
in the center of Deanna's living room.

"I didn't realize you had a guest," Will said blandly, but Troi could
sense a myriad of strange feelings in him-reactions to the presence of
the Vulcan.

"It's perfectly all right," Deanna said with false cheerfulness as she
took Will's elbow and led him into the room.  She gripped his sleeve as
if it were a lifeline, as if this were the only chance she had to save
herself.

His gaze transformed from one of suspicion to concern, as if he could
sense her emotional state as easily as she could his.

"Of course," Skel agreed.  "I was just leaving."  He turned to her and
bowed slightly.  "I thank you for your time, Counselor.  You have been a
great help to me.  1 5 And before Deanna could gather her wits about her
to get a sense of his true reactions to her fleeing the meld, he was
gone.  It was just as well.  She really didn't want to touch his mind
again, not now, not ever.  She sagged a little, as the doors closed
behind the Vulcan.

Suddenly, Will took her arms and faced her.  "What was he doing here?"

"We were just talking about his experience with.  . ."  Deanna began in
confusion.

Riker interrupted.  "Captain Picard left express orders that he was to
have no contact with you.  Why was he here?"

Deanna moved over to the couch and collapsed upon it; Riker followed and
sat sideways, facing her.

When she could find the energy to speak, she asked, "You know about
that?"

64 I'm the first officer, remember?"  he chided her gently.  "I know
all, see all.  You haven't answered me.  v@ "I just assumed that Captain
Picard hadn't said anything directly to Skel because of the late hour. I
can't believe a Vulcan would deliberately violate a ship's captain's
direct order."

Riker mulled that over.  "He had time enough to tell me about it.

I can't remember his exact words, but I got the impression he'd already
told Skel, but I could have just assumed that.  I'll find out tomorrow.

But Picard's right-that scientist seems to have a very negative effect
on you.  What could he have been thinking, coming here at this hour?"

By now, Riker's well-meaning "damsel-in-distress" routine was wearing
thin.  Deanna sat up against the couch, folded her arms, and said
pointedly, "I might well ask you that same question."

"I just finished getting briefed by Picard.  He told me what happened
with Skel and the artifacts.  I was worried about you; I asked the
computer if you were asleep yet and it said no, so .  . ."  He grinned.
"I guess I should've asked if you had a gentlemen caller."

She punched his arm playfully, even as she thought, That Vulcan is no
gentleman.  "You showed up at just the right time.  I'm beginning to
wonder if you're part Betazoid."

"Skel really did upset you," Riker said.  "You still haven't told me
what happened here."

For some reason, Troi found herself reluctant to tell him the Vulcan had
wanted to meld with her.  She decided that most of it was her own
leftover fears from the bad mental experiences she'd had earlier.

There was no sense creating a crisis where none existed.  "Nothing
happened, Will.  Honestly.  I do have a residual reaction to Skel
because of what happened today.  I'm sure it will pass in time.  But the
captain's right.  I'd be better off not seeing him again."

"Sounds fine with me," Riker decided.  "Let me stay here tonight-right
here, on the couch.  Don't you think the presence of a faithful watchdog
might help you sleep a little better?"

Normally, the suggestion would have insulted her, but not tonight.

She didn't want to lie awake in bed, anticipating another late-night
visit from Skel that no doubt would never come.  She placed a hand on
Riker's arm.  "Would you mind doing that for me, Will?   I'd be very
grateful."

He slung a companionable arm around her and pulled her close in a
protective embrace.  "Hey, what are friends for?"

Troi smiled and pressed against him, comforted by his strength and the
trust she knew she could place in him.  But even as he held her, she
found her mind skirting back, not to Skel, but to something far more
menacing.

Try as she might, she knew she couldn't shake the sense of evil that
emanated from those artifacts-and wouldn't shake it until they were gone
from the ship.

SKEL WOKE SO SUDDENLY that for two-point-four seconds he could not
remember where he was; for an additional three-point-one seconds, he
could not remember who he was.

Although the environment of his cabin was heated to a comfortable degree
of Vulcan warmth, he shivered as if ill.  He should call for Dr.
Crusher, he thought, then rejected that notion.

He needed T'Son, his healer.  The human doctor, though skilled in Vulcan
anatomy, was still merely human.  Only T'Son could help quiet the demons
that raced through his mind at night.

He swung his legs over the bed and drew a palm across his weary face.
Tonight, it had not been his father who pursued him through the desert
landscape of his childhood home; tonight, it had been Nabon, the
deceased Ferengi whose leering face had tortured his dreams.  Such a
thing had never occurred; always, the face in the dream belonged to his
father.  Perhaps more significantly, it was not his mother's voice who
called the timely warning to him; tonight, it had been Troi who told him
to run, to save himself.  If T'Son were here, she would tell him this
was understandable, as the counselor had been the last person with whom
he'd spoken.

The thought of Deanna Troi made him recall the strange aborted
conversation he'd had with the Betazoid; if only he could have melded
with her, if only he could've discovered for himself what she'd learned
from her mental contact with the artifacts.

Trois fear of melding with him had been a shock when it had touched him
across the space that separated them.  So much like his own reaction the
instant before T'Son's fingertips touched his face: that same fear, that
same impulse to bolt, to flee the room.  Troi had felt all those things,
and he had felt them from her, raw emotions so alien to him.  Emotions
that were at once alien, complex, repellent-and exciting.

He rubbed his face tiredly again.  He could tell by the reaction he'd
received from her that he should not request the meld again.

Besides, if Captain Picard found out ...

He blinked, frowning.  If Captain Picard found out ... what?   The
thought seemed to arrest itself, as if it were impossible for him to
follow it to its logical conclusion.  He decided this was yet another
side effect of the two phaser blasts he'd absorbed.  Since the two
Ferengi had shot him, his synaptic responses seemed off, slightly out of
kilter.  Dr.  Crusher had assured him that the symptoms would diminish
in a day or so.  He hoped she was correct; he had no time to indulge
slow synapses.

He had to prepare for the TechnoFair.  Fortunately, when Dervin took him
from Vulcan, the Ferengi had stolen the computer download of his work as
well.  Before he'd gone to pursue Nabon, Skel had found those cassettes
right on the console where the artifacts had been.  He was grateful now
that he'd had the presence of mind to grab them and put them in the
pockets of his tunic before pursuing Nabon.

That was when Dervin had regained consciousness.

That was when he tried to stop ' you from taking the data cassettes and
from Pursuing ffabon.  That was when he attacked you.

That was when youThe memory flickered and faded out of reach like a
static-filled transmission.  No.  Dervin had not attacked him for the
cassettes.  Dervin had been in his dream last night.  That was why he
was confused.

But Skel's work was here.  It was one of the few things that had gone
right since he'd been kidnapped.

With the help of the Enterprise's computer and some lab equipment, he
would be able to duplicate his displays.  He and Tarmud would be able to
work together on their project at last.  He was pleased they had been
able to get so much done through correspondence, but the exchange of
information and ideas face-to-face was always so much more productive.
To be able to collaborate, then have an open forum like the TechnoFair
where they could share their findings among other scientists was an
opportunity that would come only rarely.

In fact, the Federation's Universal TechnoFair was a truly unique event.
Skel and Tarmud would be able to discuss their work with some of the
finest minds in the explored galaxy-scientists with whom it might
otherwise be impossible to communicate due to distance and time.

Scientists whom Skel might never have been able to meet, since he rarely
left Vulcan.  It was almost overwhelming, he realized-the contacts he
could make at this fair, the associations he could develop.

The influx of fresh ideas and viewpoints could turn his work around,
help him solve some of the more intriguing mysteries of the artifacts,
their self-generating force fields, their mysterious language.

	At last, something	positive might come from the 	devastating
disease	that had been inflicted on his 	people.

All those scientists.  All those people-their helpers, aides,
technicians, assistants.  From across the ga@y.

World after world after world.  All at the TechnoFair.

Skel had a sudden image of himself lecturing before the gathered mass of
scientists, with Tarmud beside him at the podium.  He saw the audience
of sentient beings of every shape, and organic type: the intellectual
wealth of the Federation, all with their eyes upon him.

Their eyes.  You will meet their eyes.  One by one.

Touch their hands.  Meet their eyes.  And they will be ours.

A sudden shiver ran up Skel's spine as he blinked, dazed, even as his
mother's voice reminded him, Not their eyes.  You can never meet another
being's eyes!

This above all else remember!

He was hallucinating, he realized calmly.  It was not the first time it
had happened, but it was still disturbing.  He really should call Dr.
Crusher, but could not make himself do it.  He struggled to maintain his
outward calm, and the battle of voices in his head eventually subsided.

Skel went to the computer and turned to his work, the only truly
successful therapy he'd ever had.  He huddled over the console, the
familiar and comforting march of equations and text easing his mind, his
inner fears about his own adequacy to fulfill the role destiny had
thrust upon him when he was but a ten-year-old child.

The door chimed.

He looked up, mildly surprised.  "Enter."

The doors parted to reveal a female ensign: young, comely by human
standards, with dark hair, olive skin, and deep-set brown eyes; though
small in build, she seemed muscular and athletic.

"Good morning, Master Scientist Skel," she greeted him politely, but
without the surfeit of pleasantries she might have displayed for another
more emotional species; her tone was reserved, her expression serene.

Obviously, Picard's people are well trained, Skel thought with a touch
of admiration, as he signaled her to step forward.  She did so, and the
doors snapped shut behind her.

"I'm Ensign Barbara Evans, sir," she continued.

"Captain Picard assigned me to assist you during your stay aboard the
Enterprise.  The computer told me you were awake, so I thought I'd
introduce myself and ask if you needed anything."

She did not offer to shake his hand, as most humans might, but instead
kept them respectfully behind her back.  To shake the hand of a touch
telepath was considered an invasion of privacy on Vulcan, though many
humans remained unaware of the fact.

"Thank you, Ensign Evans," Skel replied.  "I appreciate your captain's
hospitality.  You said the computer told you I was awake.

Would it tell me if a colleague of mine were also awake?"

"Certainly, sir.  I'll show you."  She paused, then raised her face
slightly and looked upward as she addressed the invisible entity.

"Computer.  Tell me the whereabouts of.  . ."  she paused and looked at
Skel for the name.

"Dr.  George Tarmud," he finished.

"Dr.  Tarmud is currently in his quarters," came the computer's
nonemotional female voice.

"Is Dr.  Tarmud awake at this time?"  Ensign Evans asked.

"Yes.  Dr.  Tarmud is awake and working at his console."

She gave a satisfied nod, then addressed Skel.  "Of course, the computer
is limited as to what questions it will answer.  It would, for example,
tell you nothing except Tarmud's location if he had requested that.

And it wouldn't give an answer to a question that violated established
privacy standards."

"Most logical," Skel commented.  "It is good to know my colleague is
awake and working.  I did not want to disturb him.  Now I can call on
him.  Thank you, Ensign."

"My pleasure, sir," she replied, and almost smiled-but she caught
herself at the last moment.

"You can find your way to Dr.  Tarmud's quarters by asking the computer
for that information when you're in the corridor.  It'll show you a map
of the ship and help you find your way.  Also, you may communicate with
me through the computer if there's anything you need during your stay
with us.  Is there anything else I can do for you, any service I might
provide at this time?"

Skel studied her a moment: What service might she provide, indeed?

Deliberately, he rose from his work station and approached her. "Tell
me, Ensign Evans.

When you are not providing assistance to me, what are your duties aboard
this vessel?"

"I currently serve with the science team; I've been assigned numerous
research projects involving stellar phenomena.  Mostly, I work with the
computer, collating data already collected.  Since it's a job I can come
back to at any time, it allows me the freedom to act as a liaison for
several of the guests."

"Interesting," Skel said, nodding.  "And how many people are involved in
your science team?"

"More than forty crew members.  I interact with at least twelve of them
on the data I'm working on, and they in turn interact with
higher-ranking scientists.

The senior officer of our team reports to Commander Data."

Forty people.Forty Enterprise personnel How many must thoseinteract wit

1. M. Diilard and Kathleen O'Malley "Forty people must accomplish a
great deal of work."

She tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile of pride.  "We try to,
sir."

"It was very thoughtful of Captain Picard to provide me a liaison with a
science background.  You no doubt have knowledge of equipment I may need
to run certain tests; you might be able to help me accomplish my tasks
more efficiently."

"That's my job, sir.  If you'd provide me a list of what you need, I'll
attend to it immediately."

He picked up a padd on which he'd jotted a few instructions.  "I have
been working on just such a list."

He took another step forward, placed the gray padd securely in her
palm-then smoothly slid his fingers around her wrist and held it
securely.

At his touch, she tensed and moved to pull away; when he did not easily
release his grip, she stared up at him, her eyes wide and questioning.

This time, Skel did not politely avert his gaze, as he had with the
empath or the captain or the doctor.

This time, he stared intently down into Barbara Evans's startled eyes.

"Excuse me-sir-" she stammered, clearly frightened, and took a step
back.  He moved with her, then closed in until he pressed against her
body.  His free hand moved up, swiftly, before she could react and then
he made contact, five fingers finding the neural pathways so quickly
that Evans had no time to escape, no time even to call for help.

Inside his head, T'Reth's voice screamed, NOT HER EYES!   YOU MUST NEVER
LOOK INTO ANOTHER BEINGS EYESI REMEMBER But he had been too long denied,
and the other voices would not be stilled so close to their release.

"My mind to your mind," he intoned, as his piercing gaze, a gaze with
which he had never touched another being in eighty years, bore into
Ensign Evans's eyes, as if they could drill their way into her cerebral
cortex ... deeper, deeper, down into her soul.

Evans grunted a small protest and went limp, although her eyes remained
huge, impossibly wide, and transfixed in a horror she could not have
imagined before stepping through his doors.  The padd clattered softly
to the carpet, and Skel caught her small body with his free arm to keep
her from falling.

He brought that hand up behind her neck, touching the bare skin there,
his fingers seeking out neural pathways that were less used, less
convenient than the ones on the face.  He felt the connection being
made, felt the circle completed between the fingertips of his two hands.
It was like a jolt of raw pleasure, and a small sound escaped his lips.

This was not like the melds with T'Son.  Those were nothing less than
torture, as she probed his mind, searching for his secrets.  No, his
ease of entry into the unsuspecting human woman was a delight.

"And now we are one," he whispered, as the meld became complete and her
mouth moved, parroting the words.  Her eyes remained enormous and filled
with terror, the only indication that she was aware of what was
happening to her.

"You have asked how you may be of service to me, Ensign Evans," he
murmured to her, never once moving his gaze from her captive one.  "You
may indeed be of great use, which I will explain carefully so that you
fully understand.  And when you leave me to complete your assignment,
then I will visit my colleague, Dr.  Tarmud."

She trembled in his grip like a sapling in a gale, but it was the only
visible protest her conscious mind could manage.  As he infected her
with the entities that had hidden within his brain all these years, the
entities that had manipulated him and mastered him from childhood on,
only he could hear the silent protest of her mind.  It was the same
warning voice that had tortured him since that terrible night of his
childhood, the night when life had changed for him forever.

As the Vulcan scientist clutched Barbara Evans in his arms, invading and
infecting her brain, he could hear, inside her, the voice that had
haunted him for so long.

Behind Barbara Evans's terrorized gaze screamed his mother, telling
Evans, too late, to run.  To hide.  To escape her only child.

"R UN!   R UN A WA Y!

"Deanna!"  Riker gave the thrashing Betazoid a hearty shake.  Her teeth
clicked together, then suddenly her eyes were open, wide, staring
unseeing, terrified.

"Run for your life!"  she shouted, not at him, but at some point in the
distance only she could see.

Riker slapped the communicator on his shoulder, grateful he'd decided to
sleep in his uniform.  Something about Deanna's nervousness and the
strange aura the Vulcan had left here had convinced him to be prepared,
ready for anything.  When he'd heard screaming coming from her room,
he'd thought she'd been under attack and had raced in to find her
fighting the bedcovers, yelling in her sleep.

"Riker to Dr.  Crusher!"  he barked into the communicator, over the
hammering of his heart.  "Medical emergency!"

"Crusher here," the doctor answered immediately, though her voice was
faintly heavy with sleep.  "What is it, Will?"

"It's Deanna.  She's locked in some nightmare.  .1 can't wake her up."

By now Crusher could hear the Betazoid's ravings over the comm link.
"I'm on my way!"

Only then did Riker think Crusher might be in Picard's quarters.

They frequently had breakfast together before starting their duty shift.
Well, there wasn't much he could do about that.

"Deanna, come on!"  Riker begged, as he gripped his friend's shoulders.
"It's me, Will!"  He held her face in his hand and turned her eyes to
him, forcing her to stare at him, praying she might really see him
through her dream.

She stared at him, her black eyes wide with terror, her mouth open; a
long dark curl had fallen diagonally across her face ... and, to his
amazement, she stopped thrashing.

"Look at me, Deanna.  It's me, " he repeated, willing her to snap out of
the dream.

She looked at him and did not move; as he held her arms, her gasping
began to ease.  "Will," she said, then lifted her hands to catch his
arms, but her gaze was still wild.  "My God .  . ."

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the look in them
was one of fear-mixed with grateful recognition.  Riker smiled.

"I'm here," he said softly, his grip on her arms now meant to offer
comfort.  "Everything's okay now."

Her black eyes grew sorrowful, tear-filled.  "No.  No, nothing's okay.
Oh, Will, it's terrible!"

He pulled her into the shelter of his embrace, just as he heard the
outer doors to her quarters opening.

"Sssssh.  It's okay, Deanna.  You're awake now.  The dream is over."

But she just shook her head and held him, her body trembling violently.

"How is she?"  Crusher asked, as she rushed in, putting one knee on the
bed and opening her emergency kit at the same time.  She had the
medi-scanner in her hand so quickly that Will never saw her pull it out.

He glanced over his shoulder at a figure moving behind the doctor and
saw Picard.  "She's awake.  She just seemed to come out of it herself.
But she doesn't seem to be able to separate reality from dream yet."

Crusher frowned as she looked at the scanner readout.

"It wasn't a dream," Deanna protested, pushing away from Riker.

"They were memories-Skel's memories."  She was in control again and
rubbed her eyes, collecting herself.  "I was dreaming normally at one
point in my sleep, but something happened, and I found myself enmeshed
in Skel's memories.  Suddenly, I was Skel as a child, trapped in that
terrible time when the entities from the artifacts infected his people.

His father was infected and went mad, killing his mother slowly through
torture.  In spite of her personal anguish, her terror, she controlled
herself long enough to send him a powerful mental warning.

He was so young at the time, I think such an intense telepathic
impression may have damaged his brain, because he sicill hears it, that
voice, that silent command.  I sensed it-heard it-from him last night
when he was in the quarantine booth, and again when he came to visit me
last night."

At that, Picard caught Riker's eye and performed a disapproving double
take when Will confirmed the fact with a nod.

"You were shouting, 'Run!   Run for your life!"' Riker prompted her. "Is
that the voice Skel heard?"

"Yes," she said, her tone abruptly conveying the depth of her
exhaustion; she lowered her beautiful face, her dark curling hair
spilling forward, emphasizing the shadows beneath her pale cheekbones,
beneath her infinitely weary eyes.  She looked so drawn and delicate-an
appearance Riker knew from experience was resoundingly misleading-that
he was again overwhelmed by the urge to protect her.  "The voice of his
mother trying desperately to save her only child.  Such a terrible
memory.  I'll never forget it."

"Isn't it unusual for you to pick up such a powerful impression?"

Crusher asked, leaning forward herself with concern.  "I mean, you're
telling us about scenes as if you were there.  Quoting actual dialogue."

"Yes, very unusual," Troi admitted.  "But Skel is a telepath; and
sometimes, when Betazoids interact with telepaths, the results can be
unpredictable.  Especially under such unusual circumstances."

"Deanna," Crusher said quietly, and Riker could tell by her voice that
she was about to broach a difficult subject, "your brain waves are very
erratic.

I'm afraid that this contact with Skel may have had some repercussions
for you."

"It's not just Skel," Deanna insisted firmly.  "It's those artifacts."
She focused on Picard, her expression grim.  "I don't know how, but they
had something to do with my dream, the fact that I couldn't wake up.
They're a danger to every person on this ship!"

"Counselor-" Picard began reasonably, but she would have none of it.

"We must destroy them immediately, Captain!   We can wait no longer!
Every moment we delay-"

"Counselor Troi!"  Picard interrupted firmly.  His voice was modulated
and calm, much calmer than Riker knew he felt.  "I have been in touch
with the Vulcans.  We are scheduled to rendezvous with one of their
science vessels tomorrow."

She looked up at him, aghast.  "Tomorrow is too late!   And sending them
back to the Vulcans merely passes the danger on to someone else.

We must destroy them now!"

Picard drew back, his expression grim.  After a few seconds' silence, he
turned to Crusher.  "Doctor, if you will excuse Commander Riker and
myself"

"Yes, of course," Crusher agreed, seeming almost relieved to get them
out of the room.

Riker gave Deanna's shoulder a squeeze and extracted himself from the
bed, then followed Picard out of the room.

The instant the bedroom doors shut behind them, Picard spoke.

"What the hell is going on here?   I gave express orders that Skel was
to have no contact with Counselor Troi!   What do you know about this?"

"I know that when I went to Deanna's quarters last night to check on
her, I found Skel inside.  Obviously, he was just about to leave.  I
deemed it pointless and offensive for me to question his purpose.  When
I asked Deanna about it, she was vague, and something she said made me
question whether you'd already told him to stay away from her.  I
assumed wrongly-that you'd intended to do that in the morning,
considering the late hour we'd spoken."

Will frowned now, wondering if anything would've been different if he'd
spoken to Picard last night.  "I slept on the couch.  To give her a
sense of security."  He smiled grimly.  "I woke up hearing her scream.
My first thought was that she was under attack.  That Skel had somehow
gotten in here, past me, and was after her.  Are we all cracking up?"

Picard looked unhappy.  "I spoke to Skel last night before I spoke to
you, Will.  I told him, as politely and as reasonably as I could, that
it would be better for Deanna if she had no further contact with him. He
was the soul of reasonableness itself when he agreed with me."

"So, he disobeyed you.  A Vulcan disobeyed a captain's orders."

Picard shook his head.  "I didn't make it an order.  I know I could
have, but why would you have to order a Vulcan to do something so
simple?   I requested it of him, and he agreed.  It makes no sense that
he would then do the exact opposite."

Riker thought about that.  "Those artifacts are his life's work, and
Deanna's had some sort of mental communication with them.  I know he's a
Vulcan, but considering what he's been through-couldn't a Vulcan have an
obsession so great he'd act illogically to get a piece of information
impossible for him to obtain any other way?"

Picard sighed.  "Perhaps.  Still, I'll speak with him-"

"Please, sir," Deanna said calmly from the doorway of her room, "I'd
rather you didn't."  She wore a long robe over her nightdress, and
although her long hair was still disheveled, the anxiety had left her
features; her expression was entirely peaceful.

Beverly stood beside her, a supportive hand on Trois shoulder.

"I've given her something to relax her body and calm her meta conscious
hyperactivity.  I'm not sure I know what's going on, but the drugs I
gave her should help her get a dreamless sleep, which she sorely needs
now."

"I'm sorry, Captain, about the way I addressed you before," Troi said
sincerely.  "I've developed quite a phobia toward those artifacts."

"I'm sure we'll all sleep better when they're aboard the Vulcan science
vessel," Picard said comfortingly.

"You stay in your quarters and catch up on your sleep.

Let us take care of everything else.  I want you to feel safe, Deanna."

"Oh, I do, sir.  And if Beverly's right and I can have a few hours of
dreamless sleep, I'm sure everything will seem much more normal when I
wake up again."

She looked at Riker and smiled dazzlingly.  "Thanks, Will, for staying
here last night."

.1 I'm just glad I was there when you needed me," he assured her.

"Call me when you wake up and we'll have 'breakfast' together."

She smiled and bade them goodbye as the three officers exited her
quarters.  From the corridor Riker watched as the doors to her quarters
shut over her; he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling he had about leaving
her alone.

"Anything else you'd care to report, Doctor?"  Picard asked quietly when
he was sure they were out of Deanna's earshot.

"Just what I told you.  I don't like her change in brain-wave activity.
It's as if she's getting some new mental contact she's not initiating
and can't turn off.  I think that's what's triggering those bad
dreams-or rather waking nightmares; she's awake when she has them, which
is why they're so destructive.  She gets no rest and is trapped in
someone else's reality.  I wish I had a Betazoid doctor to confer with.
I don't like it."

"You're not the only one who doesn't like it," Picard grumbled.

"Number One, I want you to contact Lieutenant Worf and have him post two
guards outside Counselor Trois quarters, around the clock.

Have them accompany her if she leaves her rooms.  If we can't safeguard
her mind, the least we can do is protect her body!"

"Aye, sir," Riker replied, surprised at how relieved he felt that Picard
had responded to his own irrational fears for Deanna.

"It all seems so different now," Tarmud whispered.

"So clear."

The human's hazel eyes were open wide, his body shaking.  His skin was
pale, glistening with sweat as his body fought the invaders that had
taken over his brain and were settling deep into its core-his amygdala.

"Our work," Tarmud murmured dreamily.  "It all makes so much more sense
to me.  It's so much more important than I thought."

"Yes," Skel agreed, as he watched the human carefully.  Tarmud was
having trouble handling the entities, much more trouble than the
younger, stronger Barbara Evans.

Skel grew concerned that the human's immune system, or perhaps his brain
itself, couldn't handle the invasion.  But he needed Tarmud, needed him
desperately.  If he died before their work was done ...

"Water," the scientist said, gasping and closing his eyes.

Skel immediately procured water from the replicator.  Tarmud drank it in
one long swallow, then, without warning, hurled the glass at the Vulcan
and followed it with a bodily attack.  The human sprang from the couch
and swung a punch at the Vulcan full force.  Skel grabbed Tarmud's fist
only millimeters from his face and held it fast.  Tarmud swung with the
other, and Skel stopped that one as well.  Swiftly, the Vulcan spun the
researcher so that his back was to Skel's chest and firmly restrained
him in his arms.

Tarmud screamed and flailed, using so much energy and rage that the
Vulcan became concerned the effort would trigger a myocardial incident
in the human.

Still, there was nothing Skel could do but restrain him, to keep Tarmud
from harming them both.

Finally, the human exhausted himself and sagged in Skel's restraining
embrace.  The Vulcan waited several minutes before reacting, fearing
Tarmud was only feigning collapse.  However, he now noticed the
scientist's sweating had stopped, as had his trembling.

He was breathing rhythmically, evenly.

"I'm all right now," Tarmud said weakly.  "Tired.

But all right.  It's over."

Carefully, Skel eased the man back onto the couch and brought him more
water, contemplating whether Tarmud would be physically too weak to
contain the entities.  As the researcher drank down the second glass, he
seemed more and more composed.

"Are you well?"  Skel finally asked, his Vulcan self only semiascendant.
In this mode, he could use all of his Vulcan training and knowledge; in
this mode, he was infectious.  When the entities resubsided back to his
amygdala, he would remember only what he needed to continue his normal
life.

Admirably adaptive, the entities; over the past eighty years, they had
utilized Skel to help them evolve to a form particularly suited to
Vulcan physiology.  Permitting their host some control allowed them to
survive much longer-and to spread the disease more efficiently.

And the TechnoFair was the perfect opportunity to spread them throughout
the entire galaxy.

But Skel was beginning to doubt whether his human associate would be
able to control himself long enough to reach the fair without generating
suspicion.

At last, Tarmud nodded, wiping a dark golden lock of damp hair from his
forehead.  "Sorry about the outburst."

"Do not apologize," Skel insisted.  "We cannot know the full range of
reactions as different species are incorporated into the whole.

There may be others who react as you did.  We need to be prepared."  As
it had happened for Barbara Evans, Skel knew, the entities were now
surging through Tarmud's brain, triggering the strongest emotions-hate,
rage, violent passion-and feeding on the adrenaline and other hormones
produced.  Once satiated, the entities would subside again and permit
Tarmud to behave normally so that he would go undetected.

"How long did it take you to help them mutate into this superior form?"
Tarmud asked.

"Years," Skel replied.  "Some of it they did themselves, inside me,
while I grew from a child to an adult.  They had the time they needed to
adapt themselves to my physical form, to learn from me.

Fortunately, I was the only Vulcan infected who was not purged when the
other entities were destroyed.  Apparently, a mutated cluster survived
within me, going deep into my biochemistry.

Then when I achieved my position, we had many years to use the resources
of the Vulcan Science Academy to enable the entities to develop into
this superior form.  The adaptation causes the host some confusion, but,
in general, it has been very helpful.  Though feeding is minimizedexcept
for the nightmares."  The terrifying dreams produced enough hormonal
reactions to maintain the life of the entities, but their hunger was
ever-present.

"With the equipment on the Enterprise, we can finish the adaptation
process, so that any sentient organism can house the entities without
fear of breakdown or death."

"Yes," Tarmud said, blinking sleepily.

"You must rest now," Skel instructed.  "While you sleep, you will dream
and the entities can feed and grow stronger.  Then we will discuss our
method of recruitment."

"Someone must recruit Kyla.  She's strong ... has so much knowledge.  .
."  Tarmud's eyes were closing, and Skel carefully helped him to recline
on the couch.

Tarmud's initial outburst still concerned him, but the violent
nightmares his colleague would experience during his sleep would help
sate the new entities in his body, and help keep them under control.

"Yes," Skel agreed softly, as he waited for Tarmud to sleep.  "We need
Dr.  Dannelke.  Dr.  Ellis as well.

And some of the senior staff.  But most importantly of all, we must have
the empath."

Tarmud's mouth twitched in a smile, though his eyes remained shut.

"Yes," he murmured dreamily.

The empath.  We tasted her during the contact.  We need the empath . .

She would never be infected, Skel knew; she was too valuable.  As his
mother had been, Troi would be sacrificed to the subatomic entities'
hunger.  They could detect her emotional state and, more importantly,
the energy produced by her fears could feed them from a distance. Unlike
T'Reth, however, Deanna Troi would be kept alive for a long, long
time....

SWEPT AWAY ON A WAVE of scientific ecstasy, Kyla Dannelke peered raptly
through her ophthalmic visor at the new android eye models Dr.  Tarmud
had given her.  The blankly staring orbs-their irises a striking shade
of violet, their artificial organic optic nerves trailing like
streamers-rested in a fluid bath while Dannelke held them with forceps,
peering through her visor like a jeweler examining an impressively cut
diamond.  Her visor included an optical scanner, which permitted her to
focus all the way down to the cellular level-or all the way in the other
direction as binoculars.

Beautiful, she thought, smiling to herself as she measured and analyzed
the orbs, using the scope to peer through the retina deep into the
artificial organ's interior.  Absolutely beautiful.  A combination of
organics, electronics, and mechanics, these were the ultimate android
eyes.  Tarmud had outdone himself They incorporated all that Tarmud had
accomplished with his early VISOR, and more; these eyes would be able to
perceive all that was visible to the naked human eye, plus ultraviolet,
infrared, and several other spectrum bands as well.

Once she examined the eyes and their accompanying optic nerves on the
cellular level, she'd write her report.  But the small blinking inset in
her visor's lower right field advised her that the hour was already
late-and she wanted to invite Worf and his son to have dinner in her
quarters.  Thinking about the prospect made her smile.  She'd considered
inviting Worf alone, but quickly rejected that idea; Alexander was so
bright that she couldn't bear to leave him out of the invitation.
Besides, if there was any way through to his father's rough Klingon
heart, it was through that bright young boy.  She'd read that Klingons
liked strong-flavored dishes, especially animal products, and so she'd
decided to coax the replicator into duplicating her grandmother's
infamous liver and onions-served rare, of course-for Worf.  Maybe
Counselor Troi would know what Alexander's favorite meal was, so she
could order that.  For herself. The door chime interrupted her reverie,
causing her to glance, mildly irritated, at the time again.  She wasn't
expecting anyone-unless it was Tarmud already looking for her report.
How fast did he think she could work?

"Come."  She glanced up at the door through the visor, forcing it to
rapidly change its focus from the cellular level to normal sight.

The doors opened upon a short dark-skinned young man-a uniformed ensign
who seemed oddly familiar.  Odder still, he wore no communicator badge.

"Yes?"

"Sorry to bother you, Doctor," he began hesitantly.

"I can see you're still working."

She forced a smile, although his hesitancy annoyed her; she wanted him
to get to the point and be done with it, so she could return to her
work.  "What can I do for you?"

"Actually, Doctor, I'm here to help you."  He took a timid step toward
her.

"With what?   I don't remember asking for anything.

Or did Ensign Evans send you?"  She finally recalled requesting data
cassettes and another computer padd that morning; now it was almost
dinner time.  Where had the day gone?   She leaned back over the android
eyes again, thinking that he could leave the items on her desk.

"Yes, exactly," the young man said, sounding relieved, as if he, too,
was unsure of his task.  "Ensign Evans sent me with your supplies."

"Excellent," Kyla murmured, speaking to the violet orbs again, totally
absorbed in their cellular structure.

"Just put them down over there."  She waved vaguely toward the coffee
table.  "That'll be all.  Thank you."

She spent another few seconds thus absorbed, following the trail of the
microscopic artificial nerves, not even noticing that the doors failed
to open and close again.

A hand closed on her shoulder.

She whirled about and stared up into the ensign's strangely familiar
dark face.

"Excuse me, Dr.  Dannelke," he said, his voice no longer timid but
strong, firm, and self-assured.

"Could you look up at me for one moment?"

He caught her chin with one hand-firmly, almost roughly-and reached with
the other to pull away her visor.

Instinctively, she raised both arms and flailed out, knocking away the
fingers that dug into her chin, the hand that reached from the side.  In
the blink of an eye, she bolted from the chair past him, into the center
of the room.

"Who's your commanding officer?"  she demanded, feeling the heat of
adrenaline on her face, and crouched into a defensive stance.

"Who?"  The visor impeded her vision slightly, disorienting her as its
focusing apparatus tried to keep pace with the rapid movement of her
head, but she had no intention of taking the time to remove
it-especially since he wanted it off for some reason.

"Forgive me, Dr.  Dannelke," he said smoothly, as though his behavior
had been perfectly professional and normal while it was Kyla who was
acting strangely.  "I didn't mean to alarm you; I merely need your
undivided attention for a moment."

"You can have it for a lot longer than that, friend!"

she snapped, then ordered: "Computer!"

There was no time to ask the location of Lieutenant Worf or anything
else, for that matter: the intruder sprang at her, his dark hands
reaching for her face.

Her leg came up fast; her knee caught him cleanly in the sternum.

He fell hard, the wind knocked out of him with a sharp gasp-but,
impossibly, he was back on his feet without a pause.

The sight left her unsettled; he was much smaller than she was, and
though strong, he should have at least taken a few seconds to catch his
breath ...

leaving her to think that there was something wrong here, something even
more wrong than the unbelievable fact that she was being attacked by a
member of Picard's carefully screened crew.

The thought galvanized her; she took the offensive, landing a solid
punch on his perfect nose.  Bone crunched, blood flew, but the young man
never halted.  Instead, he came at her again, smiling through the
streaming blood.

Smiling.

He came at her again.  She chopped him on the neck, punched him hard
below his navel, chopped him again on the shoulder.  He went down on his
face, and came up immediately, grinning through the streaming blood.

She dodged out of his way, knocking over a small table that held stacks
of data cassettes, trying to get far enough from him to use her feet.

It was just enough.  She spun and kicked him hard in the ribs as he
scrabbled toward her.  Yet he absorbed the blow without falling-as any
normal human should have-and when she delivered a second kick, he was
ready for her.

She shrieked as he caught her heel, pulled her down, and pushed her onto
her back.  And then he was on top of her, reaching for the visor.  He
caught hold of it with one hand, while his other struggled to pin her
down; she caught for the first time a glimpse of his eyes, magnified and
slightly out of focus, through the visor-vast and brown and filled with
a gloating hatred so burning cold it stole her breath.

She squeezed her own eyes shut, and with a desperate surge of strength,
she delivered a merciless knee to his groin.

With a yelp, he loosened his grip; it was enough to permit her to roll
free.  He should have been curled up in a ball, shrieking, but instead,
by the time she got to her feet and put some distance between them, he
was up and grinning at her more broadly than ever.

She bolted.  The doors opened millimeters before her face; she stumbled,
but at the last instant kept her footing and sprinted down the corridor.
Her assailant should not have been able to walk, she knew, yet she could
hear his rasping breath meters behind her.

She put on a burst of speed and rounded a corner, nearly plowing into
two crew members.  She suppressed the thought of how she must have
appeared to them: totally disheveled, hysterical, racing around in her
ophthalmic visor.

"Call security!"  she yelled, as she pulled away and continued to flee
from her attacker.  "Call Worf!"

Distantly, she heard one of the crew members say dazedly, "You bet!"
before Kyla was out of sight.

"Can't we invite her to dinner, Father?"  Alexander asked, as he changed
out of his school clothes.

Worf was beginning to wonder if his son had only been feigning sleep
last night when Kyla Dannelke had visited them.  He had started asking
Worf about this dinner invitation as soon as he had gotten up this
morning.

"She helped me so much with my floating eyeball," Alexander explained
patiently.  "It would be a nice way to repay her, wouldn't it?   You're
always telling me that when someone offers you help, that's a debt that
must be repaid."

"Yes, that is true," Worf allowed.  "But you must understand, Alexander.
Dr.  Dannelke did not come on board to socialize; she came here to do
important work with her colleagues.  She may already have her evening
planned."

"But what if she doesn't?"  Alexander insisted.  "We can at least ask. I
know she might say no.  Please, Father?   Can't we ask her?"

Worf sighed, trying to tell himself he did not already know the outcome
of this discussion.  "Very well.  You may invite her to dinner here. Let
her know you had my permission.  And do not pout if she turns you down!"

"Sure, Father!"  Alexander agreed, all smiles.  "Maybe she can show me
how to make my eyeball go inside out like hers!"

Worf broke his stern countenance to smile back at his boy.  "You really
like her, do you not?"

Alexander nodded, then looked at his father slyly.

"I think Kyla really likes you, Father."

Worf's frown reappeared.  The boy was entirely too precocious! "That is
Dr.  Dannelke, not Kyla.  You must show respect for such a learned
scientist!"

"She said I could call her that!   Honest, Father.  I know how to act!"

Yes, Worf had to admit.  Alexander behaved much better with others than
he often did with his father.

And, no doubt, due to his mother's early death, he was naturally
attracted to women.  "Actually, son, I think Dr.  Dannelke likes you.

"

"That's great.  That means she likes both of us!"

Worf nodded, knowing that was the truth.  And how could you not be
attracted to a woman who was intelligent, strong, forthright, and who
also admired your son?   He began to wonder if the scientist knew more
about Klingon culture than she let on.

"I will be off duty in two hours," Worf told his boy.

"If she agrees to come, we will eat then.  If she accepts, ask her the
name of her favorite meal."

"You're not going to make her eat Klingon food?"

Alexander asked, and Worf grumbled at the playful sarcasm in his voice.

"This is a dinner invitation," he reminded his son, not an endurance
test.  It is time for me to return to the bridge.  Send a message to me
through the computer when-" His communicator chirped at him, and he
nodded at his son, leaving the boy's room so that he might answer the
page more privately.

Once in the central living quarters, he touched the badge, and said,
"Worf, here."

" Lieutenant Worf," came a breathy voice, "This is Ensign Johannsen.
We've got a security emergency on Deck Five.  One of the visiting
scientists is racing around the ship as if she's being pursued.  But-we
never saw anyone after her."

"Do we need a medical team?"  Worf asked, as he left the quarters and
started jogging toward the turbolift.

"I don't think so, sir," the officer reported.  "We've been tracking her
through the computer.  She's moving pretty fast."

"Which scientist is it?"  he asked, as he entered the lift.  If he could
remember who it was he might be able to determine if they were working
with chemicals or equipment that could have caused a physical reaction
or even hallucinations.  Then he would know if he needed medical staff.

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know," the officer explained.

"She's really tall, and very blond.  But she was wearing something on
her face, so I couldn't recognize her.

There are so many new scientists on board.  Lieutenant Singh is with me
as well, and he didn't know her either."

"Very good, Lieutenant."  He was about to tell them he was on his way
when Johannsen spoke again.

"We checked with the computer, sir, to see if she was being pursued, and
according to the scanners, she isn't.  But she did ask for help, sir.
Specifically, she asked for you."

Worf had a sudden sinking premonition as to the identity of the
scientist.  "Where is she now?

"Computer says she's on Deck Three, still running.$' "Good work,
Ensign," Worf said, signing off.  He alerted his staff to have a crew of
four security officers on standby, and then he told the lift to take him
to Deck Three.

If possible, he wanted to handle this one himself.

Exhausted and gasping, Kyla stopped her flight and leaned against a
bulkhead to catch her breath, pressing a hand against her aching ribs.
With the other, she lifted the visor, pushing it up to her hairline so
that she could focus better.

A scan in each direction indicated she was safefor the moment.

The entire incident seemed unbelievable; she'd never heard of crime on a
starship before.

Most people considered starships the safest places in the galaxy.

Yet the sight of the young ensign's eyes had chilled Kyla to the bone;
she'd never seen such calculated murderous rage before.  Was it possible
that an Enterprise crew member could have suddenly developed homicidal
tendencies?

Impossible.  Just as impossible as the crewman's grinning indifference
to his own wounds, just as impossible as the notion that Kyla herself
might be going mad.

She tensed at the soft rustle of cloth-or was it a breath?   She was so
paranoid now, almost anything sounded like pursuit; she paused,
listening, not daring to breathe herself.

Another soft sound.  Dannelke dropped the visor back down, letting it
focus on a distant point she couldn't quite make out.  Nothing.  Yet ...

She glanced each way, then took off again, keeping her legs firmly under
her, pushing off the deck plates, picking up speed.  She rounded another
corner and glanced back over her shoulder one last timeAnd slammed into
something solid.  Something that clutched her in a viselike grip.

She exploded into a fury of action, kicking and fighting to free her
arms.

"Kyla!"  a strong baritone yelled, making her look up.  The ophthalmic
visor focused wildly on a brown face, a ridged skull, and a pair of
fierce glowering eyes.

She ripped the visor off to confirm what she was seeing.  "Worf, thank
God!"  she exhaled, hugging him impulsively.

Then, realizing what she was doing, she moved away, blushing.

Desperate to recover her aplomb, she swept the myriad stray hairs that
had escaped her braid away from her face, and asked, "What took you so
long?"

He raised his prominent eyebrows in surprise, which made her smile; she
enjoyed catching him off guard.  She had a feeling it didn't happen too
often.

"What took me-?"  he started, then caught himself, took a deep breath,
and restored his professional demeanor.  "Dr.  Dannelke, you have been
quite the moving object!"

"Oh, we're back to Doctor and Lieutenant again, huh?"  She leaned
against the bulkhead again to catch her breath.

"Kyla," Worf said quietly, "what is wrong?   Why are you fleeing through
the ship wildly as if you were being pursued?"

"Because I am being pursued," she explained, as she waited for her heart
rate to slow.

"By whom?"  Worf questioned.

"He didn't show me his credentials before he attacked me, Worf."

The Klingon stiffened.  "You were attacked?   Aboard the Enterprise?"

"I know, it sounds impossible.  But it happened.

And aboard your precious ship."  She pushed away from the bulkhead.
"Come back to my quarters.  I'll show you."

They said nothing on the way back to her quarters; Kyla saw no need.
Also, his skeptical expression angered her, adding to her adrenaline
overload.  She spent the time during their short walk getting control of
her breathing and emotions.  Once Worf saw the overturned chair, the
stack of cassettes scattered on the deck, and the obvious evidence of a
struggle, his opinion would change.  He would see that she told the
truth.

When at last they arrived at her guest quarters, she strode inside
confidently, leading him... and halted abruptly.

Before her sat her temporary office... in perfect order.  The chair had
been carefully replaced at the desk where the android eyes still waited;
the cassettes were neatly restocked on the table.  It was as if the
attack had never happened.

Worf stood silently beside her, mountainous, staring, waiting-judging.

"I'm not crazy," she murmured, as she hugged herself, struggling to hold
her feelings in.  "I was attacked in this room.  An ensign came in ... I
never saw him before.  I was working on these android eyes.

We spoke.  I thanked him, told him to leave some supplies on the desk
... but instead of leaving, he walked up and grabbed my shoulder.

Then he tried to pull my visor off.  I got away from him-but he came
after me!   We fought-"

"Fought?"  Worf asked.  It was the first word he'd said to her since
they got on the turbolift, and that single syllable carried such
disbelief that Kyla's confusion turned to anger.

She knew only one way to convince the Klingon that she was capable of
defending herself.

Without warning, she spun around, shouted, and swung her hand toward his
face.  He blocked it expertly and counterstruck.  She blocked that one
and kicked, landing only a glancing blow.  Like a snake, he grabbed the
ankle that had struck him and tossed her onto the floor.  She rolled
smoothly, came up, and went at him again.  Strike, block, counter
strike, block-then finally, Worf shouted, "Enough!"

That stopped it.  They were both in defensive crouches, both gasping for
air.

He studied her, his expression perceptibly less cynical, and growled,
"Very well.  You fought.  And then?"

His concession dissolved the last traces of adrenaline in her system.
She sagged, utterly exhausted, against the nearest bulkhead and drew an
unsteady hand across her sweating brow; the act made her realize more
hair hung out of her braid than in it.  "We fought.  I have two black
belts, one in kung fu, the other in aikido.  The guy was smaller than
me, lighter.

I should've taken him, but he just kept coming.  I was hitting, kicking
him hard.  I didn't pull any punches!

Dammit, I broke his nose!"  She thrust out her right fist to show him
the darkening blood on the knuckles.

"He just kept getting up.  Kept trying to touch me, put his hands on me,
take my visor off.  He should still be lying here, groaning-but he
chased me down the corridor.  A couple of times, he almost caught me ...

and I've set a Terran collegiate track record that still holds.

"I'm not going crazy, Worf.  It really happened."

For a moment, Worf was silent, his expression dark and unreadable, and
then, utterly surprising her, he reached out to place a hand-large,
powerful, feverishly warm-upon her shoulder, the same shoulder the
ensign had touched.

"I believe you," he said.  "No one who fights as you do could lie about
something like that.  I cannot explain how this could happen, but I
promise you, I will find out who did this."

She sighed, immensely grateful, and was suddenly too weary to stand.  He
helped her to the couch and sat beside her, still stern and upright,
while she let herself sink back against the cushions.

"And I apologize, Kyla," he continued, his hand still on her shoulder,
"for doubting your word about your ability to fight.  You are a worthy
adversary.

Perhaps I allowed"-and here a barely perceptible smile played at the
corners of his lips-"cultural prejudices to color my evaluation of your
expertise,"

"Well, in that case," she said, "I owed you one.

Worf.  Thanks.  For showing up.  For believing me."

"You are welcome.  And, Kyla, I will want you to view images of the
personnel who are currently serving on the Enterprise.

"But that's over a thousand people," she protested.

"I have so much work to do yet before the fair."

"If we eliminate all the females, all the children, all the non-humans,
and all the higher ranking officers, it will narrow the search to a
reasonable number.  You must do this to be able to identify your
attacker."  He looked at her more sternly.  "And I want you to get a
positive identification of anyone coming to your door.

If you do not recognize their name, do not let them in!"

"Don't worry."  She smiled wanly.  "I also have a black belt in
paranoia."

He frowned at the statement, as though disapproving of jokes at such a
serious moment.  "One more thing.  Alexander will be contacting you.  He
hopes you might join us for dinner.  I will explain to him that you need
to recover-"

"The hell you will!"  she protested.  "I'd love to come to dinner and
just put all this behind me.  And where would I be safer but with the
chief of security?

Let Alexander send his invitation.  I'll answer yes, and be pleased to
do so.  Unless you don't want me there."

He hesitated, and for a terrible moment, she feared he was trying to
find the polite way to turn her down.

If he was honest and admitted it, she told herself stoically, she would
accept it.  She'd started things between them on the worst possible
note, and now this"Kyla, I would be pleased to have you come for
dinner," he said quietly, and she smiled at the honesty in his dark
eyes.

"Great.  So, what's for dinner?"

"Those are the artifacts?"  Geordi said softly, as he peered through the
clear quarantine casing to view the tiny unimposing objects.  They
looked like shining black art objects or elegantly designed containers
to hold a cache of jewels-something to be held in the palm of the hand
and admired.  The sight of them made him want to hold one, to feel its
smoothness, to observe the play of shimmering light across its dark
polished surface.

"The very ones," Crusher said ruefully next to him.

Her tone carried the same emotions Geordi felt: attraction warring with
revulsion.  On the engineer's other side, Data stood examining the
tricorder readouts.

"Sure don't look like they could be responsible for anything as serious
as a planetary infection," said Geordi.  He walked around the objects
enclosed in the fields and eyed them carefully.  His VISOR could detect
nothing harmful about the objects; it merely registered their
simplicity.  Try as he might, he could detect nothing beyond the sleek,
outer surface .  which appeared to be made of an unfamiliar metal alloy.

"In fact," Data corrected Geordi smoothly, glancing up from his
readouts, "it is not these objects per se that caused the illness on
Vulcan, but rather the entities that are contained within."  He stared
curiously at the objects.  "Apparently, the disease vectors are in the
form of subatomic particles, but how they interact with the brain and
control the host is, as yet, unknown."

"Captain Picard thinks you might be able to decipher the writing on the
shells?"  Crusher asked Data.

"He has asked Skel if I might analyze the engravings," Data elaborated.
"Skel has agreed, and has given me access to the Vulcan's work.  They
believe they have translated the phrase, 'For war alone-." I am hoping
to take their work and expand upon it.

Even if there is not time to complete it before the TechnoFair, I might
be able to uncover one of their language matrixes."

"I don't know, Data," Geordi said warily.  "The Vulcans have been
working on this stuff for eighty years.  How are they going to feel if
you solve this puzzle in a couple of days?"

Data seemed flustered for the moment.  DUL, Geordi, Vulcans do not
express their emotions, therefore .  . ."  He paused, as if finally
getting the joke.

Geordi and Crusher both smiled as the android nodded.  "Ah.  I see.
Vulcans do not express their emotions, therefore we will never know how
they really 'feel' at all!   Yes.  Very subtle."

"I think when Master Scientist Skel finally meets you, Data," Geordi
said, "he'll find you a kindred spirit!"

Crusher's face grew somber, and both officers noticed it.

"I say something rude, Doctor?"  Geordi asked.

"No, of course not," she replied, too quickly.  As they watched her,
waiting for something else, she finally said, "It's just that Deanna had
some problems 'reading' Skel.  Apparently, the terrible ordeal he
endured as a child has had lasting effects on him.  It's really rather
sad."

"That little bit of information the Vulcans sent Picard about the
initial epidemic was pretty dry," Geordi added, "but still it sounded
terribly grim."

"He was only a child at the time," Crusher told them.  "He lost his
mother, and his father was infected."

"Was Skel infected as well?"  Data asked.

Beverly shook her head.  "Just affected by the trauma of his experience.
Interestingly enough, none of the children of Vulcan were infected-just
adults.  It's interesting how diseases can single out certain members of
a community, affect some, and leave others unscathed.  But the children
had their own price to pay.

"I don't know if I'd want to devote my life to studying the things that
caused my mother's death," Geordi said quietly.

"Skel explained," Crusher told them, "that he wanted to make something
positive out of such a negative event."  Then she smiled, as if trying
to break the somber mood.  "Well.  If you gentlemen have garnered all
the information you need, this area is supposed to be off-limits."

"Thanks for letting us in, Doc," Geordi said.

"I thank you as well," Data told her.  "I could have gotten the images
from a remote scan, but this data is much more precise."

"Well, the captain approved it," Crusher said.

"Frankly, the little things give me the creeps.  I'll be glad when
they're off the ship."

As the two officers stepped out into the corridor, Geordi turned toward
his android friend.  "Will you start work on those matrixes right away?"

"I believe so," Data said.  "Skel will only be on board for another two
days.  It does not give me much time."

"You go ahead," Geordi told him.  "I've got to check something in
engineering, then I'm going to call it a night and relax in my
quarters."

"I will see you tomorrow, Geordi," Data said, as they parted ways.

Geordi smiled as his friend moved away down a rounded corridor; already
absorbed in the tricorder readouts of the shell engravings.  If anybody
can break that language, Data can.

The chief engineer made his way to his work area.

He'd wanted to check, just one more time, the ship's efficiency ratings
since the new calibrations had been worked in.  He spent a few minutes
at his station and conferred with a few of his staff.  He was in the
middle of a conversation with the officer in charge of this shift, when
he spied the newcomer.

"Dr.  Tarmud?"  he said in surprise.

"Ah, there you are, Mr.  La Forge!"  the scientist said cheerily.

"It's, uh, nice to see you, sir, but this area is usually off-limits to
everyone except authorized ship's personnel.  Can I help you?"

"Well, I understood that you were off duty," the scientist explained
sheepishly, "so I attempted to locate you through the computer, but you
kept moving.  I followed the computer's directions and eventually turned
up here.  Sorry if I'm trespassing."

"No harm done, sir," Geordi assured him.  "And, technically, I am off
duty."  The engineer glanced at the leader of the shift and nodded
farewell, then moved closer to the scientist.  "What is it you wanted to
see me about?"

As they drew away from the others, Tarmud put a friendly hand on
Geordi's shoulder.  "Actually, Mr.  La Forge, I came to apologize."

The younger man felt confused.  He glanced at Tarmud, who kept his eyes
downcast, as if too embarrassed to meet the engineer's gaze.

"I'm just a nuts-and-bolts researcher, Mr.  La Forge," Tarmud explained.
"If you haven't noticed by now, some of us scientists get so absorbed in
our work, so single-minded, that we lose our appreciation for social
skills.  I'm afraid when we spoke the other day in Ten Forward I was
rude to you.  Totally dismissive of what you were trying to tell me.  I
realized it sometime later, and when I did, well-I just wanted to
apologize.  I feel like an old fool one step out of touch with reality."

Geordi was startled, and a little pleased.  The scientist's heartfelt
regret seemed genuine enough.

"Mr.  La Forge," Tarmud continued, "the breakthroughs that my team and I
discovered when we fashioned the VISOR are the cornerstone of my work on
a functional android.  The eyes are the windows of the soul, so to
speak, and questions we answered with the VISOR have led to much greater
things.  I came upon some of my early work with the instrument as I was
reviewing issues with Master Scientist Skel.  I didn't even know I had
some of that early material with me-it was tucked away on one of my
working cassettes.  I thought perhaps you'd like to see that material.
There are images of some of the first prototypes, and some interesting
history there.  And, while we were reviewing that, I thought-we could
talk."

La Forge grinned, both flattered and surprised by the generous offer.
"Why, thank you, sir.  I would be interested in seeing some of that
material.  But I know you and Skel have a lot of work ahead of you
before the TechnoFair.  I'd hate to take away some of your precious time
just for my own indulgence."

"Even Vulcans take a break from their work, Mr.  La Forge," Tarmud
insisted.  "In fact, when I discussed it with Skel, he thought showing
you this material and taking the time to have this discussion with you
was most logical " The two men entered the nearby turbolift, and Tarmud
told it which deck they needed.

"In fact," the scientist continued, "Skel agreed that with all the
hospitality we've been shown aboard your vessel, the least we could do
was repay that in kind.

And with whom better than the chief engineer, the man who runs the
ship?"  Tarmud again put a friendly hand on Geordi's shoulder as the
turbolift doors opened and they left to approach Tarmud's quarters.

"Yes," Tarmud continued as they approached his cabin, "Skel was in
complete agreement.  After all, if we're speaking of the nuts and bolts
of the Enterprise, the chief engineer is the most important person on
board!"

Before Geordi could deny this overly broad interpretation of his
importance aboard the vessel, the doors of Tarmud's quarters whooshed
open.  Geordi saw that the Vulcan was there, already standing, as if
anticipating his arrival.  La Forge greeted the Vulcan scientist; Skel
nodded at him, his eyes downcast.  But there was one brief flicker of
eye contact, and when there wasGeordi frowned.  He thought he saw
something, some unusual energy reading behind Skel's eyes.

It had just been for a second, before the Vulcan turned his gaze away.

The VISOR could pick up bands of energy far outside normal human visual
range, but he'd never seen anything like this before.  He would've loved
to manipulate Skel into lifting his eyes for a second look, but Tarmud
was guiding him over to a console and showing him some visual records
there.

Skel came and stood beside them as Tarmud gave him a "tour" through this
historic material.  It was interesting, and Geordi wished he could focus
on it, but he couldn't help wondering what it was he'd seen in the
Vulcan's eyes.

In the middle of an explanation, Tarmud broke off, then said, "You seem
a little distracted, Commander La Forge."

"I'm sorry, sir, it's just-well, as the creator of the VISOR, you'd
appreciate this.  All the different heat and energy readouts that the
VISOR interprets are always open to some fluctuation.  I'm so used to it
I can compensate for it most times without even being aware of it.  But,
just now, I thought I saw something odd about Skel's eyes.

It's probably just a momentary glitch, or a misinterpretation due to a
Vulcan's different temperature and energy readouts."

"You know," Tarmud said quietly, "we were wondering if you'd be able to
see them."

Geordi stared at the energy bands that formed his image of Tarmud's
face.  "Them, sir?"

"Yes," the Vulcan seconded emotionlessly.  "Them.

The agents of your deliverance, Commander."

Skel stood at his left shoulder, and Geordi turned toward him, trying to
capture that gaze again.  This time it was offered to him willingly, as
Skel met his gaze full on.  And there, behind seemingly normal Vulcan
eyes, something sparkled and danced, glowed and glittered.  Something
Geordi had never seen before.

"I don't understand," Geordi said, staring unabashedly.  "What is that?
I've never seen anything like it."

"Look closer, Commander," Skel murmured, his voice low, nearly hypnotic.
"Know what it is you are seeing."

Geordi frowned.  "I have no idea what that is!   It looks like some kind
of energy flow, but it's separate from the rest of your biochemistry."

As La Forge stared in fascination at the light show going on behind
Skel's eyes, he was startled by the warm touch of the Vulcan's hands as
Skel's fingertips contacted his neck.  As bizarre as that was, it didn't
prepare him for the surge of sensation that traveled down his spine,
almost like an electric shock.  He grunted in surprise and felt his
knees buckle, but Tarmud was behind him with a chair and eased it under
him.  Skel never lost his grip, and Geordi realized dimly that the
Vulcan was making neural connections with his brain, as if to meld with
him.

But no, that wasn't possible!   Against his will?

"Stop," La Forge whispered, only marginally in control of his bodily
functions.  "Don't.  You can't do this!   You're Vulcan.  That's
unethical."

"To meld with another against his will is unethical," Skel admitted,
even as he brought up his other hand to make the neural connections on
La Forge's face.  "However, in a few seconds this will be happening with
your complete accord, Mr.  La Forge.  My mind to your mind."  The Vulcan
began intoning the ritual words as the mental connection began.

Outwardly, Geordi's body showed little reaction, except a slight
quivering.  Inwardly, he was frantic, fighting for the remnants of his
own will, his own personality against the powerful Vulcan mind rapidly
overtaking his.  So determined was he to resist that he managed to bring
one arm up in an attempt to slap his communicator.  But before he could
touch the badge, Tarmud removed it casually from his uniform, even as
Geordi desperately murmured, "La Forge to Security.  U Forge to Worf . .
."

"And now we are one," Skel insisted, and Geordi could do nothing but
agree, mouthing the words with him at the exact same time.  He and the
Vulcan were one, as the scientist's brain completely overwhelmed the
engineer's.  But still Geordi fought, still he resisted the invasion of
his most private organ, his brain.

His heart rate accelerated wildly, his blood pressure climbed, his
temperature rose-all to match the Vulcan's.  But Geordi cared only about
his consciousness, his unique individuality.  Physically, he could not
resist the Vulcan, but, mentally, he could remain aware, and keep some
small spark of himself alive and conscious beneath the powerful Vulcan
presence.

"How is he?"  Tarmud asked, sounding actually concerned.

"We have an acceptable tolerance," the Vulcan said, and Geordi felt his
own mouth forming the same words.  "But his mind is strong, very
resistant."

"Can he absorb them?"  Tarmud wondered.

Through the VISOR?"

Them again.  What were they talking about?

"They must go through the optic nerve," Skel insisted.  "To do that,
they must be absorbed by the VISOR, then travel to the nerve through its
circuitry.

They could get trapped or lost through the unusual transmission."

"He is critical to our success.  Once we have the chief engineer.

. ."  Tarmud didn't continue.  He didn't have to.

Suddenly, Geordi understood everything, understood it through knowledge
he gleaned through the enforced meld.  Skel and Tarmud were infected by
the parasites from the artifacts.  And now they planned to infect him as
well ... but the normal mode of transmission was through minor physical
contact and eye contact, and Geordi's blindness and his mechanical VISOR
were interfering with their plans.  He was sweating now, as their goal
of using the TechnoFair to spread their disease became clear to him.
They would wipe out the galaxy if they got to the TechnoFair!

They would successfully infect almost every spacefaring race!   He had
to find some way to stop them, some way to resist!   He had to get to
Picard!

"Yes, Mr.  La Forge," Skel said in the same soft monotone, "that is our
plan.  And you are critical to its success."

The Vulcan moved his face closer to Geordi's.  La Forge struggled to
move his face away, or even close his eyes, but, of course, that had no
effect on the VISOR, which continued to feed him images.

"Is he afraid?"  Tarmud asked, looming over Geordi, beside the Vulcan.
He sounded odd when he asked that, almost eager, but everything that had
happened here in the last few minutes had been odd.

"Yes," the Vulcan admitted, which shamed the engineer.  "He is afraid,
but not enough."

"If his fear is strong enough, they will follow the energy flow.

They'll find their way inside, to feed."

"Yes," Skel agreed.  "That's true.  Very logical, Tarmud."

They wanted him afraid?   Fear he could control, Geordi realized.

He would emulate Data, his closest friend.  He would be Data. With no
fear.  No feelings at all.  If fear was what they wanted from him, then
that was the last thing they would get.  With an almost preternatural
calm, Geordi clamped down on his emotions, turning himself into a human
android.

And then the Vulcan did something more peculiar and frightening than
anything he'd done up to now.

He smiled.  No.  Not a smile-a leer.  Skel's face turned into a
grinning, leering death's head, as his eyes blazed with a murderous
light.

Geordi fought an almost instinctive panic reaction and made himself be
Data, finding this nothing more to react to than an interesting
scientific phenomenon.

But Skel had only just begun.

Suddenly,Geordiwasjerkedoutofthechairhewas in and out of the ship he was
on, and he found himself on the surface of the planet Vulcan.

It was full night, the deep blackness of a starred though moonless sky.

But he had no time to admire the sight because he was running, running
for his life, and hot on his heels was Skel, grinning like a madman.  If
Skel caught him, he knew, he was finished.  He would kill him slowly, by
inches, piece by horrible piece, and Geordi's only defense was to run.

In his mind, he heard Troi screaming at him to run for his life, and all
he could do was obey.

"No," the engineer murmured, "no, this isn't happening."

He wasn't on Vulcan, he was on the Enterprise where an infected Vulcan
had taken over his brain and forced the vivid hallucination on him in an
attempt to evoke a fear reaction.  He couldn't submit.

He couldn't.

But he couldn't make himself stop running.  And Skel was almost upon
him.  Troi was shrilling frantically at him.  And that grin, that
horrible grin, loomed over him.

No.  No fear, no fear ...

Geordi slipped in the sand and fell, and Troi begged him to get up, to
hurry, to save himself!   Just as Skel reached for his foot, he leapt to
his feet and bolted free.  No!   No!   He wasn't on Vulcan!

His lungs heaved for air in the thin hot atmosphere; his heart pounded.
If Skel caught him. What was he thinking?   Skel had already caught him.

He felt another hand-Tarmud's hand-touch his face even as he staggered
wildly over the desert sand.

Some distant part of his mind realized that the two scientists were
feeding off his terror, off the energy the hallucination was causing him
to burn up, and that the entities within them were growing stronger
because he was afraid.  But the Vulcan had his mind in his powerful
grip, and the images he forced upon Geordi were Skel's own memories, his
own childhood terror, and they were too strong for Geordi to resist.

As Trois voice kept urging him to flee, to hurry, to run, he found
himself falling into the imagery of the hallucination and struggling to
outrace the Vulcan, even though he knew none of it was real.

As the shimmering, dancing lights behind Skel's and Tarmud's eyes became
more and more visible to him, he watched in dread fascination as they
grew brighter and brighter, even as he ran from his fantasy pursuer.
Geordi watched as the sparkling energy bands finally left Skel's eyes
and came closer and closer to his face.

Contact.

His body jerked-in real time as well as in the hallucination-as though
he'd touched a live conduit.

With thoughts that were not his own, Geordi realized the entities had
found his optic nerve and were now surging through it.

Is this what Janice Ito felt the instant before the power surge killed
her?

In the fantasy, Skel caught him, just as the Vulcan child had been
caught by his father.  No need to enhance Geordi's fear now; it bloomed
powerfully as he realized how close he was to infection.

Geordi groaned, wishing for the brief moments it took the entities to
travel to his brain and overwhelm it that he really was Data-an android
who could learn to emulate friendship but who could actually feel
nothing.  Skel's possession slipped away as the Vulcan ended the meld,
just as the entities took up residence in Geordi's cerebral cortex.
Geordi trembled in the chair as if still in touch with the conduit and
relived Skel's terrifying memories of his own infection by his father.
The entities fed ravenously on his rampant emotions and the hormones
they produced, and once sated, they withdrew to his amygdala.

In the chair, Geordi took a deep breath and slowly stood, feeling his
feet firmly beneath him.  Skel and Tarmud watched cautiously.  He nodded
at them, feeling stronger, feeling sound.

"Good work, gentlemen," he said, as if addressing his own subordinates.
"We are now in possession of the chief engineer."

WHEN ENsiGN BARB@ EVANS left Master Scientist Skel's quarters, she
proceeded to interact with the various scientists she'd had assigned to
her.  She infected three of them, who in turn infected their aides,
spouses, and assistants.  Those people, in turn, infected other members
of the crew during the time they spent at the mini-fair in Ten Forward,
as well as other scientists and staff.  Barbara, in the normal course of
her day, interacted with fifteen members of the science team, who
interacted with others in that group, who interacted with still others.

During these interactions, at least forty percent of the people met were
infected.

By the end of her shift, Barbara had successfully fulfilled most of the
orders Skel had given her, with the notable exception of one-the
contamination of Kyla Dannelke.  Barbara had interacted with that
scientist before seeing Skel, and, afterward, any contact any of the
Possessed had with Danneike had been unsuccessful in engaging her with
their group.  The woman seemed wary of body contact and managed to keep
everyone well out of her "private space."

Desperate to fulfill her orders, Barbara disguised herself as a dark
male and made one last futile attempt to incorporate Dr. Dannelke.

Due to her own skillful maneuverings, Barbara had managed to avoid
detection and cast doubt on Dannelke's report of being attacked.  Her
Possessed colleagues helped cover her tracks as she pursued Dannelke
through the ship, but Lieutenant Worf's interference had terminated her
pursuit.

The only advantage she'd gained from the attempt at capture and pursuit
was the injury and pain that Dannelke had inflicted on her body.  Her
nose was broken, and she'd been hurt in various other places, hurt
severely.  None of the wounds were fatal, but the adrenaline and hormone
production that resulted from the pain fed her starving entities.  She'd
retreated to a seldom-used storage area in the depths of the ship and
huddled there, allowing her entities the privilege of temporarily sating
their everlasting hunger.  They, in turn, would heal her rapidly,
returning her body to normal in less than a day, so she could continue
her recruiting.

As she hid there, the other entities sensed her presence and the source
of nourishment she had to offer.  For several hours afterward, a steady
stream of scientists and crew members came to the out-of-theway storage
room to draw sustenance from the battered ensign.  Until the Betazoid
was roused from her drugged sleep and captured for their use, their
ability to feed would be limited.  For to feed was to cause chaos, which
aboard the tightly run vessel of Jean-Luc Picard would be entirely too
noticeable.

So, for now, Barbara was pleased to aid her companions, the collective
of the Possessed, giving them the strength to incorporate more and more
crew members of the vast Enterprise.  For this was only the beginning: a
beginning born of caution and orderly designs, a beginning only a Vulcan
could have planned.

"What I don't understand, Number One," Picard complained to his first
officer as Riker entered the ready room, "is how a personal communique
from Guinan can get to me faster than a Starfleet security file."

"Security file, sir?"  Riker asked.

Picard sighed.  Will had come here no doubt intending to bring his own
matters to the captain's attentions, but Picard was so distracted he'd
begun the conversation before Riker ever had a chance.

"About those artifacts," Picard explained.  "Starfleet is supposed to be
sending me a file that pertains to events that occurred some eighty
years ago involving Skel's artifacts.  I'd certainly like to see that
material, and find out what the hell it is we're housing."  He glowered
at his small computer screen as if the cheery letter from Guinan was
somehow responsible for it all.  He'd be damned if he could understand
how rare alcoholic beverages and new methods of incorporating chocolate
in food and drink could enhance a religious experience anyway.  He
clicked off the screen.

Riker had one of those small wry grins on his face.

"You're worried about Deanna, aren't you?"

He hated it when Will read him so easily, but, of course, in a first
officer, that was a valuable trait.  He felt himself clenching and
unclenching his jaw, and he forced himself to stop it.  "Yes.  Of course
I'm worried about her.  She's rarely wrong about her 'feelings," about
the things she senses on this ship.  Part of me feels I should do what
she says, just chuck the bloody things out the nearest airlock, but-"
Riker nodded.  "I doubt if there'll be anything in that Starfleet
communique that'll give you justification for that action."

"No, but there may be some other information we don't have that could be
critical."

"Critical?"  Riker seemed confused.  "In case there's a breach in
security'?   In case the infection gets out?"

"I feel comfortable that we have the things secured, but, after all, the
Vulcans felt comfortable that they did, also!"  Picard faced his first
officer.  "That's not why you came in here, Commander.  You came to
say-?II Riker took a deep breath.  "Lieutenant Worf reported an unusual
occurrence to me that I wanted to bring to your attention.  One of the
scientists, Dr.  Kyla Dannelke, reports being attacked in her quarters
by an unknown male crew member-probably an ensign.  He was not wearing a
communicator.  She fought him off and escaped, but after perusing our
personnel files she could not identify her attacker.

However, Worfs security personnel have found some of the theater group's
greasepaint, a wig, and a voice modulator stowed in an out-of-the-way
locker.  Worf thinks her assailant was disguised."

Of all the things Picard expected Riker to bring up, this was not even
on the list.  "Could it have been one of the other scientists?   Or
their assistants or technicians?"  There were at least one hundred fifty
passengers currently aboard the Enterprise.  It was too hard for him to
believe that one of his crew was capable of such a crime.  Their people
were so well screened, continually tested for mental competence-and
normally under the subtle empathic scan of a Betazoid counselor, he
thought, realizing Deanna had been under a specially sedated sleep
today.

"Anyt@ing's possible," Riker admitted.  "As you can imagine, Mr.  Worf
is not happy about this.  The entire security staff has been briefed,
but other than that-" Picard nodded.  "Thank you for bringing this to my
attention.  I want to know if there are any further developments.
Perhaps I should call on Dr.  Dannelke and offer my apologies."

Riker looked half amused, half uncomfortable.  "I spoke to Dr.  Danneike
personally, sir.  She's planning on spending her evening with Mr.  Worf
and his son.

She assured me she would feel quite safe there."

"I see," Picard said, slightly surprised.  That made him think of
something else.  "Do you plan to visit the counselor this evening?"

Picard rarely inquired as to his crew's after-duty activities, but he
trusted Riker would understand why he was asking.

"Yes.  I thought I'd look in on her.  See if she got some rest today,
and how she's doing."

Picard nodded.  "I encourage you.  She needs to feel secure again, Will.
It will help her get over the trauma of that mental contact with the
artifacts."  And while you're checking on Deanna, Picard thought, I'll
look in on the artifacts, and double check their security myself Dr.
Crusher was taking one last walk around sickbay before the end of her
shift.  Dr.  Ra 'rez, mi whose shift was now beginning, had been briefed
about the cases currently being followed, and advised to watch out for
any person-crew member or otherwise-who came in with a freshly broken
nose or injured groin.  Beverly had put away some data cassettes in her
office, and made sure all the equipment had been cleaned and put up. She
didn't like to leave work for the next crew on duty, any more than she
liked to find work undone when she came on in the morning.

Satisfied that everything was as it should be, she debated whether she
should check on the artifacts one more time.  Part of her didn't like
looking at them and part of her felt obsessed about checking on them
constantly, making sure all the fail-safes were in place.  Of course,
the failure of any one of them would trigger warning alarms, but even so
she'd check this one last time, and then go to her quarters, curl up
with a good play, and call it a night.

She moved quietly through the darkened sickbay and entered the
quarantine facility just as she had a dozen times that day.  Only this
time, she was greeted by three people: the Vulcan Skel, the researcher
Dr.  Tarmud, and the ship's chief engineer all turned to look at her as
the doors of the facility closed behind her.

She tried not to let her consternation show in her face, but failed.  Of
all people, La Forge surely knew better than to violate the captain's
off-limit order regarding the artifacts-much less bring visitors along
with him.

"Excuse me," she said in a chilly but polite tone, 46 permission to
enter this area can only be granted by the captain.  He did not notify
me that you would be here to see the artifacts."

"I'm sorry, Doctor."  Geordi smiled apologetically.

"I guess I thought that the permission I'd been given earlier was still
valid.  Skel and Dr.  Tarmud and I were discussing some data about the
artifacts, but Dr.  Tarmud had never seen them.  Skel assumed that since
they were his research objects, and I'd been given permission earlier,
it would be all right."

That was the muddiest logic she'd ever heard Geordi use, but she wasn't
about to argue with him.

The security parameters were all still in place.  The artifacts still
sat benignly behind their multiple security shields.

"You're a doctor," Tarmud said to her charmingly.

"Surely you know how impulsive researchers can be.

Try to understand, Dr.  Crusher."

"I understand that researchers can be impulsive," she said quietly, as
she approached the quarantine device that held the artifacts, checking
the readouts on its diagnostic panel: All within norms, thank God.

"I also understand that researchers are used to following exacting
protocols.  And that chief engineers are used to augmenting them."  She
shot a sharp glance at La Forge.  "And that the three of you have
violated those protocols.  This area is off-limits without the captain's
express permission.  I must be present during any authorized visit.
That's the short and sweet of it, gentlemen.  Please remember that in
the future.

Now, if you would please leave?"

She turned to move away from the diagnostic panel, but found herself
hemmed in by the three men.  Skel was on her right, Geordi on her left,
and Tarmud directly in front of her, nearly pinning her to the
quarantine tank that held the artifacts.  "Excuse me!"

she said pointedly, trying to sidle past Tarmud, but he only moved
forward, blocking her even more.

"Wait a minute, Doctor," Geordi said quietly.

"There's something we've got to tell you."

She looked at him, and some faint odd undercurrent in his tone-something
insidious, ancient, cold-caused a wave of unreasoning fear to sweep over
her.

A panicked, unbidden thought welled up: This isn't Geordi.  It looks
just like him, but this is something else ...

"What's going on here?"  she tried to demand bravely, but the question
came out as a whisper.

"Doctor, I can explain everything," Tarmud insisted, with that smug
smile that had infuriated her so much in Ten Forward.

"Explain what?"  she asked impatiently, turning to gaze at him.

She looked deep into his hazel eyes and saw something there: something
strange and mesmerizing.  He reached for her, this odd researcher from
New England, and touched her hand.

A jolt-raw invigorating power-surged through her.  She groaned, even as
Geordi held her other hand and Skel's fingers brushed the back of her
neck.

"This will only take a minute, Dr.  Crusher," Geordi said patiently,
using the most reasonable tone to explain away the most unreasonable
behavior.

Her body shuddered as the men moved in closer, supporting her, helping
her to withstand the oddly pleasant jolt running through her.

And then, it passed.

And she understood everything, just as Tarmud had promised.

She regained her balance, and the men drew back respectfully.

Like the doctor she still was, she pulled out the medi-scanner in her
pocket and watched her own readouts as the entities claimed her and fed
off the rush of adrenaline coursing through her.  It was beautiful,
really.

"The captain will be having breakfast with you tomorrow@" Geordi asked.

Beverly'smiled, still eyeing the medi-scanner.  "Yes, that's right. I'll
be meeting him in his quarters."

"Wonderful," Tarmud said, smiling his infectious grin.

"So, you see," Dr.  Dannelke explained, as she helped Alexander clear
off the table and send the dishes back through the recycler, "you can
learn so much about the rest of the body through the eyes diseases,
vascular health-so many things.  I guess that's what got me interested
in the field.  Do you have any specific interests yet?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders.  "I want to be a navigator, I think."

"Lots of math needed for that," Kyla told him.

"Physics.  All that kind of stuff."

He nodded as he stacked the final dish in the recycler, then closed the
door and turned it.  "I know.

I'm good at those subjects, so that should be all right.

It's just-" 66It, s just what?"

Alexander peered around her as if looking for ms father.  Worf had gone
to check with his security forces to see if there'd been any new reports
about her assailant, and was still in his private room.

"It's just-well, I don't know if they'll let a Klingon kid do that kind
of stuff.  I can't say that around Father.  It makes him furious."

Kyla felt as if she'd just been slap O?ed.  She remembered her
thoughtless comment a day ago and hated herself for it.  "Hey, that's no
way to think!   Your dad's a Starfleet officer, and I'll bet before he
joined no one would've ever believed Starfleet would've taken a Klingon
into its ranks!"

"They had to take him," Alexander explained patiently.  "His foster
parents-my grandparents-are human, and my grandfather was a Starfleet
chief petty officer.  Father not only passed his tests, he was third in
his class.  They couldn't find a way to turn him down."

"Listen, Alexander."  Kyla crouched down so she would be on the boy's
eye level.  "Don't make it easy on anyone.  Don't pass up opportunities
because you think they won't take you.  Make them turn you down!

Make them tell you to your face.  See if they have the nerve.

You're a bright strong kid!   You can be anything you want to be in this
Universe.  Don't let anyone tell you differently!"

His small somber face broke into an easy grin.

"That sounds like something my mom would say.  You remind me so much of
her!"  Alexander grabbed her in a quick spontaneous hug, then walked
over to the couches.  He picked up a small holo projector and, bringing
it to Kyla, turned it on.  A tall woman-paleskinned, with distinctly
human features but skull ridges that spoke of Klingon ancestry-stood
waving on the hand-held platform.  Waving and grinning, she had one
eyebrow canted upward as if in perpetual wry amusement.

"That's your mom?"  the doctor asked in surprise.

"She looks like she had a wonderful sense of humor."

"Oh, yeah.  Mother could find something funny about anything."

That sounds so un-Klingon-like, Kyla thought.

"She was half human," Alexander said softly, as if answering Kyla's
unasked question.  "But you can't tell by looking at me.  I take after
Father mostly."

"I think you look like both your parents," Kyla decided.  "You've got a
lot of your mother in your face, and your body structure, too.

And I think you've got her sense of humor, too."

Alexander grinned, even when his father's baritone agreed.

"He is a great deal like ICEhleyr," Worf explained, as he left his room
and joined them.  "Especially in his stubborness." Yet the chief of
security smiled when he chided his son.  "It is time for you to review
your schoolwork and get ready for bed."

The boy rolled his eyes, and for an instant he looked as if he might
argue with his father, then suddenly stopped.  Kyla could almost see the
wheels turning in Alexander's head.  "Will you be here in the morning,
Kyla?"

The doctor felt her face flush red and could sense Worf gearing up for a
good bluster.  "Excuse me?"  she said quietly, smiling at the boy.

"I thought you might like to come by for breakfast," Alexander insisted,
feigning innocence.

"Well, I'm not much of a morning person, but I think I could manage.
That all right with you, Mr.  Worf?"  She saw the Klingon work his jaw
back and forth as he struggled to answer civilly.

"If it is not an inconvenience for you," Worf grumbled, "it would be
pleasant to share breakfast with you, Doctor."  Then he glared at his
son who just giggled and made his escape.

Kyla hid a smile behind her hand, but not very successfully.

"Don't be mad at him, Worf.  He misses his mother.  Says I remind him of
her.  So he's trying to matchmaker"

"I have never seen him behave this way around a human female!"  Worf
insisted.  "I must apologize-"

"Oh, please don't," she interrupted tiredly, sitting down on a couch.

"I'm honored to be held in such high regard.  Any news about my friend?"

Worf frowned and looked troubled.  "Unfortunately, no.  I cannot imagine
how someone injured in the way you described could hide himself so well
on this ship."

It was Kyla's turn to look worried.  "Well, this ship is not unlike a
big city in the sky, Worf.  It shouldn't be that hard to find a place to
hide."

"But this is not a city," he protested.  "It is a Federation starship.
There is no crime aboard the Enterprise, and it is not that easy to hide
aboard this vessel!"

"I still think it was some member of the scientist's crews, not a
Federation officer.  Maybe the scientist in charge of that person is
hiding them, not wanting anyone to know it's his or her aide who has
questionable behavior."  She closed her eyes, reliving for just a second
that terrible moment in her quarters.  The Klingon didn't know it yet,
but she had no intentions of going back there.  She remembered back in
London, how she felt when she had to reenter her building again.  "Oh,
Worf, I came here tonight to forget about the attack.

Let's not talk about it anymore."

He came and sat by her, a polite distance, giving her plenty of space,
not boxing her into a corner.  "Kyla.  I want to respect your wishes,
but I know there is still something you are not telling me about this
attack."

She sighed and faced him squarely.  "No, Worf, honest, I've told you
everything, it's just .  . ."  She trailed off, staring at his somber
expression.  "Well, I guess I stirred up some memories here tonight, so
I shouldn't complain if you stir up mine."  She swallowed, reluctant to
relate the tale, but knowing she'd feel better if she did.

"I've told you everything about the incident.  What you're sensing from
me is my reactions to it-and the fact that it's reminded me of things I
never wanted to think about again.  When I was thirteen, my mom and I
lived in an old section of London.  One night, we were coming home and
were attacked in our hallway.  Even then, I was fast.  My mom yelled at
me to run, so I did, but by the time I found a bobby and got back, the
guy was gone."

"Your mother-?"  Worf asked.

"She was still alive, but he'd beaten her pretty badly.  She was never
the same after that, always fearful, worried when I'd go out by myself.
I guess I was never the same either."

"That explains many things about your behavior," Worf said.  "You keep
yourself at least an arm's length from most people.  You seem more wary
than most humans.  And, of course, it explains your training."

"I-I always felt I should've stayed and helped her, fought him ,
something."  Kyla shook her head.  "But all I could do was run."

"It was the only sensible thing to do," Worf assured her.  "You were but
an untrained child.  You used your only weapon-speed-to go for aid.  Had
you stayed, you would have been harmed, perhaps killed.

And your mother would have had to live with that as well."

"That's what she says, but-well, afterward, I just made sure nothing
like that could ever happen to me again.  Then-it happened to me again.
And with all my training, ultimately-I still had to run for it."

"Still, you warded off your opponent and defended yourself well.

You drew blood, but he drew none from you, I only wish I could apprehend
this coward."

Kyla found herself pulling inward, tighter and tighter, until she
realized she'd folded her arms snuggly against her body and sat tense
and expectant.  "I'm not going back there," she announced, as if
declaring her intentions would give her back some control over her
situation.

Worf looked troubled.  "Normally, it would be a simple matter to find
you vacant quarters, but with all the scientists on board, that could be
difficult.  I can ask one of the junior officers to switch quarters for
you for tonight, if that is acceptable."

"No, not acceptable at all.  With my luck, I'll be switching quarters
with the person who jumped me.

Quite frankly, there's only one person on this ship that I trust that
much-and that's you.  I'm staying here."

Worf's eyebrows nearly climbed past his skull plate.

"Kyla!"  he said softly.

"Don't give yourself so much credit," she warned, grinning.  "I'm
sleeping right on this couch.  I wouldn't dream of scandalizing
Alexander.  And, besides, I hate getting up in the morning.  It's the
only way I'll ever be on time for breakfast.  As far as the rest of the
evening is concerned .  . ."  She sidled closer to him on the couch.

"You don't play poker, do you?"

Slowly, Worf's face eased into a smile.

Picard nodded at the doctor and nurses on duty as he moved through the
quiet sickbay; it was a peaceful place this late into the night shift.
When no patients were being held overnight, lights were reduced and
everything was still.

He moved through the shadow-draped facility until he came to the
quarantine room; there he paused before the closed doors to collect
himself, then finally stepped forward.  The doors slid open, allowing
him passage.

In quarantine, the lights were also dimmed; a single spotlight shone
down upon the artifacts behind their shields, making them the brightest
spots in the room.

Making them look, Picard reflected, like a museum display of the ancient
artifacts they in fact were.

Beneath the spotlight, they glittered like subtle works of art, pleasing
to the eye-and quite deadly to the mind and body.

Picard approached them slowly, deliberately, as one might approach a
charmed cobra, then acquired a tricorder from a nearby counter and
checked the fail-safes, the alarms, the entire setup.  All sound.

Beverly had left behind the diagnostic readouts from her last check: All
was exactly as it should be.

Perhaps he was being overly cautious, but given Trois reaction to the
creatures, he would not rest easy until they were transferred to the
Vulcan ship.

The thought made him study them again; they looked innocuous, benign,
actually beautiful lying there behind the fields.  What was in them that
could so disturb Deanna, make her so vehement about their destruction?

. And what kind of a people could create such a vicious weapon?

The containers themselves appeared ageless, new, but according to the
Vulcans, they were thousands of years old.

As the doors behind him whooshed open, he turned instantly and found his
android science officer standing at the threshold.

"Permission to enter, sir," Data requested.

"Granted, Mr.  Data.  Are you here to visit me or the artifacts?"

"Both, sir.  Actually, I asked the computer where you might be found,
and it told me you were here.  I did want to view the artifacts again,
and was calling to get your permission, but when I found out you were
here, I thought I should bring some things to your attention."

"Yes?"

"Captain, I have been going over Skel's research as I attempt to build a
language matrix to interpret the writing on these artifacts.

However, there is something in Skel's work that disturbs me."

Picard lifted a concerned brow, but Data was a meticulous researcher; it
was not unusual for him to pick up flaws in other scientists' work.

"Skel has been working on these artifacts for over fifty years.

Over and over, throughout the course of his research, he has been on the
cusp of discovering many things about the artifacts.  Yet each time at
the last minute he has swerved from the answer and found some other
inadequate solution, or has changed the course of his research
entirely."

Picard considered this.  "Skel's work is surely reviewed by other
scientists.  Why haven't they noticed this pattern?"

"As far as I can determine, over the years his work has been reviewed
less and less.  The fewer findings a researcher comes up with, the less
seriously do his colleagues regard his work.  I suspect that since Skel
is a survivor of the disease, his position at the Vulcan Science Academy
may be more honorific in nature.  Of course, had he actually made any
landmark discoveries, then his work would have been scrutinized
completely."

"But as long as he kept deviating from any actual breakthrough, no one
looked too closely, eh?"  It made sense to Picard.  The outbreak on
Vulcan had been over eighty years ago, the survivors scattered.  And
only Skel had chosen to actually work with the artifacts themselves.

"Mr.  Data, can you hypothesize why Skel would deliberately, or even
subconsciously, avoid making the kind of breakthrough discoveries that
were the exact thing he seemed to be working toward?"

"No, sir, I cannot.  That is why I wished to bring the matter to your
attention.  I was hoping you would know."

Picard stared at the artifacts again, thinking of Deanna's warning, her
demands that he hurl them through an airlock and send them into space.
"No, my friend, I cannot tell you that.  Why someone would sabotage
their own life's work is something I can't imagine."

And as Picard continued to stare at the passive artifacts, he began to
wonder if a lone Vulcan researcher held more secrets inside him than
these simple shell-like objects.

WORF HEARD THE FEMININE VOICE calling him despite the fierce battle he
was waging-despite the blood pounding in his ears, despite the roars of
the warriors surrounding him.  Like a berserker he fought, recognizing
nothing but the 'bathieth in his hands and his enemy before him-Duras,
who had slain his mate.

He swung his weapon again, nearly connecting.  But the soft feminine
voice broke through the scenario "Lieutenant Worf!   This is Ensign
Alvarado!   Lieutenant Worf!"

With a savage growl, Worf snapped open his eyes and peered for a
confused millisecond about his darkened bedchamber.  Ensign Alvarado?

"Lieutenant Worf, please answer!"  The familiar voice carried an
uncharacteristic note of stress' Worf rubbed his face.  He had been
dreaming, reliving the battle in which he had killed K'Ehicyr's
murderers dream he had not had since Alexander had come to live with
him.  He groped in the darkness for his communicator.  "Worf here."

"Sorry to wake you, sir," Alvarado apologized hurriedly.  "I know it's
early, but-"

"Computer," Worf ordered softly, "raise lights."

He squinted at the brightness, and at the realization that it was two
hours before his-or Alvarado'sshift began.  "Where are you, Ensign?"

"In Ten Forward, sir.  I came in early to make sure there was water, and
fal the fruit bowls, set out some breakfast foods .  . ."

Worf remembered: Alvarado had volunteered to be in charge of
refreshments at the mini-fair in Ten Forward.  Worf swung his legs over
the side of the bed, reached for a fresh uniform, and started dressing
quickly.  Alvarado was a level-headed officer, slow to alarm.  If she
felt the need to rouse him out of a sound sleep, it stood to reason his
presence as security chief was urgently required.

"Anyway," Alvarado continued tersely, "when I arrived in Ten Forward . .
."  She drew in a breath, then the words tumbled out in a rush.
"Lieutenant, the place is a wreck!   It's been turned upside down!

It looks as though a hundred people went crazy in here!"

"Did you touch anything?"  Worf asked, as he donned his clothes quickly,
efficiently.

"No, sir.  I saw what had happened and called you immediately."

"Very good, Ensign.  Stay there and keep your eyes open.  Assume anyone
approaching you could be involved and act accordingly.  I will be there
as quickly as I can.  Worf out."

"Aye, sir," she agreed, but Worf could hear that the edge of her
confidence had been shaken.  And why shouldn't it be?   Who would damage
the TechnoFair displays in Ten Forward?   This made no more sense than
the attack on Kyla Dannelke; Worf could understand crimes of passion,
but random violence with no motive eluded him.

Straightening his hastily donned uniform, he ran a brush through his
hair, then left his room.

He moved through the darkened living area to a respectful distance from
the couch, and from there called softly, "Kyla?"

"I see you, Worf.  I heard the page."  Her voice was clear, completely
awake; as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw that she sat up on
the couch where she'd slept, clutching her blanket.

He ordered the computer to raise the lights to only twenty percent, then
said, "You must be a very light sleeper if you heard."

"I am.  I couldn't understand anything being said, but I heard the
voice.  I assume you've got to tend to ship's business?"

"Yes."  He told her nothing, not wanting to alarm her, and she did not
press.  "I may not be able to return to get Alexander ready for school."

"I can do that."

The familiarity of it all made him distinctly uncomfortable; he
fidgeted.  "I hate to impose.  Normally, another officer helps Alexander
when I am called away early, as I help her with her daughter when she
must stay on duty late.  However, I think it might be better this
morning if I did not seek her help."

Kyla laughed.  "More of that chivalrous Klingon honor, Worf?   It's no
imposition at all.  Alexander and I will enjoy a healthy breakfast, then
I'll see him off to school.  I need to get down to my display area early
anyway.  I've got to meet with Dr.  Tarmud, and, if I'm lucky, the
Vulcan, Skel."

"Thank you, Kyla."  Before he could move away, she rose quickly and
surprised him by taking his face in her hands and kissing his skull
plate.  He felt the heat of embarrassment on his cheeks.

"Thank you," she told him, as he stood and collected himself, "for
giving me a port in the storm."

He nodded brusquely and headed for Ten Forward.

Picard had just emerged from his morning shower when he got the page
from his first officer.

"Picard, here.  What is it, Number One?"  He checked the time, but knew
instinctively it was too early for Will to be on duty.

"Sir, I think you should come to Ten Forward right away," Riker said,
with that peculiar note of urgency in his tone that always signaled
disaster.  "Mr.  Worf called me down here, and I think you need to be
involved."

The entities, Picard thought at once, with a sense of foreboding; the
image of them shimmering benignly, beautifully, behind their force
shields rose unbidden.

"I'll be there momentarily.  Picard out."

He did not bother to ask Riker what the matter was; whatever it was, it
was bad, and he would find out soon enough.

At the doorway, he hesitated: Beverly might not even be up yet.

No need to wake her; he'd just leave a note on the table.  It wouldn't
be the first time they'd missed having breakfast together.

It was far, far worse than he had imagined.  As he stood beside half a
display console-literally torn in two, the metal edges jagged,
twisted-Picard gazed down at the battered corpse pinned beneath it.

Barbara Evans lay on her back, stiffening arms and legs flung out like a
rag doll; her battered, mottled face gazed slack-jawed and unseeing at
the ceiling.  Judging from the fading yellow-green bruise and the black
rivulets of dried blood on her upper lip and chin, her nose had been
broken-smashed-some time ago and never tended.  More recently, someone
had beaten her to death with the torn console-so savagely that its sharp
metal edge had nearly cleaved her body in two and still bit deep into
her abdomen.  A darkening butterfly of blood at her waist stained the
carpet beneath her-so much blood that Picard could smell it.  He turned
away in revulsion.

"Who could've done this?"  he murmured, though he knew the answer even
before Will Riker offered grimly: "A madman."

Behind the first officer, the carefully planned display booths lay in
ruins-shattered, torn, and strewn with abandon over Ten Forward's entire
surface.

Picard scowled at the reply and turned toward Worf, who along with other
security personnel had been busily scanning the area with tricorders.
"Lieutenant .  . ."

The Klingon turned off his tricorder and stepped over to Picard.

"We have scanned the area for hair and skin cells," Worf reported
dutifully, "in an attempt to determine the identity of the perpetrators.

The computer is sorting through it, but the evidence is surprisingly
small."

"As though they were calculating enough to protect themselves from
detection," Riker grumbled.

"So far," the Klingon continued, "the computer has matched every cell,
every drop of blood, every fiber of hair to Ensign Evans.  I know there
must be more evidence here, yet everything I scan comes up the same."

"There'll be evidence on her," Riker noted grimly, nodding toward the
body.  "Dr.  Crusher will find it during the autopsy."

"Can this be related to the attack on Dr.  Dannelke?"  Picard wondered.

"It must be," Worf speculated.  "Ky-Dr.  Dannelke's report specified the
ferocity of his attack, his expertise in fighting."  The Klingon paused,
then said quietly, "It is clear this woman was beaten savagely."

"And could all this be the work of one person?"

Picard gestured at the destruction surrounding them.

Worf considered it a moment.  "It is possible."

Riker nodded, following their gazes around the devastated room.

"A Klingon would have the strength, the energy to do this."

"Or a Vulcan," Picard said thoughtfully, provoking Riker's sharp glance.

"Do you think Skel did this, sir?"

The captain sighed.  "I don't know.  I can't imagine any Vulcan
committing such a brutal act, and I would think even a Vulcan could not
have avoided shedding some blood in this melee.  And Vulcan blood is
easy enough to detect.  But I will question him as to his whereabouts at
the time of Ensign Evans's death."  He paused.  "Lieutenant Worf, have
someone in security run a complete background check on every assistant
or technician that came aboard with the scientists.

I want you to know everything about them everything.  If there are any
suspicious gaps in their information, we may have to detain them.

If nothing shows up that indicates a suspect, then review the
scientists' background as well."

"And if nothing shows up there?"  Worf asked.

"Then begin reviewing Enterprise personnel," Picard said without
hesitating.  "Begin with any new crewmen and work your way through the
entire staff if you must.  Keep me closely informed."

Worf nodded and glanced over at the far wall, where Ensign Alvarado
stood, hugging herself.  "I believe I have just the person for the job,
sir."

As Worf approached the young woman, Picard moved away from the corpse,
and Riker went with him.

"Will," Picard said quietly as the two of them walked slowly into the
corridor, "have you talked to Deanna lately?"

Riker shook his head.  "Whatever Beverly gave her must have hit her
hard.  I checked on her last night and she was still sleeping.

With everything she'd been through I thought it best to let her rest.

I haven't heard from her, so I assume she's still asleep."

"A pity.  Under the influence of that drug, it's unlikely she would have
'sensed' the violence that occurred here.  When she wakes, she should be
present if we question any suspects Worf uncovers."

"Captain, if I may speak off the record?"  Riker asked.

"Of course."

"I get the feeling there's something on your mind.

Something you don't want to say out loud.  If it would help us solve
this-" Picard shook his head.  "It's just that-this level of violence,
Will.  With those artifacts still on board .  . ."  He let the sentence
hang there.

"That would implicate the Vulcan, sir, wouldn't it?"  Riker asked him.
"He was the only person who's been exposed to the artifacts, when he was
aboard the Ferengi ship."

"Yes, it would.  But there would have to be some evidence.  It's not
possible to destroy all this equipment and beat a human being to death
without leaving something, and the Vulcan physiology is so different the
evidence would have to stand out.  Plus, according to the Vulcans, not
even they were capable of controlling themselves during the outbreak. if
Skel is infected, he should appear a raving lunatic.

None of this makes any sense."

Riker sighed.  "You should know, sir, that Ensign Evans was Skel's
liaison officer.  Of course, she was also the liaison to Kyla Dannelke
and eight other scientists as well."

"We'll have to see if Worf can come up with something concrete.

Until then, I don't want panic setting in among the scientific group."

Picard stopped just as they arrived at the lift entrance and turned
toward his second-in-command.  "How quickly can we get Ten Forward back
in order?"

"I can put a crew to work in there immediately," Riker said.  "We can
replicate the equipment and recycle the damaged material.  We should be
able to get everything back together by this afternoon."

"Well enough so that the scientists won't be able to tell what
happened?"

Riker shrugged, a esture of dubious possibility.

"If I can have some of La Forge's engineering crew, I think so.

Why would you want to hide it from them?"

"To rattle the cage of the perpetrators," Picard said.

"I can't help but feel that they want to frighten us, that the savagery
of their behavior is designed to evoke a response.  That's true for many
criminal behavior types.  If we can deprive them of that reward, it
might help flush them out."

Riker nodded.  "I'll get on it right away, sir.  And I'll have a medical
team remove the body and prepare it for autopsy."

"I'll want Beverly to do it personally," Picard ordered.  "Make sure she
sends the report directly to me, with as much confidentiality as
possible.  Also, ask Skel a few discreet questions about his whereabouts
last night.  In the meantime, I'll be in my ready room."

'Aye, sir."

With that, Picard left the death and destruction of Ten Forward behind
him and headed for the ready room, unable to believe he would once again
be forced to contact the parents of a young promising officer with the
worst news he could give.  But before he would do that, he would review
everything the Vulcans had sent him on the artifacts and the disease
they caused, then he would contact Data and obtain a copy of Skel's
research as well.

Distractedly, he found himself grateful that Guinan had been spared the
dismemberment of Ten Forward.

She believed Ten Forward was a place of introspection, of healing-a
place where crew members could truly relax and be themselves.

As for himself, he knew that a long time would pass before he could
stroll into Ten Forward and not see Barbara Evans's brutalized body
lying twisted on its floor.

Perfectly calm and composed, hands steepled in a gesture of Vulcan
serenity, Skel stood in the center of his comfortable guest quarters and
asked, "What happened, Doctor?"

Despite the ostensible calmness of his question, inside the Vulcan's
emotions raged: bitter fury, disappointment, frustration.

Through it all, the entities that possessed him fed and grew stronger,
as the small glimmer of consciousness that had once been Skel watched
helplessly.

"I don't know all of it," Tarmud insisted, his face flushed and shining,
his breath short.  "Evans's injuries called to the others.

The pain she felt drew them.

After eighty years of deprivation, the entities' need is powerful,
difficult to control.  The Enterprise crew is disciplined, trained,
capable of holding them in check, but the others-the technicians, our
assistants-they're civilians.  Most of them are young burgeoning
scientists, curious, interested in experiencing everything.  They lost
control .  . ."

"They cannot afford to do so if we are to succeed," Skel countered
coldly.

"Have patience," Tarmud urged.  "We're not all Vulcans, you know-the
entities have adapted to you and your level of control.  It isn't as
easy for the rest of us .  . ."  He drew another gasping breath and
continued.  "They carried Evans from her hiding place. took her to Ten
Forward because they knew it would be deserted.  She helped them, told
them where to go, why.  Destroying the facilities caused emotional
mayhem in their core selves, the humans inside each of them who
protested the wanton destruction of their own work.  And when the
entities fed off that all they could, they turned to their original
source."

"So, she is dead," Skel said placidly.  Killed, even as his mother had
been.

"Yes."  Tarinud lowered his head as if in regret, but as he did so, Skel
caught the spark of sadistic glee in his eyes.  "She's dead.

The others absorbed her entities so there would be no loss to the
whole."

"They left her there?"

"Yes.  They wanted to alarm the others, to evoke the emotional response
they might feed from, and keep their need in check."

"Her death and the destruction of Ten Forward will alert the Enterprise
crew to our presence," Skel countered.

"Perhaps.  The technicians thought out their actions, in spite of their
hunger.  They wore protective garb.  The only physical evidence that
will remain will belong to Barbara Evans.  If we can control their
appetites, this will not happen again."

"It cannot," Skel insisted.  "If we are detected before we have
recruited the senior staff, we can be defeated.  There must be control.

They must learn to wait."

"They would not need to wait if we had the empath at our disposal,"
Tarmud reminded him.  "Last night she did not dream at all.

None of us could even sense her."

Skel nodded.  "Her empathy-while valuable to us as a rich source of
nourishment-is still a danger to us as well.  If the Betazoid senses us
too clearly, we will be exposed before we are ready.  We must be
cautious until we hold the majority of the crew, perhaps even until the
Vulcan ship arrives and can be captured.  The empath must remain
unaware-and unavailable.  Are we still recruiting?"

"Yes Tarmud assured him.  "Recruitment is going well."

"Not well enough," the Vulcan insisted.  "We still need Dannelke, and
more of the senior staff."

Just then the door chimed; Tarmud and Skel exchanged a glance.

"Come," the Vulcan said.

The doors opened to reveal Dr.  Crusher.  "Picard skipped breakfast this
morning.  What happened?"

The two men told her about Ten Forward.

She shook her head in disapproval.  "Now, he'll be wary.  He'll be much
harder to approach,"

"We can still work on the rest of the senior staff," Tarmud told her.
"Everyone but the Betazoid."

"Even Data?"  Crusher asked.  "Can he be recruited?   He's an android."

"Unknown," Skel told her, "but unlikely.  The positronic matrix could
house the entities, but because the android has no emotions, it would be
harder for the resident entities to feed.  However, controlling the
android is very desirable for other practical matters, but we must be
cautious.  An attempt to recruit could alert him to our presence.  If we
were not successful, he would have the resources to expose us."

Crusher nodded, just as Picard paged her through her communicator.

"Crusher here."

"Doctor, I need to speak to you immediately.  "I'll be in sickbay."

"Aye, sir.  On my way."  She looked at her collaborators.

"There'll be too many people in sickbay for me to risk recruiting him
there.  I'll have to choose my moment later."  And then she left them.

"Sound advice," Skel said to Tarmud.  "We will all have to show more
caution.  We will all have to choose our moments."

Tarmud considered his words and nodded.

Beneath a starry, moonless sky, Deanna moved across a desert plain
toward the dark distant mountains.  Lwaxana walked beside her.

Deanna stopped abruptly and faced her.  "What is this place?"

Lwaxana's lips remained in a grim determined line as she replied
silently, The planet Vulcan.

"Why are we here?   Mother, what is this all about?"

And yet, she knew, this was not her mother; for although the mental
voice possessed Lwaxana's feel, her special parental tone, this was not
her mother.

The woman beside her was too calm, too controlled, too reserved.

That's correct, little one.  I am not your mother.  But you must listen
to me now.  Do not look them in the eye, any of them.  Do not let them
touch you.  And, above all, shelter your mind You're in terrible danger,
and I have only a limited ability to help you.

"I don't understand," Deanna said irritably.  "Whoever you are, you're
talking in riddles.  Shelter my mind?   How?   From whom?   Explain it
to me."

A flash of movement across the great dry plain caught Deanna's eye, and
she turned to watch, eyes widening, as a Vulcan child sprinted
frantically across the desert.  Behind him, narrowing the gap, an older
man pursued relentlessly.

"No," Deanna moaned.  "No, it can't be.  I'm dreaming again.

That's Skel as a child.  I'm dreaming his memories!   I've got to wake
up."

The woman that looked like her mother took Deanna by the shoulders, with
a grip that spoke of inhuman strength, a voice placid yet infinitely
determined.  This is not a dream.  You must watch and learn.

The boy lost his footing in the sand and fell fast forward in the desert
dust.  The man reached for the boy, grabbed him by the collar, and
hauled him around.  The boy fought valiantly as the older Vulcan
clutched the child's face in his hands.

"How terrible!"  Deanna murmured, wanting to close her eyes against the
scene.  "He's forcing young Skel to meld!"

The child went limp, his eyes wide, panic-stricken; Deanna's own eyes
filled with tears.

Yes, the older woman said, her voice serene despite the horrific tableau
nearby.  It was terrible.  The violation.  The infection.

Deanna watched, her confusion mounting as the elder Vulcan at last
removed his hands from the child's narrow face.  The boy rose and, with
Vulcan composure, brushed himself off, then began to walk home.

As he did, the adult Vulcan turned to face Deanna, his expression
contorted in a grin of such pure sadistic evil that Troi gasped,
recoiling.  As she continued to watch, the man began to walk toward them
his pace increasing until soon he was loping across the sand.

And soon he was upon them, reaching a hand toward Lwaxana.

"Mother!"  Deanna screamed, as the Vulcan caught Lwaxana's wrist and
dragged her to him.

Serene and unresisting in the face of death, the woman looked over her
shoulder at Troi.  Remember.

This is not a dream.  You must remember.  Keep yoursetf safe.

And then the Vulcan was upon Lwaxana; he threw her to the ground and put
his hands around her throat.

"Mother!"  Deanna screamed, and sat bolt upright in her own bed.

Silence answered, and the reassuring sight of her own quarters.  She
pressed a trembling hand to her forehead and drew it away to find it
glistening with sweat.

Beverly had promised her she wouldn't dream.

Could she still have some residual contact with Skel?

She scanned lightly, but was unable to pick his feelings out from the
rest of the ship.  Well, at least that made sense.  If he was not close
to her, she should barely sense him at all, with his Vulcan controls.

The door chimed, startling her so much that she jumped.  Annoyed by her
skittishness, she shook herself mentally as she grabbed a robe to cover
her nightgown and hurried into her outer quarters.

"Enter," she called, and a smiling Crusher stepped through the doors. At
the sight of Troi, the doctor's smile turned to an expression of
concern.

"Deanna, are you all right?"

Troi shook her head.  "I'm afraid your drug wasn't the perfect solution
to my problems."

Beverly immediately produced her medi-scanner and waved it over Troi.
"More bad dreams?"

"Only one, about my mother.  It was very disturbing."

A ghost of Beverly's smile returned.  "Well, considering.how your mother
and you get along, that's not surprising."

Deanna shook her head.  "You know how it is in some dreams, where
everything isn't as it seems?

Well, this was Mother, but at the same time, it wasn't.

We were on Vulcan, and Lwaxana was acting like a Vulcan!"

Beverly raised auburn brows in surprise.

"Lwaxana?   I can't think of a more un-Vulcanlike person!"  Deanna had
to smile.  "True.  Still, it was very upsetting.  She kept trying to
tell me something, show me something, but I couldn't understand.

Then it started getting mixed up with those terrible memories of Skel."

She paused at the sight of Crusher, frowning at the medi-scanner.

"What is it?   What's it telling you?"

"According to the readouts," Beverly said solemnly, "you never dreamed
at all last night.  You have some new memories, but there's no sign of
dream activity."

Deanna tensed, remembering: Lwaxana had insisted that what she was
experiencing was not a dream.

"I certainly don't need this medi-scanner to know you're upset," Beverly
said, though she never raised her eyes to Deanna's face.  "And there's a
considerable depletion of the neurotransmitter necessary for telepathy
and empathy.  That alone can cause intense anxiety.  Let me give you
something that will relax you, stimulate your neurotransmitter
production, and dampen your ability to sense others around you.  That
would help prevent further depletion.  Also, I'd recommend another
leisurely day in your quarters until you're back to normal."

Deanna was suddenly flooded with the sensation that Beverly was being
dishonest with her.  She also sensed a contained hunger that surprised
and confused her.  She frowned, deliberately probing her friend more
deeply.  The strange impressions faded, leaving only the normal sense of
doctorly concern and the strong desire that Deanna follow her advice so
she might get well.  Deanna found herself disbelieving her own senses.

And then she remembered Lwaxana's warning.  Do not look them in the eye,
any of them.  Do not let them touch you.  And above all, shelter your
mind.

Troi struggled to make sense of it, any of it, as she felt her grip on
reality fading.

"Deanna, please," Beverly murmured, closing in with the hypospray.

"It's normal to feel suspicious, even paranoid, under these conditions.
But this will make you feel better, give you time to shake this
confusion and start to recover.  I'm your doctor and your friend. Let me
help you."

Deanna took a step back, moving out of reach.  "I don't want that,
Beverly, thank you."

For an instant, she got a flash of emotion: Beverly intended to force
the drug on her.

Abruptly, the bell chimed again, and the sensation vanished.

Beverly lowered the hypo and smiled.  "Of course, Deanna.  But, please,
if you're having problems, come see me.  I can help alleviate some of
what you're going through.  Isn't that what you'd recommend to one of
your patients?"

"Yes, of course," Deanna agreed, as the bell chimed again.  "Who is it?"

"Commander Data."

"Come in," Deanna called.  The thought of spending time with the one
person she could sense nothing from was suddenly a tremendous relief.

"Counselor," Data began, as soon as he'd entered the room, "Captain
Picard- Oh, hello, Doctor!   I do hope I am not interrupting-" "No,
that's fine, Data," Beverly told him, shifting her weight as if to
leave.  "I was just on my way out."

The android addressed them both.  "Captain Picard wishes to meet with
all senior officers in the conference room immediately.  The captain
paged you, Counselor, but you did not answer.  He was afraid your
medication might cause you to sleep through the page and asked me to
come get you.  I suspect you already know about the meeting, Doctor?"

"Yes, Data," Beverly assured him.  "I knew he wanted to meet as soon as
I had finished.  . . ."  She glanced at Deanna, as if realizing the
Betazoid was unaware of the latest shipboard developments.

"Something's happened," Deanna said.  "What is it?"

Data paused, looking at the doctor.  Beverly briefly explained what had
occurred in Ten Forward, and about the death of Ensign Evans.

"And I slept through all that violence?"  Deanna said, aghast.

"Don't blame yourself," Beverly soothed.  "The sedative I gave you was
supposed to block out your empathic reception.  You needed the rest.  We
couldn't know what was going to happen."

All the more reason to remain undrugged now, Deanna decided.

"Counselor," Data said in a kindly manner, "if you are not well enough
to attend the meeting, I will explain it to the captain."

"No, Data, thank you.  I'll just need a moment to dress."  She half
turned toward her bedroom when something cool touched her neck and
hissed: Crusher's hypospray.

She whirled, furious, hand to the violated spot on her neck.

"Beverly!   How could you?"

Crusher's expression was one of sincerest apology and sympathy, her tone
one of consummate reasonableness.  "Deanna, forgive me, but your
reluctance to be medicated is part of your condition.  The more depleted
your neurotransmitter, the more tense and paranoid you'll become.  It's
normal for patients in your condition to refuse even life-saving help.
As your doctor, I had to do what I believe is best, and what I believe
you would want me to do were you feeling normal.

Before you vent your anger, take a moment to evaluate your current
condition.  Tell me how you really feel."

The Betazoid rubbed her neck where the drug entered her bloodstream and
considered her friend's words.  The truth was-she felt better.  Her
apprehension was gone.  She didn't feel high or woozy, just more like
herself.  Automatically, she tried to probe Crusher's feelings, but
there was little there.  She could sense something familiar, something
that was Beverly, but her empathy was profoundly muted.  And for some
reason she found that fact oddly comforting.

Her troubled mind was suddenly quieted, able to spend the time healing
itself.

Reluctantly, Deanna said, "Actually, I do feel better.  I feel calmer,
more at ease with myself.  And as you predicted, my empathic sense is
strongly curbed.

Normally, that would upset me, make me feel nonfunctional, but right now
I'm happier this way.  You were right, Beverly."  She smiled wanly.  "I
guess that's why you're the doctor and I'm the counselor."

Data kept looking from one woman to the other, clearly confused.

"Counselor, are you well enough to come to the captain's meeting?"

"Oh, yes," she assured him.  "I'll be there, Commander."

"Would you like someone to wait for you while you change, Deanna?"

Beverly offered.

"That's a good idea," Deanna said, then surprised the doctor by adding,
"Data, would you mind?"

"Of course not, Counselor," the android replied.

Beverly nodded at the two of them.  "That's better for me, actually,"
she said brightly, "since I need to have my autopsy report ready for the
captain.  See you later."  But as she left, Deanna got the faintest
sense of conflicting emotions in her friend, emotions she could not
actually understand.

"Is everything all right with you and Dr.  Crusher, Counselor?"

Data asked quietly.

Deanna turned to him.  His insight into human behavior patterns improved
every day.  She was not surprised that he noticed the tension between
the two women.

"Everything's fine, Data," she insisted, with a forced smile.

"Beverly and I are just having a small disagreement about a course of
treatment.  And, besides, after all the mental input I had to deal with
yesterday, Ithought it would be pleasant to spend some time with a
strong silent type for a change."  She patted his arm and went to change
her clothes, leaving him in the living room with a very perplexed, human
expression.

PICARD SAT IN HIS @DY ROOM, mulling over Barbara Evans's autopsy
results, along with Dr.  Crusher's report regarding the other forensic
material found in the ransacked Ten Forward.

The evidence was startling only in its absence.  It would be bad enough,
Picard knew, to have to break the news of Evans's death to her parents;
how could he face that when he couldn't even tell them why or how? There
had to be something in the reports, some key that would lead him to the
truth.

"Bron to Captain Picard."  It was a feminine voice.

Jendar Bron was a second-year ensign currently manning communications.

"Yes, Ensign," Picard murmured, his eyes still focused on the horrific
details of how Evans had met her end: shock, from blood loss and brutal
trauma.

Someone still aboard this vessel had stood by and watched.

"Sorry to disturb you, Captain, but I found something odd in the
communication logs."

"What is it?"  He finally glanced up, scowling.

Protocol dictated that Bron should take her problem to Commander Riker.
What was happening to the training on this ship, anyway9 Bron seemed to
note his irritation; her tone grew even more hesitant and apologetic.
"Captain, there's a message logged in from Starfleet Command, a library
file.  It's routed to you, but there's no record of your having received
it.  Have you been notified about this communique, sir?"

Picard sighed.  "When did it come in?"

"Yesterday, sir.  It was received as a priority message, but then
rerouted into storage and given a lowpriority status."

A sudden suspicion made him pause.  "Send me the file now.  I want to
see it."

"Yes, sir."

He swiveled back toward his small console and watched as the Starfleet
logo appeared, followed by the file heading.  The stardate confirmed his
suspicions.  This was the file with the information about the epidemic.

"Who received this file when it came in, Ensign Bron?"

"That's the other odd thing, sir.  There's no record of the recipient."
1 Impossible.  Documentation on the receipt of a file was automatic.

"Well, who was on duty when it came through the bridge?"  They might be
able to determine the original recipient.

"It doesn't appear that the file ever got to the bridge or that anyone
here was even notified about it, Captain.  It's as if the file was
received by the ship's sensors, then automatically rerouted without
anyone ever even seeing it.  I accidentally found it because I was
looking for a file requested by one of the scientists."

Picard stared at the message on his screen in disbelief.  What Bron was
telling him indicated deliberate tampering with Starfleet protocols and
the central computer's responses to routine procedures.

"Thank you, Ensign, for bringing this to my attention.  Good work."  He
sat back in his chair.  He could have Data and La Forge run a complete
level-one diagnostic on the ship, but he wasn't sure he could afford to
devote that much time on this problem when the more immediate one seemed
to be the random acts of violence occurring on the ship.  He would have
to talk to La Forge and Data after his meeting with the senior staff and
see what they thought could be the cause.  If it was sabotage, it would
indicate the violence aboard ship might not be random at all.

"Ensign Bron," he said quietly.

"Yes, Captain."

"Please inform the senior staff that I'll be several minutes late for
our meeting.  Ask them to please wait."

"Aye, sir."

Crusher and La Forge stood conferring in the ready room and glanced up
quickly-almost guiltily, Will thought-when Riker 'came in.

He assumed they wanted a private moment with Picard, who normally
arrived at meetings early.  If that was the case, they were clearly out
of luck.

"Have you received word about the captain's delay?"  he asked.

"Just now," Geordi answered.  "We thought since we were already here, we
might as well wait."

Beverly looked up at Will's face curiously.  "Commander, what's happened
to your eye?"  She reached for her medi-scanner as she approached him.

"My eye?   Nothing, I hope,@' Riker said cheerily.

She peered into Rikeesfaceamoment-he stood carefully still, gazing
upward as she studied the affected eye-then clicked her tongue with
doctorly concern.  "Yes, definitely.

You've got a broken blood vessel in your sclera."

"Really?"  He shrugged.  "I can't feel anything.

"No, you might not," she said solicitously, lifting the scanner toward
his face.  "Let me just make sure it's nothing more serious.

It'll only take a minute to fix.  Good thing the captain's late."

As Riker held still, permitting Crusher to steady his face with a
skilled, delicate hand, he noticed an odd sight in his peripheral
vision: La Forge, grinning with delight.

What's so funny about a broken blood vessel?   Riker wondered, but put
the distraction aside as Crusher ordered, "Now look straight into my
eyes, Will."

He complied, but as his eyes met her soft brown ones, he found himself
staring into them hypnotically, pulled in by her gaze.  Her pupils
expanded, glowing, swirling with shimmering colors-colors so beautiful,
so mesmerizing, he wanted never to look away.  He frowned, staring
harder, just as her fingertips grazed his cheek, and a sudden sharp
shock raced through his system.

When Picard finally entered the conference room, he did so just as
Commander Data, Lieutenant Worf, and Counselor Troi were taking their
seats.  After a nodded acknowledgment to the crew, he moved to the head
of the table.  To his right, Will Riker sat, blinking and touching the
corner of his eye; the commander seemed rather pale.

"Everything all right, Number One?"

Riker nodded and gave a rueful smile.  "Broken blood vessel.  Dr.
Crusher just gave me a little medical aid.  My vision's a little blurry,
that's all."

"It'll pass in a moment," Crusher assured the captain.

Picard nodded.  "Fine, then let's get down to the business at hand,
shall we?   And I'm sorry to say a bad business it is.  I'd planned on
briefing you with the autopsy results Dr.  Crusher obtained and the
information we might have received from trace evidence in Ten Forward.
However, the reports contained little information to help us understand
this perplexing tragedy."  He turned to Crusher.  "I assume you have
nothing new to add?"

"No, sir.  Not at this time."

"Well," Picard continued, "we may already have the critical information
we need to get to the bottom of this dilemma.  And that information has
come from Starfleet."

"Then you have finally received the communique about the Vulcan
epidemic?"  Data asked.

"Correct 9 9 Picard told him.  "You should know that the communique
actually arrived yesterday, but was somehow rerouted and archived before
I could see it."

Intercepting Data before he could painstakingly explain why this was
impossible, the captain held up a hand and continued.  "As I suspected,
the Federation was not nearly as circumspect as the Vulcan authorities,
and there was a great deal more pertinent information about the epidemic
in Starfleet's communique."

Picard glanced around the table, weighing what he was about to say to
his staff.  "Based on this information, combined with the data already
provided by the Vulcans, I have reason to believe that the violence
aboard the Enterprise marks the beginning stage of the same epidemic
that so profoundly affected both a starship crew and the planet Vulcan
eight decades earlier."

Crusher leaned forward on the table, her expression one of confusion.
"May I ask how you came to that conclusion, Captain?"

"From your autopsy report, Doctor," Picard explained, as he turned and
brought up a display on the nearby terminal screen.  "Eighty years ago
the medical staff aboard the affected starship documented this very
peculiar pattern of brain damage from both living and dead victims of
the madness."  He pointed to the multicolored image of a human brain.

"You see there how the blue color resonates through the frontal lobes
into the amygdala?   Almost in a starburst pattern?   Very unusual.

In fact, the computer could not match this pattern with any other known
malady involving the brain.  It indicates a very specific progression of
memory loss.  Typically, victims of the disease, once cured, have no
memory of the period during which they were infected."

Picard touched a control on the table that caused the screen to split
and show another brain scan.  "And here, from your autopsy information,
Dr.  Crusher, is the exact same pattern recorded from the brain of
Barbara Evans.  There is no doubt in my mind that Barbara Evans became
infected by entities like those housed in the receptacles now in sickbay
quarantine.

The most likely scenario of her infection, is, obviously, through Skel,
since she was his liaison officer.

However she became infected, she's no doubt infected others through her
everyday contact with members of the ship-including visiting scientists
and their staff.

The kind of senseless violence we saw in Ten Forward is typical of the
disease's manifestation in its early stages."

"But, Captain," Beverly protested, "how could this happen?   Skel passed
every quarantine procedure we have.  And you've talked to him yourself.
He clearly is of sound mind and body."

"Must I remind you, Doctor," he said curtly, "of Typhoid Mary?   We
cannot rule out the possibility that he is a carrier, either immune or
simply unaware of what he carries."

"Excuse me, Captain," Commander La Forge spoke up, "but I checked the
fail-safes on the quarantine unit myself.  I don't see how Skel could've
gotten a clear bill of health if he was infected with those organisms."

"This problem was faced by the infected starship crew as well," Picard
explained.  "They concluded that the organism was smaller than any they
had ever before encountered-possibly the size of a subatomic particle or
smaller.  They are definitely smaller than anything the biofilters are
calibrated to detect.  During the original outbreak, neither the
Federation crew nor the Vulcans were able to develop a test to determine
whether or not a person was infected, and they never perfected a device
that could detect the entities."

Picard glanced at Troi, seated near the end of the table.

"However-and this is very interesting-the record keepers of the time
noted that a skilled, nontouch telepath might have been helpful in
diagnosing the disease as it claimed more and more members of the crew.

Of course, this was before Betazed became a member of the Federation."

"Captain," Deanna interjected, "if you're thinking that I could have
sensed Skel's harboring those entities, I must say I didn't sense them
when he was in my presence.  The only thing I could sense from him was
the normal Vulcan controls, and flashes of the terrible memories he
has."

"As I said," Picard reminded her, "if there is such a thing as a carrier
state for this infection, Skel may be completely unaware of it.

They may also be masking their presence from us through self-defense
mechanisms the likes of which many diseases develop over time.

Remember, the first exposure of humans and Vulcans to these entities was
eighty years ago.  They may have evolved, grown adaptable, grown
resistant-we just don't know enough."

"Well, you're right about that, Captain," Beverly agreed mildly.

"Even with the information from Starfleet, we don't know enough about
this epidemic from eighty years ago.  Certainly not enough to assume
that Skel reintroduced an infection we don't even know if we have!"

Picard looked at her thoughtfully.  "You may be correct, Dr.  Crusher-,
however, considering the importance of the visitors we have aboard the
ship and the charge we hold for ensuring the safety of the crew, I feel
we must act now."

Worf sat forward.  "If you are saying, sir, that Counselor Troi is able
to detect the affected victims with her empathic sense, can she not
simply scan the crew and tell us whether anyone is infected?"." Picard
turned to Troi as she said, "It's very likely.

However, due to the agitated state I found myself in after probing the
alien artifacts, Dr.  Crusher has given me a drug to blunt my empathic
sense.  Right now, the few readings I am getting are quite muted.  I
doubt if I could act very effectively as a diagnostician."

"How long will this drug last on the counselor?"

Picard asked Crusher.

"Twenty-four hours," Beverly responded.  "However, I administered the
drug due to Deanna's depletion of a specific neurotransmitter.  If that
condition continues, she will need the muting drug again tomorrow."

"I understand and applaud your concern for the counselor's health,
Doctor," Picard said quietly.

"However, under the circumstances, I would ask you to hold off
administering that drug until you've conferred with me.  We may have no
choice but to enlist the counselor's aid in determining whether or not
the Enterprise is infected."

"Aye, sir," Crusher said meekly, but it was clear she didn't like the
order.

"Mr.  Worf," Picard said, "regarding Sket-I believe it is in our best
interests to request he once again resume his residency in the
quarantine unit.  I'll explain this to him myself after our meeting.

I'd like you to accompany him to sickbay, but under no circumstances are
you to permit any physical contact between you, nor are you to meet him
eye-to-eye.

Physical and eye contact are both critical in the transference of these
entities, and we have no way of knowing what their effect would be on a
Klingon metabolism," It was a notion Picard didn't care to consider at
the moment.

"Aye, sir," Worf agreed.

"It may be safe to assume that Mr.  Data may be the only member of the
crew immune from these entities," Picard told them, "though I can't
guarantee that."

Data nodded.  "Theoretically, you are probably correct.  My optic nerves
are more mechanical than organic, and organic optic nerves appear to be
critical for transference.  Even if I could be infected, my lack of
emotional response might be, for once, a distinct advantage.

Once within my positronic network, the entities would no doubt starve to
death."

Picard nodded.  "The next problem we must consider is the Vulcan science
vessel, Skal Torr.  She will be arriving here within ten hours.

We can still advise her to return home.  I hesitate involving the
Vulcans in this, especially when you consider how profoundly they were
affected by this same disease years ago.9' "Excuse me, sir, but the
Vulcans have come a long way to be told to go home again," Riker said.

"And suppose the entities aren't on board?   Counselor Troi has
impressed upon me the importance of getting those artifacts off this
ship.  For all we know, their very presence could be what's affecting
Deanna.  If so, she might not recover until they're removed.  I don't
think warding the Vulcans off at this stage is our best move."

"Just how did the starship crew cope with the infection when it appeared
on their ship?"  Worf asked.

"They discovered the entities could literally be starved to death,"
Picard explained.  "They require almost continual feeding unless they're
in stasis confinement, such as the artifacts provide.

Their feeding is what causes their host to act violently, and the more
violence and strong emotions the host experiences, the more feeding his
entities can enjoy, which is why the violence always escalates.  The
crew anesthetized the entire ship with a gas inhalant that put everyone
to sleep for twenty-eight hours.  This caused the entities to starve and
die.  When the inhalant wore off, the crew was cured-and all displayed
the sort of memory-loss pattern that appeared in Ensign Evans's brain
scan.  I considered trying that again, but we don't have twenty-eight
hours to spare.  The Vulcans will be here in ten."

"I might have a solution," Crusher chimed in.

"Technology has improved in the last eighty years.  We could anesthetize
the crew successfully while at the same time adding a compatible
compound that would accelerate everyone's metabolism so that their
bodies would literally speed up, shortening the amount of time we'd need
to keep them under."

"How much time would we need to sleep?"  Picard asked.

"I'd have to calculate several variabilities to take into consideration
the alien metabolisms on board, but I suspect I could collapse the time
needed down to as little as four hours."

"Excellent!"  Picard said.  "Number One, I'll leave it to you to
coordinate the shipwide shutdown of all unnecessary activities for this
period.  You'll need to notify team leaders, liaison officers, and
family group leaders so that everyone is prepared for the shutdown.

Normally, I would ask Counselor Troi to assist you; however, considering
her need for recovery, I think it best she uses this time to do just
that."

"Yes, sir," Riker agreed.  Troi nodded at the same time.

"Dr.  Crusher, when you have the anesthetic and the accelerator
prepared, I'll make a general announcement."  Picard looked around the
table.  "We have one other advantage those suffering from the first
outbreak of the infection didn't have: Mr.  Data, who can safeguard the
ship while we are indisposed, and who can have in his possession the
computer code for the antidote should we need to be roused quickly for
an emergency.", "Captain, I Data interjected, "are you sure this is
necessary?   it is only speculation that the entities have infected
anyone.  Lieutenant La Forge and I could work on recalibrating a
portable medical scanner to detect memory-loss patterns based on the
information you have just shown us, while Dr.  Crusher goes through the
Federation communique to see if she can find a more medical approach to
a cure.

"If Barbara Evans was the sole person infected by these entities, and if
she, in turn, infected only one out of five people she came in contact
with, and then, they in turn infected only one out of five people-"

"That's still a great many people!"  Deanna agreed.

"Data's question is valid," Picard agreed.  "And I think that he and Mr.
La Forge should work on such a scanner.  However, you must realize that
type of scanner will not tell us if we have an active infection-only if
the person showing the appropriate pattern had been infected.  We will
need something to help us determine if, after the anesthetic wears off,
we have indeed destroyed these entities."

Picard grew more somber as he addressed the central issue of Data's
question.  "I want you all to understand the seriousness of this threat.
Before I would let this ship dock at the TechnoFair and risk loosing the
entities upon the most diverse group of Federation members ever to
assemble, I would destroy her first with all hands aboard.  Is that
clear?"

"Very," said Will Riker.

Lieutenant Worf strode down the corridors of Deck Five.  Despite his
admonition to himself, he could not help peering suspiciously at every
crew member who passed.  Was Ensign Meyers infected?   He seemed quite
preoccupied.  What about Lieutenant Mata?   She would not meet his eyes.
He forced himself to stop this fruitless analyzing and tend to the task
at hand.

At least he'd had a chance to contact Alexander and tell him about the
four hours he would be unconscious.  Worf's son had always understood
his responsibilities as a member of the ship and took them seriously.
He'd seen numerous shipboard emergencies.  And he was a Klingon-he would
not panic, but weather the storm just as his father expected him to.

Worf wasn't surprised to find Alexander still in Kyla's company.

He expressed concern to the boy that he was imposing on the woman, but
Kyla herself insisted he was "assisting" her in her experiments.

Worf was proud of Alexander's interest in science, and-after a moment's
paranoia that Kyla might be infected, and thus in danger of infecting
his son-was secretly pleased that the human warrior woman would be with
the boy when they were forced to sleep.

While Alexander was fully capable of taking care of himself, Worf felt
better knowing a battle-ready adult would be with him.

Finally, the Klingon slowed his quiet steps as he found himself before
the Vulcan's quarters.  While Vulcans were normally a people of peace,
their physical strength was great.  Worf ground his teeth in an effort
to repress a smile.  If the Vulcan resisted, it would be a glorious
fight!

He rang the door chime, then heard Skel's placid voice: "Enter."

The Klingon stepped through the yielding doors and found himself facing
Skel, who stood in the center of the room-carry bag slung over his
shoulders, hands inside his sleeves-as if he wished to present the most
passive appearance possible.  Beside him, Dr.  Tarmud stood, frowning
and defiant.

"I have just spoken with Captain Picard," Skel said quietly.  "He has
explained the need for my return to quarantine isolation.  I have
gathered my work and am prepared to go."

Worf repressed a sigh of consummately Klingon disappointment.

"Thank you, sir.  if you will come with-"

"And I must protest!" Tarmud interrupted vehemently.  "This is nonsense,
taking this man away from our work!   I'm telling you, you're barking up
the wrong tree!"

Worf's brow furrowed at the unfamiliar colloquialism.  Why would a
Klingon want to bark at any tree?

"Please, Doctor," Skel said reasonably, turning to his friend.

"We can communicate via computer console and continue our work. You
cannot imagine the devastation the entities can cause.  If they are
conible for the death of my liaison cemed they are respons officer, it
is only logical that I cooperate.  I have spent my life working on this
very problem."

"If you insist," Tarmud grumbled, but his expression remained reluctant.

"I will contact you as soon as I am able," Skel assured him, and walked
out of the quarters to accompany Worf to sickbay.

The -one thing Worf appreciated about Vulcans was their disinclination
to prattle, so it surprised him when, in the turbolift, Skel said
conversationally, "Are you aware, Lieutenant, that we have no knowledge
of the entities' effect on Klingon physiology?"

Worf kept his gaze fixed on the seam in the lift doors.  "Yes, sir, I am
aware of that."

"I, for one, cannot imagine what would happen should a Klingon be
infected by an entity who must feed on the most primal and savage
emotions, the most powerful feelings.  Can you?"

Worf glanced sideways at his charge, wondering why Skel would ask him
this question.  "No, sir, I cannot."

"These entities were created as a weapon of war, Lieutenant," Skel
remarked.  "Can you imagine the devastation they must have wrought when
released on the enemy side?   Within a day, perhaps, or at the most two,
the entire army would be infected, fighting among themselves wildly,
slaughtering one another to feed their opponent's creatures."

Worf could repress neither the surge of anger that rose within him at
the thought, nor the growl that emerged unbidden from the back of his
throat.  "That is not warfare.  That is slaughter.  There is no way I
can imagine such a dishonorable way to defeat your enemy.  It is beyond
my imagination."

"I suspect it was beyond its creators' as well," Skel said mildly.

"For there is no doubt that the entities they were so clever to develop
devoured them as well as their enemy."

That pleased Worf, in an odd way, that @uch a dishonorable people would
have caused their own destruction.  The turbolift came to a halt, and
the two men proceeded to sickbay.

Once there, they joined Dr.  Crusher and Captain Picard.

"I appreciate your cooperation in this matter," Picard said cordially.

"I think you all know my opinion of this," Dr.  Crusher complained, her
tone one of uncharacteristic irritability.

Worf was surprised at her bluntness, but he knew the medical officer was
permitted a frankness that was not acceptable in other positions.

"The quarantine unit is ready," Dr.  Crusher explained.  "Once Skel
steps inside it, it will seal automatically."  She faced the Vulcan.
"Your computer and the other things you requested are already inside.

We've tried to make it as comfortable as we could.

Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to prepare for our shipwide
shutdown."

All three men nodded as Dr.  Crusher left the room.

Worf's eyes followed her as she began working on a computer program in
the next room.  Near her stood an antigrav cart loaded with ten large
canisters designed to hold compressed gas.  The silver canisters were
color-coded: one group blue, one yellow to mark those which carried the
anesthetic and the accelerator.

"I will enter the quarantine unit now, Captain," Skel said, pulling
Worrs attention back.  "I leave it to you and your capable crew to
determine when I might be released."

"Thank you, Skel," Captain Picard said, as the Vulcan entered through
the doorway in the transparent aluminum walls.  Once inside, Skel went
about removing his research materials from his carry bag as the doors
sealed shut behind him.  Worf watched Picard check the monitoring
devices, assuring himself that all was in order.

"Captain, will I be stationed here during the shipwide shutdown?"

Worf asked privately.  He would prefer to be with his son, but knew that
was unlikely.

Picard looked up as if about to answer him, then hesitated.

Suddenly, frowning, the captain turned instead to stare at the Vulcan,
who was still unpacking in the quarantine unit, oblivious to Picard's
attention.

The captain gave his head an odd little shake, then turned back to Worf.

"Mr.  Worf, did you hear that?"

"Hear what, sir?"  The security chief had a sudden flash of
concern-could the captain be infected?   His body tensed, preparing for
conflict.

But Picard's expression was merely apologetic.

"Excuse me, Mr.  Worf; I was distracted.  You were asking about your
station during the shutdown.  I think it would be a good idea if you
would remain here in sickbay when .  . ."

He trailed off, turning again to stare in disbelief at Skel.  This time
the Vulcan paused and looked up to return the captain's gaze blankly;
clearly, something passed between the two men.

Worf grew seriously concerned now.  "Captain Picard, what is it?

Are you well?"  He opened his mouth to call Dr.  Crusher, who still
stood with her back to them, completely unaware of Picard and Skel's
scrutiny as she worked at her console.

But before the Klingon could react, Picard uttered a phrase in Vulcan,
then spun about, seized Crusher by the shoulders, and threw her from the
console.

"Mr.  Worf!   Help me stop her!"

Worf crouched, ready for battle-but hesitated: Should he subdue Dr.
Crusher ... or the captain, whose sudden behavior seemed irrational?

He paused no more than a heartbeat, enough time for Crusher to spin on
the balls of her feet and slam Picard to the deck with a single brutal
blow to the side of his head.  And then-easily, dispassionately-she
returned to her work as though the act of knocking down her captain was
a small thing.

"Stop her, Worf!"  Picard ordered groggily as he rolled to his knees.
"She's infected-that's not Beverly!   Stop her before she initiates the
programming!   ti With a roar, the Klingon grabbed Crusher's shoulders
and pulled her from the console.  Serpentine, she wriggled in his grasp
and spun about, at the same time-impossibly-breaking free from him.  She
drew back a long leg and aimed a high kick at Worf s head; he caught her
heel and yanked her body up, forward.

She fell on her back, hard enough to have knocked the wind from the real
Crusher's lungs, yet she never paused.  Still flat on the deck, she
planted her other foot in the Klingon's sternum and flipped him over her
head easily.

He rolled and came up on his feet, but she was already up and struck his
face: once, twice, three times, with inhuman strength and a
preternatural speed that left him no time to block the blows.  He roared
with pain and rage.

He tackled her once more, knocking her small, delicately human body to
the deck.  With peripheral awareness, he heard Picard calling for Data,
shouting orders, demanding a sedative for Crusher while Ogawa scrambled
to comply.

Success: Worf managed to pin her to the ground.

She wrestled wildly, viciously, so determined that he had difficulty
holding her down-but he could not bring himself to strike her.  No
matter what was happening to her mind, the body was still Crusher's and
would have to be functional when she was cured.

He feared inflicting serious damage-damage that might remain after the
entities had gone.

She, however, had no such qualms.

She buried her elbow in his gut; he grunted, handling the blow he had
anticipated, grimacing at the pain in his shins as she pounded against
them with her heel.

And then she wriggled in his arms, twisting so that they were
face-to-face.  The sudden encounter startled him, and she used his
disorientation to pull an arm free and pull his face toward hers.

"Don't look in her eyes!   Mr.  Worf-don't look!"

In the rage of battle, Worf scarcely registered the captain's shouts;
his gaze met hers full on.

"Mr.  Worf-!"

Brightness in her eyes: shooting sparks, like the colored embers from a
raging fire.  Worf shuddered as a shock coursed down his neck, his
spine, into his limbs.

The sensation only served to infuriate him further.

He roared a Klingon war cry; Crusher echoed it just as fiercely.

The shouts faded into the small soft sound of a hiss....

Abruptly, the swirling sparks in her eyes dimmed, then disappeared
beneath pale lids; Crusher sagged in his arms.  He looked up to see
Ogawa, hypospray in hand.

Gasping for air, he rose, lifting the unconscious woman in his arms, and
carried her tenderly to a nearby diagnostic bed.

"Lieutenant Worf," Picard whispered, and the Klingon looked up to see
the captain and Ogawa watching him warily.  Ogawa recoiled physically
from him, clearly afraid.

"Yes, Captain."

Picard's expression was grim.  "I believe Dr.  Crusher has infected
you."

Worf blinked, and took inventory of his faculties.

He remembered now-remembered the eye contact, her touching his face, and
the shock.  He saw the nurse staring at a scanner, as if that could
possibly help.

Picard had already explained to them that there was currently no way to
determine if someone was infected or not.  "Captain, I know I was
exposed, did feel a shock, but I feel completely normal.  You cannot
mean to incarcerate me in quarantine when the ship is in danger?"  The
very thought humiliated the warrior.

"That wouldn't be my first choice," Picard admit ted, glancing at Ogawa
as if reaching for a confirmation he knew she could not give him.

The nurse raised her dark eyebrows.  "Well, sir, his readouts are
normal-for a Klingon in battle rage!"

"Could he be immune?"  Picard wondered.

"Ask him," Worf said, indicating Skel.  It did not surprise the Klingon
to see the Vulcan watching emotionlessly all that had transpired.  "It
is a subject he speculated on as we traveled here."

Picard lifted a skeptical eyebrow, but said nothing; clearly, he did not
trust Skel enough to ask him anything.  Instead, he turned to the
Klingon.  "She was sabotaging the shutdown," he said, with a nod at
Crusher's unconscious form.  "She was programming for the four-hour
sleep, but there would have been no accelerator added.  The entities
would've survived if she'd succeeded."

"Captain, how did you know?"  Worf wondered aloud.  Picard's deduction
seemed nothing less than mystical to him.

The captain's expression grew decidedly sheepish.

"I hesitate to say, Lieutenant, lest you think I've been victimized by
these entities myself."  He glanced back toward Skel's quarantine unit,
then said softly, "It happened while we were standing near him, when you
began asking me about your assignment.  All of a sudden, I heard my
mother saying, 'Never trust doctors!"' Worf couldn't hide his surprise
and concern over the captain's mental state.

Picard nodded, as if understanding.  "I know, it sounds quite insane.
But that was one of her favorite bromides when she was asked how she
achieved her long life.  'Never trust doctors!" I heard it as clearly as
if she were standing beside me, in her crisp, perfect French, with her
precise inflection, her acerbic wit.  I tried to ignore it, fearing I
might be hallucinating, but she kept repeating it, once, twice, three
times-then suddenly she said in crystal clear Vulcan: 'Jean-Luc, don't
trust your doctor!" I was overwhelmed with the need-the compulsion-to
check Dr.  Crusher's work."

"Klingons have many legends about great warriors hearing those who have
gone on before them while in the heat of battle, but-"

"If you knew my mother, Mr.  Worf, you'd know she well qualifies there."
Any trace of good humor vanished at once as Picard gazed down at his
chief medical officer.  "There can be no doubt anymore: We have an
infection aboard this ship."  He lifted his face, scowling.  "Where the
hell is Data?   He's the only one we can trust now to manage this
shipwide shutdown."

"Geordi," Data said patiently, "I fail to understand your reluctance to
test out a possible containment field for the entities.

Since we know that the artifacts' force field cycles like a subspace
sensor grid, we should be able to construct a receptacle that will
secure the entities safely."

"I just think you're putting the cart before the horse, Data," Geordi
insisted, his tone strained.

"What good does it do us to create a holding pen when we haven't figured
out how to get the things in there?"

"That is a valid point," Data allowed.  He decided not to remind Geordi
that when the android had attempted to theorize ways to disable the
entities and render them harmless, Geordi found a way to deny the
possibility of each and every theory.  And when Data attempted to
analyze the various ways they might safely exorcise the entities from
their living hosts, Geordi found ways to deny those possibilities as
well.

Ever since the meeting with Picard, one thing had been troubling
Data-one thing he decided not to discuss with his closest friend-and now
Geordi's strange, uncooperative behavior only added to his concern.

Ever since the meeting, Data had been analyzing and reanalyzing one
issue: how Picard's communique from Starfleet had avoided all the normal
protocols and computer relays to be shunted into storage.

it had been cleverly accomplished.  Had the perpetrator tried to force
the computer to destroy the message, dozens of fail-safes would have
alerted the crew.  By simply rerouting it to the destination it would
inevitably occupy-archives-instead, the conspirator almost guaranteed
the message would never be seen.  It was sheer luck-a random series of
events in one's favor that Data didn't believe in-that an ensign would
see the communique and realize it might not have been seen.

But luck hadn't caused the computer to act as though it had; that had
been a deliberate act of sabotage.  And only two officers aboard the
Enterprise were capable of reprogramming the computer on that level:
Commander La Forge and Data himself.

"Geordi," Data said reluctantly, knowing that La Forge would merely
present one obstacle after another to his work, "I must ask you
something."

La Forge faced him, his face nearly expressionless behind his VISOR.

"I have analyzed this situation as thoroughly as I can, and I have come
to the conclusion that you are responsible for reprogramming the
computers so that the captain would not receive his communique& from
Starfleet.  What I cannot determine is why." La Forge's expression never
changed as he said easily, "That's crazy, Data.  Why would I reprogram
the computers to do something so strange?"

Why indeed?   Data wondered, but he already suspected he knew.

"The only possible reason would be to prevent the captain from
discovering more information on the infectious entities."

His android eyes could see far better than Geordi's VISOR could.

In fact, Data knew his eyes could see far better than the more organic
eyes that Dr.  Tarmud was constructing.  They would have the limited
vision of true human eyes.  Human eyes would have missed the nearly
imperceptible flush of Geordi's skin, and the slight tightening of his
muscles.  Stress reactions, Data knew.

"Data, we don't have time to play Sherlock Holmes right now," Geordi
grumbled.

The android was about to respond when his comm badge signaled.

"Commander Data!   This is Captain Picard!   We have an emergency in
sickbay!   Report here at once."

Data made a slight, barely perceptible move to rise; when he did, Geordi
swung.

Data's reflexes were too quick, of course; he simply reached out, easily
capturing the fist before it touched his face.  Irrationally, La Forge
swung the other; again, the android caught it with little effort.

Around them, personnel stopped to watch the bizarre nonbattle as the
chief engineer attempted to attack Data, who never budged from his seat
despite the considerable force the human exerted against him-too much
force, Data knew, for a normal human.

"Geordi, please stop this.  You will only harm yourself," he warned, but
La Forge was crazed, shrieking, clawing, punching wildly-all of the
blows having absolutely no effect.

Then Data realized the other crew members weren't just watching in
amazement-they were reacting, moving closer, their expressions revealing
frank appetite.

They were feeding off La Forge's uncontrolled rage.

"I am very sorry about this, Geordi," Data said to the raging engineer,
then, as carefully as possible, struck him on the chin.  As La Forge
collapsed in Data's arms, the android swung his friend over his
shoulder, then turned to address the other crew members he knew now were
as infected as La Forge, yet under momentary control.

"Return to your stations," he said to them calmly, "and await further
orders."

And as calmly as if he always carried an unconscious friend over his
shoulder through the halls of the huge ship, Data made his way to the
turbolift.

When he told the lift where to take him, he wondered if the orders the
engineering crew awaited were from Captain Picard or from some other
more malevolent authority.

"Commander Data!"  Picard snapped into the intercom.  "Report to sickbay
at once!"  No sooner did the last words leave him than the doors to
sickbay opened and Data marched in-carrying the ship's chief engineer.

"Damn," Picard groaned, as Worf accompanied Data to the quarantine unit
where they'd placed the unconscious doctor, "La Forge, too!"

"I am afraid so, sir.  He sabotaged our attempts to construct diagnostic
tools and capture devices, then attacked me as soon as you summoned me
here."

Worf quickly explained to the android what had transpired with the
doctor.

"Well, at least we have two proven test cases right here," Picard said,
looking at his unconscious officers.

"I will be able to test them for the patterned memory loss after the
shipwide shutdown," Data confirmed.

"We need more than that," Picard complained.

"We need something that will tell us if one can be a carrier, or if one
currently harbors the entities.  From what we've seen here, the entities
have become far better at masking their possession of the host."

"I agree," Data said, and told Picard about the reaction to Geordi's
violence from the engineering crew.

"Will you be able to manage the anesthesia of the ship, and the addition
of the accelerator, Data?"

Picard asked.

Data moved over to the console where Crusher had attempted to sabotage
the programming.  His long nimble fingers flew over the board faster
than Picard could follow.  Then, in his usual blithe way, he assured his
captain, "Yes, Sir.  I will be able to manage this alone.

The system is completely ready.  May I suggest you make your
announcement to the crew, then find a comfortable spot to recline."

"An excellent idea, Data," Picard agreed.  "Make it so.  Worf will
assist you.  Mr.  Data, you literally have the conn."

PICARD OPENM HIS EYES to an expanse of ceiling draped in the soft muted
lighting of sickbay and drew in a breath.  The deep soundless sleep had
left him rested, and the anesthetic had passed cleanly through his
system, leaving his mind clear to form its first waking thought: The
entities ...

He pushed himself onto his elbows.  A few meters away, Data stood with
his back to him before Skel's quarantine chamber, scanning the Vulcan
with a tricorder; Worf stood beside the android, eyeing the readout.
Behind the transparent walls, Skel sat in dignified repose upon his cot,
awake and cognizant.

"Data?"  Picard cleared his dry throat.  "Lieutenant Worf?"

The android turned.  "Good news, Sir.  The drugs appear to have been
successful.  The entire crew-and all passengers-have been unconscious
for the past four hours, and I have discovered some extremely
interesting readings."

Picard sat up and slid his legs off the side of the cot.

In the quarantine chamber next to Skel's, both Beverly and Geordi were
beginning to stir.

"Jean-Luc?"  Beverly smoothed a palm over her forehead as she sat on her
cot.

"What sort of interesting readings?"  Picard demanded, just as Geordi
called out: "Yeah, Data ... what're we doing here?"

Data stepped toward the chamber shared by the doctor and engineer.

"You have been invaded by entities that Skel apparently brought aboard
the ship."  He then faced Picard and gestured at the tricorder.

"According to my readouts, both Dr.  Crusher and Geordi have
aged-mentally and physically-twenty-eight hours rather than four-, the
accelerator functioned as planned.  As far as the body-and the
entities-are concerned, the required time to starve the infection has
passed."

Within the chamber, Geordi slid off the cot and stepped to the trans
arent wall that held him inside.

"Data, are you saying that we were infected with the madness?"

"I am afraid so."

La Forge let go a long slow gust of air.  "I don't remember it at all.
The last thing I knew, I was talking to Skel .  . ."

"And I was performing a last-minute check on the artifacts before going
off duty."  Beverly rose, groaning, and rubbed her neck and shoulders.
"Good Lord, that's some infection.  I feel like I was trampled by a herd
of wildebeests."

Picard permitted himself a small smile of relief at the sight of
Crusher, back to normal.  "Actually, Doctor, the herd consisted of a
single Klingon." Worf lowered his gaze, clearly abashed.

Beverly straightened and shot first the captain, then Worf, a sharply
quizzical look; abruptly, her curiosity turned to alarm.  "If we really
were infected, thenJean-Luc, I didn't hurt anyone, did I?"

"Of course not," he reassured her, resisting the impulse to smile at the
Klingon's discomfort.  "Although you did briefly present Mr.  Worf with
a ...

security challenge."

As the captain spoke, Data moved over to Skel's quarantine chamber;
Picard rose and went to stand beside the android, who proffered him the
tricorder to study.

"As you can see, sir," Data murmured, directing both their attentions to
the readout screen, "here are the results of Dr.  Crusher's brain scan.
It exhibits the starburst pattern indicative of memory loss.  Commander
La Forge exhibited an almost identical pattern.

However..  ."

He swung about to scan the silent, unprotesting Vulcan once more, then
showed the result to Picard.

"What I do not understand is the pattern Skel exhibits.  Here you can
see a vague starburst pattern-not the same as Dr.  Crusher's, since
Vulcan patterns are markedly different from human.  It still indicates
minor memory loss.  But I am also detecting a rather unusual reading of
electrical activity .  . ."

Pic rd scowled at the readout, then drew back, suspicious.  "The
entities?"

"Not necessarily, sir-" Data began, but the Vulcan at last broke his
silence to interrupt: "Or perhaps the trauma I underwent as a child."

Picard shot him a skeptical glance, but Data nodded.

"That's quite possible, Captain.  These readings are not inconsistent
with severe childhood trauma."

"But could it possibly indicate that he was-or still is-a carrier?"

Data tilted his head, thoughtful.  "That is also possible, sir, but I
can neither confirm it nor rule it out.  Certainly, the information we
have on the outbreak of eighty years ago never mentioned the presence of
carriers."

"That doesn't mean that they didn't exist, or couldn't evolve over
almost a century's time," Picard persisted.

"True," Data agreed.  "Although I cannot ascertain whether Skel is a
carrier at the moment, I did use the past four hours to do some research
which might help us."  He pointed over at the lab counter, where a
familiar-looking device rested.  "I have been working on a version of
Geordi's VISOR which can conclusively detect the frequency of the
entities.  With it, we would be able to actually 'see' them and know
whether someone harbors the infection."

Softly, so as not to offend the Vulcan, Picard asked, "You mean, in
eighty years, no one ever developed a wayData shook his head.  "No, sir.
It was never needed, as the entities were contained behind multiple
force fields."

"I see."  Picard released a breath of pure P-ratitude that, save for
Barbara Evans, his crew had apparently been spared; yet he could not
permit himself to relax completely, not until the entities were off his
ship.

"We need the device as soon as possible, Data.  The Vulcans will be here
in fewer than six hours."

Data glanced at La Forge, who stood eagerly at the entrance to his
quarantine chamber.  "I am not sure I can meet that deadline without
assistance," the android said.  "But now that Geordi is himself, we
might be able to have a prototype ready for you within a few hours."

"You bet, sir," La Forge said.  "Just give me the chance .  .

Picard studied Crusher and La Forge for an uncertain moment; they both
appeared to be perfectly themselves-a gratifying sight.  Even so, he
turned to Data and asked softly, "You're absolutely sure, Commander,
that these people are no longer infected?"

"I monitored the dosages of the accelerator and anesthetic myself, sir.
If the records from the original outbreak are correct, then we have met
the conditions for the cure."

"Very well.  Release the doctor and Mr.  La Forge," Picard said with a
sigh.  "I want you and Geordi to get right to work."

Data moved to a control panel on the bulkhead and fingered it briefly;
there came a soft hum, then both Crusher and La Forge emerged from the
chamber.

Unsmiling, still massaging her neck, Beverly moved stiffly over to the
android and Picard-and the still sheepish Klingon, who avoided her gaze.
"How's the crew?   Were others infected?   Anyone hurt?"

"According to my preliminary sensor scans," Data replied, "approximately
twenty-five percent of the crew was infected."

"Twenty-five percent," Picard whispered, repressing a shudder at the
narrowly avoided tragedy, then drew himself back to the present.

"As for Skel, Commander Data ... I don't like that irregular readout.

Unless you can guarantee me it's the result of a childhood trauma-" Next
to Picard, Worf growled softly, "Do not trust him, Captain.  He has
already caused the death of a- 11 Picard silenced him with a wave.

Behind his transparent prison, the Vulcan still sat cross-legged upon
his cot, as though already resigned to remain there.  "If you are going
to suggest that I remain in quarantine, Captain, I quite agree with your
chief of security.  You cannot further endanger your crew on my behalf."

"It would be wise, sir," Data seconded.

Picard faced the Vulcan, his sympathy for Skel warring with his fury at
the entities that had been brought aboard the Enterprise.  "I apologize
for the inconvenience again, Skel, but frankly-I'm considering turning
you over along with the artifacts to the Vulcan ship.  I have a crew to
worry about, and I must also consider all those attending the
TechnoFair."

Skel gave a single gracious nod, managing to utterly suppress what
Picard expected was a surge of deep disappointment.  "I admit that I
would prefer to continue on to the TechnoFair, as I have spent a full
year preparing for it ... but I will yield to your judgment."

"Speaking of the Vulcans, sir .  . ."  Data interrupted, continuing only
when the captain turned and looked pointedly at him.

"While everyone else was unconscious and I was busy monitoring the
anesthetic procedure, the ship received an incoming message from the
Vulcan ship Skal Torr.  They encouraged us to keep the artifacts under
strict quarantine and requested confirmation of the rendezvous time and
site."

Picard released a sigh, but before he could mentally address the issue
of the Vulcans, Worf addressed him: "Sir.  With your permission, I will
go to security to debrief my people, after which I would like to return
to my quarters to check on my son."

As the Klingon finished speaking, Picard's communicator signaled.

"Permission granted, Mr.  Worf," the captain replied, then pressed his
comm badge.

"Picard."

"Riker here.  Sir, what the hell's going on?   I just woke up on the
bridge with no idea how I got here.  No one else here seems to know what
just happened either."

Picard permitted himself only a fleeting second's realization that his
second-in-command chill at the had been affected.

"There was an outbreak, Willand apparently you and the bridge crew were
infected."

He could hear Riker's sharp intake of breath.  "You mean the madness
from the Vulcan artifacts?"

"I'm afraid so.  We were forced to anesthetize everyone and starve the
entities.  According to Mr.  Data, one of the side effects of the cure
is memory loss."

A long pause followed; at last, Riker drew in another breath and began
to reply, but Picard cut him off.

"Report to my ready room immediately, Number One.  The Vulcans will be
here in a matter of hours, and we've got to decide what to tell them."

For the first time since the artifacts' arrival on the Enterprise,
Deanna Troi woke from a dreamless sleep feeling lighthearted; the terror
that had so dominated her conscious and dreaming moments had blessedly
ceased.  She allowed herself the luxurious sensation of stretching, then
propped herself up and reached for the comm badge beside the bed.

"Troi to sickbay."

The response was reassuringly immediate, the familiar voice's tone
reassuringly calm and professional.  "Sickbay.  Nurse Ogawa here."

"Alyssa!   How did everything go?"

"Exactly as planned, Counselor.  It turns out approximately one-fourth
of the crew, including Dr.  Crusher and Commander Riker, were infected.
But the scans show that they're all right now."

Deanna mentally recoiled as she recalled the incident with Beverly,
injecting herSo that I couldn't sense them.  But Will-my God, Will spent
the night here ...

She shook her head gently as if to dislodge the unpleasant thought.  No,
Will hadn't been possessed by the entities then; she had sensed only
protectiveness and caring from him.

"So they're all right?"

"Just fine," Ogawa soothed, reacting to the undercurrent of fear in
Trois tone.  "Dr.  Crusher is busy examining patients at the moment, and
I think Commander Riker is meeting with the captain."

"And ... Skel?"  For some reason, the thought of the Vulcan still
troubled her.  If he had been infected, why hadn't she been able to
sense it?   And why had he remained so calm?   According to Skel, the
madness had transformed normally stoic Vulcans into homicidal killers.

"Skel's still under quarantine."

"Really?   Why?"

"Unusual brain scans.  He seems perfectly normal otherwise; it's just a
precaution.  But the captain has ordered him to remain in quarantine
until further notice."  Ogawa's tone abruptly changed.  "Dr.  Crusher
says to tell you that, physically, twenty-eight hours have passed for
you, so all drugs-including the neurotransmitter blocker-have passed out
of your system.  She'd like for you to report to sickbay as soon as
possible, so she can make sure you're doing okay."

Troi smiled to herself, happy at the thought that Beverly was herself
once more, and concerned about Deanna.  "Tell her-" The communicator
signaled again before she could finish the sentence.

"Picard here.  Counselor, how are you feeling?"

Her smile widened.  "Quite well, sir, thank you.

And you?"

6611,et's just say I'm greatly relieved."  He paused.

"Commander Riker and I are meeting in my ready room shortly to prepare a
statement for the Vulcans.

P05SEsSION

If you're sure you're feeling well, your input would be invaluable."

"Of course, Captain.  I'll be there in ten minutes.

Troi out."

She rose and went to her closet, the sense of relief so deep she felt
almost giddy.  Still smiling, she slid aside the closet door, reached
for a fresh uniform and screamed when her fingers brushed Lwaxana's
bruised, bloodied face.

They're not gone!   Oh God, child, they're not gone!

RUN!

"Will," Picard said by way of welcome as Riker entered the ready room.
Though neither smiled-the situation was far too serious for it-the
captain felt a profound sense of gratitude to have his first officer on
his side again.  Will was a formidable friend ... and would no doubt
have proven a formidable enemy.

Clearly, the thought had occurred to Riker as well; his boyish, bearded
face was grim, vaguely troubled.

"Sir," he replied, and, at Picard's gesture, sat on the nearby couch.
Behind his desk, Picard swiveled in his chair to face his
second-in-command squarely.

"Counselor Troi will be joining us in approximately ten minutes; in the
meantime, I wanted to discuss the situation with the Vulcans."

"I take it they're still on their way?"

Picard gave a slow deliberate nod.  "They are.  But during the four
hours we were unconscious, the ship's computer received a communication
from them, exhorting us to keep the artifacts under strict
containment-and requesting verification of the rendezvous time and
coordinates.  I'd like your opinion-and Counselor Trois-on how we should
respond to them.  Frankly, my instinct is to tell them to remain a
respectable distance away and beam both Sket and his artifacts over to
their ship."

A crease formed on the smooth skin between Riker's brown eyebrows.

"But, sir, I'm sure Skel views the TechnoFair as a once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity to share his work.  To deny him that . . ."

"Would be to prevent the infection's spread to the very best minds in
the galaxy, Will.  Commander Data discovered some unusual electrical
readings in Skel's brain scans-as if some other form of energy coexisted
there."

"And there's no chance this energy reading might be due to something
other than the entities?"

Picard tilted his head to one side, neither denying nor affirming.

"Possibly.  But you'll have to come up with some very sound arguments,
Commander, to convince me to keep him as a passenger aboard this ship."

"I see."  Riker lowered his gaze, considering this a moment, then lifted
it again.  "You know, I was told that I attended a conference on the
information we received from Starfleet about the infection."

"That's true, Will."

"But-this is very strange-I have no memory whatsoever of the information
discussed there.  In order to be of use to you in this discussion, it
would help me to understand what you mean about Skel's brain scans being
unusual.  Any chance I could take a look at them?"

"Of course."  Picard swiveled toward his terminal, fingered a few
controls, and an image coalesced on the small screen.  He swung it
toward Riker so that the first officer could better see it.

Nonchalantly, Will rose and parked one hip on the captain's desk to
better study the image.

It was a three-dimensional scan of Riker, William T."s brain, called up
from sickbay's directory of patient files.  Deep within the brain's core
was the bright blue starburst pattern; Picard traced the deadly blossom
with a finger.  "Let me show you your own scans-which are normal for
someone who was once infected by the entities.  The bright blue here has
tracked the areas of your memory loss.  . . ."

"I'll buy that," Riker said easily, leaning forward to better see the
viewer; he finally reached to pull the screen toward him-or so Picard
thought.

Instead, he caught Picard's wrist.  Astonished, the captain glanced
upInto Riker's clear blue eyes, eyes that loomed so large that for an
instant they filled Picard's entire universe with a brilliant
mesmerizing glow.  The first officer's other hand found Picard's face
and rested there.

A jolt of electricity passed from Riker's fingers into the captain's
cheek like a dry static shock.  Picard groaned and, for a dazzling
millisecond, wavered on the precipice of utter surrender or utter
rebellion.

Rebellion won: In place of Will Riker's face, Picard imagined the
mechanical, soulless visage of the Borg.

You can infect me, but you can't have me, can't use my face, my voice,
as they did-to kill ...

On pure instinct, Picard broke free and rose from his chair like a
projectile, using his skull as a weapon, striking the first officer a
hard solid blow to the chin that made Riker's teeth clack.  Will lost
his balance and went sprawling backward, long legs spread out in front
of him; before he regained his footing, Picard shot around the desk,
using the sudden surge of violent energy, of hate, to his advantage.

Indeed, fear, desperation, hatred-all married with the image of the Borg
to fuel the rage within him; he had no doubt that, at least for the
moment, he was as physically strong as Riker.

And lither, faster.

In the wink of an eye, Picard stood on the other side of the desk,
catching hold of Riker's heel just as Will flailed, on the verge of
regaining his footing.  With a strength that should have dislocated his
shoulder and did not, Picard pulled.

The force of it threw Riker once more from his feet; he fell backward,
skull flung back with such violence that Picard could not tell whether
the snapping sound came from his teeth clamping down or from the
cervical vertebrae fracturing.  The back of Riker's head struck the
corner of the captain's desk with a loud sickening thunk...

Sickening, Picard realized with horror, and, at the same time, quite
delightful.  Riker slid with a faint groan onto the desk, leaving behind
a smattering of bright red on the desk, the bulkhead, and ultimately the
carpet, as his head lolled decidedly to one side.

Picard looked down at his unconscious-possibly dead-first officer and
moaned softly at the surge of sadistic contentment evoked by the sight.

No.  No, they won't use me this time.  I won't let them use me, I won't
let them use me ...

It captured his mind like a mantra as he struggled to gain control of
his breathing, his trembling, his delirium.  Twenty-five percent of the
crew, Data had said-twenty-five percent, and more falling under the sway
of madness with each passing moment ...

Including himself.

But he would not let them use him....

"Data," he whispered to himself, and drew in a deep breath, steadying
himself.  The entities were in him, surging through his brain, trying to
establish control.  But if he could just hold together long enough to
reach Data ...

He wiped the perspiration from his brow and forced a faint smile, then
stepped calmly through the door and out onto the bridge.  At the moment,
it was manned by secondary crew members, as all the senior crew were
occupied with other tasks.

One of them-an olive-skinned female, Lieutenant Martinez-glanced up from
the helm and graced him with a smile of infinitely malevolent
complicity.

He permitted.  the entities within him to return it with an approving
nod, but did not quite meet her tainted gaze-nor those of the other
officers who occupied his bridge.

Possessed, all of them-all of them sharing Martinez's expression of
delighted evil.  His ship was in the entities' hands.

"Carry on," he said hoarsely, and managed to repress a feverish shiver
until he stepped through the lift doors.

Run, little one!   Lwaxana screamed silently, her dark hair disheveled,
her bruised forehead trickling blood.

They're still here...

Troi staggered backward from the image, away from the closet, stumbling
over her own bed.  At the last moment, she caught herself, gasping,
overwhelmed by a wave of terror as horrible as that sherd experienced in
the entities' presence.

She ran to her nightstand and picked up her comm badge, thinking to warn
the captain and Will, but instinct held her back.  She closed her ey@
concentrating on Picard ...

And, brushing against the soft bedclothes, she sank slowly to the floor
under the weight of the horror: The agony of a mind invaded yet again,
the brutal image of Picard struggling helplessly against the Borg, of
watching silently, impotently as his own face, his own voice were used
to kill his own people ...

For a terrible blazing instant Will was there, too, caught like Picard
in the unyielding grip.of mindless rage, mindless frustration, mindless
craving.

Violence.  Pain.  All she could sense of will was utterly blotted out;
unconscious or dead, she could not say.  Had Picard killed him?

Overwhelmed by fear and helplessness, Deanna huddled on the deck beside
the bed.  There was nothing she could do to fight the madness, nothing
she could do to stop its inexorable progression-not if both Will and the
captain were in its sway.

The terror was so primal it transcended all thought; she merely sat,
clutching knees to chest, head bowed, eyes squeezed shut.  How long she
remained thusminutes or hours-she could not have said.

But after a time she came to herself enough to watch her breathing-the
soft in-and-out of air moving through her lungs.  Simply this, not
trying to control the gasping, not trying to control the terror, merely
watching with patient attention.

And soon her respiration slowed, her mind cleared; she rose slowly,
numbly, with the keenly present, tingling sensation of one just plucked
from drowning in icy waters, intensely aware of being alive, here, in
this moment, in this situation-as terrible as it was.

She opened her eyes.  Lwaxana's image was gone now, but in its place,
Trois own mind gently coached her: Keep your breathing steady, Deanna.
Now get upget up, and put on your uniform.

She did so with the slow measured movements of a somnambulist, slipping
out of her nightdress and into her uniform, then turning to regard the
comm badge on the nightstand.

No.  Don't take it.  You can't let them know where you are.

There was only one person aboard the Enterprise she could trust: Data.
He was also the one person aboard the Enterprise she could not read.  If
she asked the computer where he was, or tried to contact him, the others
might be monitoring the conversation; they could track him down and turn
him off.

The thought made her realize that the android needed her as much as she
needed him: for he could not detect who was infected, and she alone
could.  If they were both to survive, they had to find each other.

Whatever she did, she could not remain here; until she could decide
where to go, she would go to Data's quarters and hide there.

Trying to quiet her mind against the fear, she drew a breath and moved
through the bedroom, into the outer living quarters, and out into
chaos....

The madness came in febrile waves, forcing Picard at times to lean,
quaking and perspiring, against the cool hard surface of the lift
bulkhead.

RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.

YOU WILL BE ASSIMILATED.

"No," he said, gasping, struggling to contain the helpless rage evoked
by the image of himself as Locutus-rage he knew served as fodder for the
entities.  Yet the sensation was all too horribly the same as the mental
rape he had endured at the hands of the Borg: the sensation of his own
consciousness being overtaken, subdued, relegated to passivity while a
mindless, heartless, soulless force acquired the use of his arms, his
legs, his tongue .  . .

"Not this time," he whispered, pressing his face against cold metal.

Abruptly, the lift ceased its motion; the doors slid open.  His volition
was still strong enough to resist them-perhaps because the direct
contact with Will Riker had been blessedly brief, or perhaps, as the
communique had suggested, he would be able to stave off the effects a
short time.

He needed only long enough to warn Data....

He pushed himself from the bulkhead and drew a sleeve across his damp
forehead.  His first step onto the engineering deck was unsteady; his
second, surer.

Desperation and determination married to grant him a modicum of control.

By the time he reached Data and La Forge-who worked together over a
console in the exposed heart of the vast engineering center-he managed a
small smile despite the war raging in his brain, despite the chilling
realization that La Forge was no doubt still infected.

He would verify it soon enough.

"Gentlemen," he said easily.  "How goes it?

Data glanced up first; if he perceived Picard's unrest, his
matter-of-fact gaze failed to show it.

"Quite well, Captain.  We should have a test model for you within the
hour."

"Very good."  Picard paused, fighting the urge to capitulate to the
entities' insistence that he fe gn interest in the readout on the
android's console, sidle around him, and reach for the control on Data's
side....

Instead he said, "Mr.  La Forge.  A moment with you, please."

Geordi's expression was one of eager innocence.

"Sure, Captain."  He rose and followed Picard to one side, out of the
android's earshot.

With his back to Data, Picard at once graced La Forge with a knowing
smile.  "I've joined you, Geordi.

But as for Data-" The chief engineer's expression changed to one of such
covert, grinning malevolence that Picard fought to repress a shudder.
"Wonderful, Captain!   But ...

I'm having a difficult time with Data.  I tried to infect him, but our
theories are right-he merely traps the entities, and they starve within
him.  And I've been working all this time to try to turn him off, but
he's just too defensive about that side.  Every time I maneuver into
position, he moves away, guarding it.

And so far I haven't been able to get the jump on him.

But I'm going to have to, because once we have the detector working,
he's going to realize-" Picard nodded knowingly.  "Is everyone in
engineering with us?"

Geordi shook his head.  "Not yet, sir; only about half.  So I can't
exactly initiate a big brawl out in the open like this.  At least, not
if we want everything to look normal when the Vulcans come.

. . ."

"Understood," Picard said softly.  "Just leave the android to me.

Commander Riker and I have devised a plan."  Then, more loudly, he said,
",Very good, Mr.  La Forge.  Carry on with your work."

Geordi nodded and returned to the console beside Data.

Picard gestured.  "Commander Data ... could you come with me, please?"

Blinking, Data looked up from his work, then tilted his head
quizzically; but at Picard's insistent gaze, he obediently left the
console and moved toward the captain.

Without a word, Picard led him into the turbolift.

The instant the doors closed shut over them both, the captain sagged
against the bulkhead once more and whispered, "Deck Nine."

"Captain?"  The android's golden forehead puckered in a frown.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Picard groaned and sank to a sitting position.  Data leaned over him,
concerned.

"No."  The captain gasped.  Speaking was torture; each word brought
pain, as though it had been literally torn from his gut.

"I'm... not ... all right.  Riker ... infected me.  Data... the
anesthesia failed.

Geordi, Beverly-they're still infected.  Trust no one!

Lock me in the brig, make sure I can't escape, can't ... harm anyone.
Fuse the circuitry if you must but don't let them ... use me.

I order you: Warn the crew.  Tell the Vulcans and ... Starfleet. And
find Deanna ... they're feeding off her sensitivity to emotion .  . ."

He moaned as the mental and physical agony increased; the interior of
the lift faded and he saw, in brutal detail, the interior of the Borg's
great metal honeycomb of a ship and its inhabitants-soulless fusions of
machinery and flesh.  The entities fought him bitterly now, struggling
to suppress what Picard knew might be the last command he ever uttered:
"And if you can't contain the infection ... Data, you must do whatever
is necessary to ... destroy this ship."

He closed his eyes and yielded to chaos-and heard, as though from an
infinite distance, the android reply softly: "Yes, sir .  .

Lieutenant WORF HEADED down the corridor that led to the senior
officers' quarters, relieved to be free from the helplessness of
enforced sleep and the legacy of a dishonorable people dead by their own
machinations thousands of years before he was born.  He looked forward
to a pleasant evening with his son, and frankly, with Kyla Dannelke.
Perhaps he could win back some of the chips he'd lost the night before;
the thought made a faint smile play at the corners of his mouth.

It faded at once at the sight of Deanna Troi moving down the corridor
toward him.  She was walking as swiftly as she could without breaking
into a run, glancing around and behind her as if anticipating pursuit;
the tension in her body spoke of an intense deep-seated fear.

At the sight of the Klingon, she halted, her entire body poised for
flight-away from him.  Her dark luminous eyes widened, and he realized
that she was scanning him empathically.  He had never known her to be so
blatant about it before.

"Counselor?"  He stopped himself, not wanting to startle her into
fleeing.  "Counselor, are you all right?"

Clearly, the question on her mind was whether he was all right.

She continued to stare at him, probing deeper.  She had once told him
the Klingon mind was not as simple as that of the humans, who were
trained to hide their deeper feelings.  KJingon emotions hovered
blatantly on the surface, but an empath had to work to get to the deeper
levels, where the truest Klingon emotions lay.  He stood patiently,
allowing her to do that.

At last, she took a step toward him, the tension in her body slightly
easing.  But her eyes were still wide with fear as she whispered,
"You-Worf, you've been touched by them."

Was she talking about the infection?   He remembered the electric shock
he'd felt when Crusher had touched his face, stared into his eyes.  Now
that the inhibiting drug had worn off Trois mind, could she sense the
infection in him, building slowly, perhaps more slowly than in humans,
waiting to overtake him?   He stopped himself.  He was a Klingon, and
knew in his heart that he would never succumb to such dishonorable
entities.  Never.

"You've been touched by them," she repeated, moving closer until she
stood beside him, "but they can't affect you.  They're inside,
trapped-harmless."

He believed her utterly.  "Can 1-can I infect others?"  The thought of
Alexander and Kyla, innocently awaiting him in his quarters, evoked
concern.

She stared deeply into his eyes, and he willed his mind to be open to
her, to give her the information she needed.  Her large shining black
eyes were open, honest, and free of the madness and strange swirling
colors he had seen in Crusher's.

"No," she said at last, causing him to sigh in relief.

"They're dying.  Trapped inside you, with all your intensity, your
powerful emotions raging around yet completely unavailable to them.

They're dying quickly, unable to escape."

"A fitting death for such cowardly creatures," he told her.

As he spoke, she gasped and glanced around them, catching hold of his
sleeve.

"What is it, Counselor?   Are the entities in sickbay still affecting
you?   We can call Dr.  Crusher for help.

Now that the malady is destroyed-" She shook her head, still glancing
nervously around the strangely empty corridor.  "We have to find Data!

Right away, Worf.  We've got to find him."

"Of course," he agreed, humoring her and reaching for his comm badge.

She caught his hand.  "Not like that!   The others might hear."

"Others?   Counselor, what is wronle You are acting as though you have
seen a spirit!"

She drew a deep breath to calm herself and released it with a shudder,
then faced him somberly.  "That's exactly what I've seen ....

The entities, Worfthey're still here.  The shutdown, the anesthetic, and
the accelerator-they didn't cure anyone."

"But Dr.  Crusher and Geordi-I saw them myself."

"They I re pretending.  They're still infected.  You must believe me,
Worf-everyone aboard this ship is in terrible danger.  They have the
captain!"

"That is impossible!   I just left him.  All was wellhe sent me to my
quarters.  , Troi shook her head.  "Riker attacked him in his ready
room.  I can feel what Picard's feeling.  . . ."  She closed her eyes as
if momentarily overwhelmed by the sensation, then opened them again.

"Nothing has changed.  They've got over twenty-five percent of the ship
under their control, the most critical twenty-five percent, including
Crusher, La Forge, Riker-and the captain!"

Now it was Worf who nervously scanned the hallway.  Grabbing Trois arm
with slightly more force than he intended, he pulled her down the
corridor and into the privacy of his quarters.

Their sudden entry startled both Kyla and Alexander, who were placing
food on the table.  Without an introductory word to them, Worf demanded
of the empath, "Are they affected?"  He pointed to his son and Danneike,
who could only stare back in bewilderment.  "Are they part of the
twenty-five percent?"

The counselor did as instructed, scanning the two, who watched her in
startled confusion.

"No," Deanna said at last, her voice showing the same deep relief Worf
felt.  "No, they're fine."

"WorP" Kyla finally set down the plateful of steaming food in her hands.
"What's going on?"

"This is our ship's counselor, Deanna Troi," Worf explained.  "You heard
the captain's explanation of the infection we attempted to cure during
the shipwide shutdown?   The counselor says the shutdown failed in its
purpose.  Apparently, after I left him, the captain was attacked and
subdued!   Even now, he has been overcome by these accursed creatures!"

"We have to find Data," Deanna repeated.  64 He can't be affected by the
entities, and they know that.

They might attempt to deactivate him, because he's our best hope of
wresting control of the ship from the infected crew.  Right now, he's
with Picard.  I can sense the captain talking to him, wanting to rely on
him.  He still has some of his free will; he's fighting it as hard as he
can!   Oh, Worf!"  Her tone grew anguished.  "All he can think of was
the time he was abducted by the Borg!"

The thought evoked such rage in the Klingon that he knew he must channel
the emotion into productive action-or else he would be forced to put a
fist through a bulkhead.  "We must leave here at once!   But we will
need supplies.  Alexander!   Collect emergency food rations from the
replicator and pack a survival kit.  You know what to do."

"Yes, Father," the boy said smartly, and immediately went into action.

Kyla approached the empath and peered at her, concerned.  "What about
you, Counselor?   If you can sense Picard, what about the others?"

Troi drew in a breath, clearly fighting to control herself.  "Now that
the entities know I'm awake, that I know about them, I ... can sense
them.  They're feeding off my empathic emotions.  It's like .  .

." She swallowed and raised trembling hands to her face.

"Like being constantly fondled by a hundred strangers, helplessly forced
to endure their touch."

The tall blond scientist put a reassuring arm around the shorter
dark-haired empath.  "Don't think about them, Deanna-focus on me, Worf,
and Alexander.

Focus on our strength and outrage.  We're close to you here; the others
are farther away.  Pull in our feelings and make them yours."

"Yes .  . ."  Troi answered softly.  "Yes, that's better .  . ."

She drew in a gulp of air, shuddered, then grew steady.  "Yes, that's
working .  . ."  She managed a wan smile.  "Thank you."

"If you can sense them that strongly," Worf said, 66 and if they can
feed off you, then they will want you under their control.  You are
worried about Data but we need to worry about you!"

As he spoke, Alexander came clattering into the living room with a
backpack full of emergency rations, several computer padds, and three
phasers.

Worf glanced at the supplies and realized his son had brought in
everything Worf had intended to get himself Alexander beamed proudly
beneath his father's approving gaze.

"Remember in our nokbara classes how I taught you about the calm before
the battle," Worf reminded Deanna, as he handed her a phaser.

"You must collect that calm about you, fill your mind with it, blotting
out the invasion of the aliens.  Show them your Klingon calm and they
will freeze."

She nodded, tight-lipped and determined.  "I'll be all right.  But we've
got to find Data.  He's no longer with the captain."

Worf scowled, concerned: the android's movements presented a logistical
problem.  No doubt, Data, who was swifter than any of them, had also
discarded his communicator badge.  "If you cannot sense Data, and he is
no longer with another humanoid, then how will we find him?"

"I bet I know where he is, Father," Alexander announced cheerfully.

The Klingon repressed his skepticism as he gazed down at his son.

"And where would that be?"

"Deck Twelve, Jeffries tube twenty-eight.  He took our whole class there
for a demonstration on the inner workings of a starship six months ago.
He picked that spot because it was an important hub, with lots of power
panels, computer terminals, even a replicator.

There are five such hubs in the ship, but Data chose that one because it
was out of the way, and he knew we wouldn't be disturbed there.  It's a
lot of trouble to get to!"

Worf found himself grinning at his resourceful child.  "Then you must
lead us there quickly and quietly!"

Aren't we a motley crew, Deanna thought, as she crept along behind
Alexander and Worf-, Dannelke brought up the rear so that Troi would be
surrounded by a protective emotional wall.  A Betazoid, a Klingon, a
human, and a Klingon-human child ...

Alexander had been right about Jeffries tube twenty-eight being
difficult to get to; it seemed they had been moving forever from tunnel
to tube to tunnel in an infinitely circuitous route.  Or perhaps it only
seemed like forever, Deanna decided, because each step took enormous
mental effort.  The entities were still upon her-probing, touching,
trying to elicit as much fear and outrage as possible from her.

She closed her eyes an instant, concentrating so that she would not
stumble, and permitted herself to bathe in the heat of Worf's and Kyla's
anger and protectiveness.  Even Alexander's innocent resolve bolstered
her, making her humbled and proud to have such friends.

Suddenly, the small boy halted their quiet progress, indicating with a
wave of his hand that they were nearly at their intended destination.
Troi tried to peer around Worf's bulk as she heard the soft whirs and
beeps of computer consoles at work.  The Klingon turned to her, his gaze
questioning.

Troi shook her head and whispered, "I sense no one."  If Data was around
this curve, he would be blessedly alone.

Still cautious, Alexander and Worf turned the corner-and halted; Deanna
glanced cautiously over the Klingon's shoulder, right into Data's
beautiful inhuman face.

The android sat upon the deck beside an open panel, his hands poised
over four computer padds upon his lap, playing them as a concert pianist
might coax a complicated melody from his keyboard.  At the sight of Troi
and the others, he instantly stopped.

"Counselor?"  His tone was wary as he scrutinized the group.

Troi stepped around the Klingon, smiling with  relief.  "We're all
right, Data!   We've been looking for you.  59 Deanna never saw his hand
move, but suddenly Data was holding a phaser on them.

"Unfortunately," the android said, "I have no reliable manner in which
to test whether you are, indeed, 'all right."' Worf snatched the back of
his son's shirt and hauled the child back so that he was behind him; at
the same time, the adult Klingon stepped in front of Troi, clearly
prepared to take the full brunt of the phaser blast.  "Then how can we
convince you we have come to give you aid, Commander?   Together we must
protect both you and the counselor, and prevent the Vulcans from coming
aboard the Enterprise.  We cannot do that if we are trapped in a
perpetual standoff!"

Data lowered the phaser.  "Your actions, Lieutenant, have proved it
already.  The crew members infected by the entities are incapable of
sacrificing themselves for anyone, even their own children, as you just
attempted to do."  As if that settled the matter, Data matter-of-factly
returned to his computer padds, his hands moving over them in a blur of
activity.  "Apparently, Alexander paid far more attention to my
maintenance course than I thought at the time."

The boy rolled his eyes impatiently as his father gave him a stern look.

Buoyed by optimism, Troi sidled over to watch the android work.

"What are you doing, Data?"

His hands never paused.  "Several things.  I am sending false readings
that will tell anyone attempting to locate me that I am in twelve
different random locations.  I am sending printed and verbal
instructions to the noninfected crew members to secure their quarters
and trust none of their fellow crew members, no matter how normal they
may seem.  I have added deliberate errors to noncritical functions of
the ship to cause minor disruptions to normal procedures.  The entities
have difficulty coping with stress-it may cause some of them to erupt
into violence.  When the Vulcans arrive, they will automatically scan
the ship.

If enough things are going wrong, they may hesitate to beam aboard.  Oh,
yes ... I have correlated all known information about the
entities-including the Vulcan and Federation reports and Skel's entire
research library-into my positronic network so that I can allocate large
resources to inventing a detection device and also a containment field."
He turned his face toward them to reveal a small device on one side of
his head, its blinking lights flashing in the same coordinated pattern
with the exposed circuits.

"You've been a busy android," Kyla said drolly.

"Actually," Data replied, still busily manipulating the padds, "I have
still had time to plan future computer sabotage, diversionary tactics,
and escape maneuvers.  However, it is true I have not had the resources
left to work on my poetry."

"Well, that is a relief," Worf grumbled.  "How long can we safely stay
here?"

"I estimate another four-point-three minutes."

Data finally halted his hand movements and glanced up.  "That is the one
unfortunate reality I have been unable to alter.  The computer work I am
doing is continually being counteracted by Geordi in engineering-as I
anticipated.  It does take him longer to overcome my diversions than it
takes me to instigate them.  But if 1 work too long from any one
location, he will inevitably pinpoint the source of my directions.

And that we cannot allow.  Until you arrived, I did not know how to
solve this problem."

"And now you do?"  Deanna asked.

"Yes.  Instead of only relying on the Jeffries tube work stations, which
are limited, we can also access empty quarters-now that you, Counselor,
can advise us as to their level of occupancy."

She smiled tiredly.  "Yes, of course."

Quickly, Data packed up his computer padds.

"Then we must leave now.  Alexander, can you recommend another
location?"

"I always liked Jeffries tube sixteen.  It's really small." Yes, Mother
would call this quite a motley crew, Deanna thought, almost smiling as
the group moved on.  The phrase evoked the memory of Lwaxana's battered
face, but this time Troi found the strength to analyze it.  My mother
was warning me, in spite other pain and fear.

Trying to communicate ...

Perhaps there was more Lwaxana could tell her, if Troi stopped running
from the image and faced it.  At some point, she knew, they would be
forced to stop and rest so Data could continue his work.  Even now, Kyla
discussed that work and how she might help him with it.

Perhaps when they were secured again, Deanna would find the resolve to
seek out her mother and hear all that she had to say.

"Attention all hands!   Attention!   This is Commander Data, I have been
given command of the Enterprise .  . . " Skel stood before the brig cell
that held Jean-Luc Picard's huddled form and listened impassively to the
warning that blared over the ship's intercom.  On every deck, klaxons
sounded in a continuous red alert that La Forge had not yet been able to
silence.

"Trust no one, unless you know for certain that person cannot have been
infected by other crew members.  Avoid physical contact and especially
eye contact.  Secure yourself in your quarters, and, if possible, secure
your decks.  Arm yourselves with phasers set on maximum stun.  Be
prepared to fire on any crew member, no matter their rank or
relationship, who attempts to touch you.  Infected crew mein hers may
cause serious physical harm to noninfected crew in an attempt to feed
their entities.  Do not give them this opportunity."

The automated message droned on endlessly, but Skel had no difficulty
tuning it out.

Before him, Picard crouched on elbows and knees, collapsing with
laughter punctuated by grimaces of pain.  Tears streamed down his
sculpted, shadowed cheeks.  "You can't get him, Vulcan.  You can't!   He
has no feelings!   And he's smart, smarter than any of us.

He'll find a way to defeat us.  We can't win......

With an abrupt roar, the captain leapt to his feet and lunged viciously
at the invisible force field.  Despite himself, Skel recoiled.

For a crackling instant the force field gripped Picard's convulsing
body; he cried out, then fell groaning to the deck.

The entities within Skel pulled at him to touch the human, to feel
Picard's pain so that they might feed.

Had it been possible to override the fused circuitry, the Vulcan might
have obliged them; as it was, he could only watch as Picard gave his own
entities exactly what they wanted.

If the captain of the Enterprise continued in this manner, he would die.
It would be a terrible loss, but, logically, there was nothing to be
done about it.  Riker had recovered from his head wounds, thanks to Dr.
Crusher, and would be able to convince the Vulcans that all was well
aboard the Enterprise.  The android had done such an excellent job of
fusing the circuitry that, without his help, it would take hours for
regular technicians to cut through the bulkhead and release Picard.  By
then, the Vulcan ship would have already arrived.

Skel had come to see Picard's condition, to calm and convince the human
to let the entities within utilize him in their plan.  Even though
Picard could not assist them in welcoming the Vulcan vessel, he might be
freed by the time they reached the TechnoFair, and by then his help
would be invaluable.

Yet something was wrong; the entities had clearly infected the captain,
but did not control him enough to coerce his cooperation.

Apparently, Riker had not maintained contact long during the initial
phase of infection.

Curled on his side like an unborn child on the deck, tears streaming
from his closed eyes, Picard whispered, "You won't use me.  I won't let
you use me, not the way they did .  . ."

Skel moved closer to the invisible shield, crouching down to sit on his
haunches.  His entities urged him to demand that Picard look at him; but
from time to time they also allowed a modicum of freedom to the true
Skel-the struggling, entrapped Vulcan consciousness-so long as it did
not interfere with their aims.  And the true Skel looked upon the
gibbering madman in his cell with compassion and curiosity, and asked
softly, "Who, Captain?   Who else has so used you?"

"The Borg."  Picard sobbed, trembling with both pain and incandescent
pleasure.  "They took my mind, my voice, my face, used me as a weapon
against my own people ... and I will die before I permit that to happen
again!"

Skel listened with divided consciousness.  The strongest, most
overwhelming thought came from the entities: A pity, that Picard had
chosen not to cooperate-but the inconvenience would not prove fatal to
their plans.

Yet beneath the crushing mental overlay, a small voice whispered: I
understand.  Given the opportunity, I, too, would choose death ...

Yet a third consciousness intervened: one quite separate from Skel's,
yet irretrievably linked.

Skel blinked as, before his very gaze, Picard's lean muscular form
shimmered, wavered, changed.  On the other side of the force field, the
captain's eyes slowly opened and met Skel's gaze.

Yet Picard's eyes were no longer human.  As Skel watched, Picard's soft
hazel irises darkened to pure gleaming black, and the brows lifted in
decidedly Vulcan cant.  The face, too, shifted, from that of an
outworlder to that of a Vulcan woman, regally beautiful, yet that beauty
was marred as bright green bruises bloomed on her cheeks, forehead,
throat.

My son is still inside you, she said in perfect Vulcan, her demeanor
calm, contained, despite the pain that convulsed her body.

Trapped inside all .  these years.

She -paused, her tone changing, warming ever so perceptibly as she
addressed Skel directly.  I know you are there, my son-waiting for your
freedom.  Have patience, it will come.  I will not desert you....

Abruptly, he found himself starini into Picard's sweat-slicked face; the
human struggled to his knees.

"Who is she?"  the captain demanded.  "Who is this woman who wears my
mother's face and voice, yet speaks the Vulcan tongue?"

"She is my mother," Skel said.  Though the Vulcan within him might have
remained, the entities bade him turn, before either he or his mother had
the opportunity to come to the Starfleet captain's aid again.  Skel
exited swiftly, with both Picard's screams-and his mother's-echoing
hollowly in his ears.

Inside the shadowed, dimly lit tunnel adjacent to Jeffries tube sixteen,
Deanna sat exhausted between Alexander and Worf, trying to absorb their
emotions to distract herself from the entities' pull.

Together, the three watched as Data attached a small round device to his
temple; instantly, its single telltale began blinking merrily.

"I am confident I can detect the entities now," the android assured
them.  "Dr.  Dannelke is correct in her assumption that, before he was
infected, Commander La Forge would have been able to see the particular
wavelength these entities emit through his VISOR."

"It was probably the last thing he saw before they got him," Kyla
murmured, her tone grim-but her expression, as she stood beside Data
regarding the device at his temple, was one of pure scientific
absorption.

"Now, with the adjustment to my vision that she has helped me create,"
Data told them, "I will be able to see them as well."

"A walking, talking entity-detector."  Dannelke presented him to the
group with a small flourish.

"Is your normal vision impaired, Data?"  Deanna asked.

"Not at all."  The android glanced around the small group.  "And I can
assure you that none of you are infected."

"We already knew that," Worf rumbled.  "How will this help us defeat
them?"

Dannelke lifted the palm-size square box created with the replicators.
"The force field modulation Data came up with should hold the little
monsters-"

"If we had a way to lure them into it," the Klingon countered irritably.
"Just how do you propose to do that?"

Dannelke sighed.  "We haven't gotten that far yet ...

As if Data wanted to up the ante, he added, "We had better find a way
soon.  The Vulcan ship will arrive at the rendezvous point within the
hour."

Beside Troi, Worf made a noise of pure frustration; Deanna understood.
The strain of ignoring the entities' pull had worn on her.

She wanted only to be free from them or, at the very least, to help Data
and Dannelke discover a way.

In the periphery of her vision, a shadow stirred at the far end of the
tunnel.  Deanna turned, her pulse quickening ...

And saw a familiar figure approach.

"Mother.  . ."She rose-mindless of her surroundings, of the others
beside her-and moved down the tunnel toward the apparition.

Lwaxana's face was solemn, composed, and, for the moment, blessedly
whole.  Wearing deep aubergine robes, she approached her daughter with
uncharacteristic reserve, her dark hair smoothed back into a long plait.

Will you listen to me now, little one?

Troi smiled.  "Yes, please-we need your help.  The entities .  .

."

... travel through the windows of the soul "The eye," Deanna said,
noddinp,.  "But Geordihe was blind and wearing a VIOR, yet he was
infected."

Lwaxana gave a single slow nod.  Through the conduit that ledthem to his
brain.

Deanna frowned at her mothees enigmatic expression.  "His optic nerve?"

It is also the key to their destruction.  That which attracts them can
serve to entrap them.

"Optic nerves," Deanna repeated, though the notion made no sense to her.
The more she stared at her mother, the more convinced she became that
she was in fact staring at someone else.  Yet such serene goodness
emanated from the image that she trusted this stranger as much as she
would Lwaxana.  "We can use optic nerves to trap them?"

The nerves.  The trap.  But most important for you to know, little
one-the lure.  All of these will be necessary to subdue them.  For an
instant, Lwaxana's features shimmered, on the verge of metamorphosing
into something alien but beautiful.

"Lure them ... how can I do that, Mother?"

You already know what you must do-just as my son has known, all these
years, how to defeat our tormentors.  But they have kept the truth
beyond his waking grasp...

"Your son, " Troi repeated, and in that moment, understood.  As she
watched, the image before her transformed into a Vulcan female: young,
darkhaired, dark-eyed, with an expression of infinite control yet
infinite concern.  "Skel.  Skel is your son."

Held beneath the entities'control these many yearn I did all I could to
help him break free, but it has not yet been enough.  I know all that
Skel knows about them-indeed, all the data that the entities have buried
deep within his unconscious.  Yet without a Physical form, I cannot
defeat them.

"Just as we cannot defeat them without your help.

Tell me," Troi said eagerly.  "Tell me what we must do."

"Counselor ... Counselor!   Are you all right?"

Deanna blinked as the image of Skel's mother faded into the more
familiar visage of Worf, who gripped her arms, his bony brow furrowed
with concern.

"Counselor!"  he called again, and Deanna sighed, mentally releasing the
image.

"I'm all right," she said.  "I just had a communication with .  .

." She paused, scanning the worried faces of Worf, Kyla, Alexander, even
Data-who, despite his bland expression, managed with body language to
telegraph his concern.  They might think her driven to madness by the
entities' pressure, but she drew a breath and finished her statement
anyway.  "Skel's mother."

"Skel's mother!"  Worf dropped Deanna's arms and stepped back between
Kyla and Alexander.  "She has been dead eighty years!"

"Yes," Deanna allowed.  "But her katra-her disembodied consciousness, if
you will-has been coexisting inside Skel's brain with the entities all
this time.

She knows everything that the real Skel knows, everything the entities
haven't permitted him to reveal publicly in his research-" "The optic
nerve," Kyla said excitedly.  "We could hear what you were saying about
it.  It makes sense."

She turned toward Data.  "Does Commander La Forge have intact optic
nerves?"

Data nodded.  "His VISOR has contact points at his temples that allow
its input to travel to his optic nerves and thence to his brain."

"So we need a VISOR," Kyla told the android, with such contagious
excitement that Troi smiled.  "We can make a connection between it and
your optic nerves.

We already know the entities can't infect you.  Once you draw the
entities in, we can rig something up to contain them in this."  She held
out the box.

"My optic nerves are more mechanical than organic," Data informed her.
"And I do not have the emotional pull to draw the entities to me.

I do not believe my using the VISOR in that manner will be of any help
to us."

Kyla frowned, worrying at the problem.  Deanna could feel her fierce
determination to solve it.  "Well, it's obvious then.  We need organic
optic nerves-and I know where we can find some: Dr.  Tarmud's quarters."
Troi drew in a hesitant breath, causing Dannelke to glance up at her.
"What is it, Counselor?"

"Tarmud," Deanna admitted.  "If we go there, we must be careful.

He's one of the Possessed In the Vulcan Skel's quarters, George Tarmud
lovingly stroked the device he and Skel had developed; everything he
was, everything he knew, had gone into its creation.  The scientist who
had once lived to conquer death for all mankind had finally done so
though not in the way he'd once dreamed.  His lans p for improving his
android, for working with Skel and Dannelke on personal shields-none of
that mattered anymore.  He and Skel together had taken some of the most
powerfully advanced frequency-modulation equipment from the Enterprise
and created a device that would enable the entities to evolve even
further.

They'd changed enormously from the rather simple creatures that had
caused death and devastation on the planet Vulcan eighty years ago.

And their contact with the people of Vulcan had taught them the
necessity of control.

With the effects of this new device, the entities would evolve enough to
control their hosts completely, negating the bursts of uncontrolled
violence and feeding frenzies.  Instead, they would be able to use the
hosts' knowledge and experiences to outwit unconquered peoples.  They
could overwhelm the planet of Betazed, taking its powerful empaths into
a protracted slavery that would be solely for the entities' benefit.
They would eventually completely abm-' sorb the Federation, classifying
so e of its people as subjects to feed from and others as subjects to
control.

Their domination of these intelligent organic lifeforms would be
complete.

They could have developed the machine faster had Dannelke joined them-a
fact Tarmud regretted.

Danneike could have given it a refinement, an intricate elegance, but
she'd vanished immediately after the shutdown, and, as yet, none of the
recruited had been able to find her.  A pity ...

Tarmud shivered and yawned as a surge of fatigue washed over him.

The entities had not allowed his host body to sleep since it had been
possessed, and he could not remember when they'd last permitted it
physical sustenance.  Insignificant in the grand scheme of things-yet
this body was valuable.  To avoid collapse, he decided, he would go to
his quarters.

There were tools he needed, some computer chips he wanted to try fitting
into the device to improve its efficiency.  He'd allow the body to sleep
for an hour or so while he was there.  He carried a- matching chip with
him to be sure he obtained the right ones.

The trip from Skel's guest quarters to Tarmud's was brief, the corridors
deserted.  Once more the voice of the android Data rang through the air,
warning the uninfected crew members to hide, secure themselves, be
armed.  Tarmud chuckled to himself- It was all so useless.  Over forty
percent of the crew was infected now, and, despite Data's unsettling
warnings and the random blaring of the red alert, the recruits were
stabilized.  Everyone was committed to possessing the Vulcans.  Even the
youngest, the most fragile host was hanging on, waiting, wanting that
more than anything.  A ship full of Vulcans.  A worthy prize for their
self-control.

The doors to his quarters opened smoothly, as he checked the identifying
code on his sample chip.  He had at least ten of these in his. Movement.
A blur.

The blow to his chin took him completely by surprise, snapping his head
back hard.  The chip flew from his hand as he staggered backward,
tasting blood.  Bright diamond-sharp pain traveled electrically from jaw
to skull to neck.  He moaned with delight and agony, the feeding of the
entities bringing with it a manic rush, then opened his eyes to see a
blur: a body, tall and cloud-pale; a leg, with a boot speeding once more
toward his face.

Dannelke.

The kick staggered him; he dropped to his knees, but the entities
strengthened his body, made him absorb the power, the shock of the kick,
even as they fed frantically.

Dannelke was here.... He could not miss the opportunity to possess her.
"Kyla," he whispered hungrily through broken blood-stained teeth,
reaching out to touch her.  "Kyla, look at me.  . .

Kyla, no!   Troi screamed.  Use the phaser!   You'll kill him!

But Dannelke's adrenaline level did not permit her to hear the
counselor's warning, to remember the phaser at her belt until it was too
late.  She whirled and delivered one last powerful kick, oblivious to
Trois and Worf's cries, oblivious to anything except the fear and the
memory of the insidious grin on Tarmud's face.

Kyla, look at me...

Once more, her boot heel connected with Tarmud's chin, but this time
there came the sickening crack of bone.  Tarmud dropped onto his back,
utterly limp, gaze fixed now on the ceiling, bent knees sprawling
outward.

Dannelke scarcely heard it; in her own mind, the shouts of her new
friends merged with the screams of her mother, outside an East London
flat....

"Kyla, stop!"  a deep voice thundered.  She moved to kick again, to
kill, but strong arms caught and held her back from her victim's
motionless form.

She gasped and came to herself in Worf's grip.  He stared sternly down
at her.  "Kyla, why did you not use your phaser?"

"I don't know."  She gasped and peered beyond him at Troi, who bent
beside the fallen scientist just as Data emerged from Tarmud's
laboratory bearing numerous VISORS.  The android also carried a packet
filled with the long strands of artificial organic optic nerves, lazily
adrift in preservative fluid.  Alexander, who was with him, held more of
the containment vessels.  "I just-be careful, Counselor!   He might be
feigning unconsciousness!"

Deanna shook her head somberly.  "He's dying.  I think his neck is
broken."

"Do not touch him!"  Data ordered sharply, and Troi recoiled instantly.
The android put his burdens down and moved over to the body.  "It may be
possible for the entities to infect a host even after the first host
dies.  We can assume nothing."  He lifted Tarmud's eyelids and peered
into his eyes.  "The detection modulation is working.  I can see the
entities' wave patterns.  They are still alive and active."

"Data," Deanna said, "we can't save him ourselves.

We need medical staff.  But we can stabilize him, put him in stasis with
the first-aid kit."

"That will have to suffice, until a more opportune moment," Data agreed,
taking the medical tools from her.  "He will die momentarily, but this
device should stabilize him for at least twenty-four hours."

He attached a small rectangle to Tarmud's head, and one to his chest.

"That is the best we can do.  His life signs are weak, but holding."

"'So, if we can't complete our task in the next twenty-four hours, he'll
really die?"  Kyla stared, stricken, at Tarmud's still form.

Data stood and regathered his materials.  "If we do not complete our
task in the next twenty-four hours," he told her dispassionately, "then
all the Vulcans aboard the Skal Torr will be infected, and the strong
likelihood will be that we, too, will have perished."

No one could respond to the android's bald statement, so they merely
filed out of the room, leaving the still, helpless body of George Tarmud
in their wake.

IN THE CRAMPED QUARTERS of Jeffries tube sixteen, Kyla sat atop the
uneven powertine housing, focusing intently on fastening the last link
of delicate microcircuitry to the VISOR.  Perhaps, if she stared at it
hard enough, she might be able to forget the image of George Tarmud
lying near death-because she had panicked.  Troi sat nearby, watching
with an expression of both interest and sympathy; no doubt, the
counselor in her yearned to ease Danneike's guilt.  But at the moment
none of them could spare the time.

"Are you almost finished with that unit?"  Data asked Kyla quietly. "The
Vulcan ship should be within transporter range momentarily."

Kyla swallowed, made sure her voice was firm before she answered.

"Yes.  Almost.  Just a minute .  . ."  She rechecked one last
connection, then handed the device to the android.  "That's it.  The
last one.51 Worf, Alexander, and Deanna stared at the odd equipment-five
VISORS connected by wiring and a thin filament of artificial organic
optic nerve to a small box that could be clipped to a belt.  The box was
the containment field, a crude substitute for the elegant and enigmatic
artifacts.

As the others watched in anticipation, Data tied a belt around his
waist, clipped the small box to it, then slipped on the VISOR.

"So, how does it look?"  Kyla asked.

"It does not impair the vision too severely," Data commented, moving his
head about to test the device's range.  "And its new programming is
allowing me a dim approximation of Geordi's vision.

Normal electrical wavelengths generated by humanoid lifeforms appear
like a glow-a halo, if you will.  We should be able to actually see the
entities-or at least their frequencies-as they approach the VISOR to
infect us."

Kyla shook her head.  "You say that so blithely."

"If the VISORS work as we have programmed them," Data reminded her, "the
entities will not reach our eyes, but will follow the VISORS' circuitry,
travel down the artificial optic nerve, and become trapped in the
containment field."

"If it works as we planned," she emphasized.

"And this is the best that we can do?"  Worf asked again, clearly
frustrated by this passive method of battling their enemies.

"It is the most likely solution to this complicated problem," Data
assured him.

Worf tried his VISOR on and scowled.  "It will be very difficult to aim
a phaser properly with this on."

"I don't think phasers are going to help us this time, Worf," Deanna
reminded him, adjusting her own VISOR.

Kyla watched Alexander wrestle with his adult-size VISOR.  "Mine's too
big!"  he complained, holding it awkwardly in place.

The ophthalmologist came up behind him and, taking one of her hairbands
from a pocket, tied the two ends of the VISOR together, so it would fit
him more snugly.  As she did, she looked at Worf.  "Don't you think
Alexander could stay in the Jeffries tubes till this is over?

He'd be safe there.  Does he really have to do this with us?"

Suddenly Worf s hand was on the child's shoulder.

"Kyla.  We are all in danger.  We can all be hurt.

Alexander is a member of this crew, of this ship.  He will do his part.
We will all be proud of him."

"I do not wish to bring this up again," Data interjected, "but while we
seem to have a good working model of an entity collector and containment
device, we have still not concocted a lure."

"Can't we just walk up to the Possessed members of the crew and pull the
entities out of them?"  Alexander asked.

"I only wish that were possible," Data replied.

"However, when a person is infected by the entities, the transmission
that takes place is only partial.  Some entities enter the new host, and
some remain with the old to keep that host infected.  We must find a way
to lure all the entities out of each host, into our containment
devices."

"I know a way," Deanna said softly.  She was about to say more when a
small viewscreen in the bulkhead panel brightened.

On the Enterprise's bridge, Skel stood beside the captain's chair and
stared at the viewscreen where the Skal Torr hovered, sleek and elegant,
against a backdrop of star-littered blackness.  The main part of Skel's
consciousness, now entirely under the entities' control, felt a sense of
accomplishment and exhilaration at the sight.  Despite setbacks, the
entities were on the verge of total success, of galactic domination. The
crew was under control, and La Forge had finally succeeded in silencing
the klaxon's and Data's warnings.  All was well.

But the original Vulcan consciousness-the small silent observer that was
the true Skel-watched in profound regret and, indeed, a most un-Vu y
frustration at his own helplessness.

Never before had he quite grasped the mythical human concepts of
purgatory and hell; now, he knew he understood them fully.

Indeed, he felt he was on the verge of deep psychosis, for at the same
time that he was aware of the entities' control, he sensed-more strongly
than at any other time in his life-the presence of his mother, T'Reth.
Her shrieks echoed in his mind: Help them!   Warn them!   Do not let
this happen to our people again!

Madness, surely.  But there were times when he felt convinced that his
mother's presence was real, that she struggled as he did to find a way
to defeat the entities.  In sickbay, as the entities had forced Dr.
Crusher to leave the accelerator canisters empty, it was T'Reth who had
called out a warning.  And for a brief blissful moment, the real Skel
had shaken off the entities' influence long enough to direct that
warning to the receptive mind of Jean-Luc Picard.

Since then, the entities had allowed Skel no freedom.  Now he could only
watch, powerless, voiceless, as the image of the Skal Torr wavered, then
coalesced into the stern unsmiling countenance of a Vulcan female, a
wide band of silver gilding her blue-black cap of hair.

Beside Skel, Riker said with consummate glibness, "Captain T'La!.

This is First Officer William Riker.

Captain Picard regrets that he cannot greet you personally, but on
behalf of him and the crew of the Enterprise, we bid you welcome."

T'La!'s control was complete, her inflection admirably toneless, yet
Skel saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes-an instant of doubt only
another Vulcan could have sensed.  "We trust your captain is well.

Are you prepared to beam over the artifacts?"

Riker gave an affirmative nod to the last statement, and to the first,
he answered, "Captain Picard is suffering from a minor ailment; our
chief medical officer has recommended bed rest.  However, as you can
see"-he swiveled in his chair and gestured at Skel beside him-"Master
Scientist Skel is unharmed and in perfect health.  He requests that
someone be sent over from your vessel so that he can ensure the
artifacts arrive property secured."

Captain T'La! turned her cool, frankly scrutinizing gaze upon Skel a
full five seconds.  "Our scans indicate that all is well aboard your
ship.  However, to minimize the risk of possible infection, logic would
dictate that we beam them directly to our vessel."

A passive, unwilling observer, Skel watched as the entities planted a
thought inside his beleaguered brain, as they directed his mouth, his
teeth, his tongue-as they used the Vulcans'own logic to defeat the race.
"Logic clearly dictates," Skel told T'La! in a strong clear voice that
betrayed none of his internal oonffict, "that there is no infection
loosed aboard this vessel.  Certainly, my concerns about proper
containment are also quite logical-" I'La! interrupted smoothly.

"I assure you, Master Scientist, that we can receive the artifacts with
utmost care.  Send us specific instructions, and we-" She broke off as
another officer leaned down to whisper in her ear.  "All," she said,
then refocused her gaze upon Skel.  "There is one here who is willing to
beam over to your ship.  . .

She turned as the healer, T'Son, stepped forward into view.

"Greetings, Skel," T'Son said, holding up her hand briefly in the Vulcan
salute.  "I am concerned about the effect recent events have had upon
your health.

With your permission, I should like to examine you aboard the
Enterprise.

To meld, Skel realized, with a faint trickle of dismay, as he
instinctively returned the salute; the emotion was soon blotted out by
the entities' exhilaration.  A brief meld, and the healer would be
infected-and then, with her unwilling assistance, all of Vulcan ...

A minute earlier in Jeffries tube sixteen, Troi stood alongside the
others and watched the exchange with concern and dread.  She could sense
the hunger that possessed Will Riker, Geordi La Forge, and all the other
humans aboard the Enterprises bridge who watched the Vulcans with
deceptively calm exteriors.

As for Skel-Troi sensed an overlay of serenity, but beneath it the
entrapped Vulcan consciousnesses two of them-struggled to warn their
people of danger.

"We must stop them!"  Worf turned to Data, who still sat with four
computer padds resting on his knees.  "Commander, can you access
communications?"

The android's nimble fingers flew over the boards, much too quickly for
Deanna to register what he was doing.  "I am attempting to do just that,
Lieutenant; however, communications are being tightly supervised.  They
have anticipated our attempt at involvement."

"What about the shields?"  Worf asked.  "If you raise the shields, the
Vulcans cannot beam aboard."

Data manipulated the grid, then shook his head.  "I cannot access the
shields."

"Can we interfere with the transporters?"  Deanna asked.

Data I s hands moved faster.  "Negative."  Suddenly, his fingers came to
a halt, poised above the padds; he glanced up at the others, apparently
out of options.  A frustrated silence ensued, and then Worf spoke: "I
suppose it is foolish to ask if you can gain control of the weapons
system."

Data cocked his head at the Klingon.  "Weapons system?"

"If we could fire but a glancing blow to their ship," Worf explained
none too patiently, "they would automatically raise their shields.  They
cannot beam over with shields up."

"An interesting idea," Data mused.  "Firing on them would be so
unexpected, it would cause the Possessed crew members on the Enterprise
a great deal of stress."

"And they're on the breaking point now," Deanna confirmed excitedly.
"Pushed hard enough, some of them would start to fall apart.  The
Vulcans would see that unusual activity on their scanners."

The android fingered the padd controls, his subtle expression changing.
He looked up, obviously pleased.  "We may be fortunate.  The infected
crew members are so involved in handling my automated crisis and the
various other disruptive activities of the healthy crew-plus
safeguarding communications, transportation, and so on-there is very
little attention being paid to weaponry."

"Well, after all," Kyla reminded them, "the Vulcans are our allies!"

"Let us hope they will still be when this is over," Data countered.  "i
will only be able to maintain control of the phasers for a moment, but
it should be sufficient for what we are planning.  It would help if we
could distract both ships while I am doing this.  . .

."

"We need a diversionary tactic," Worf grumbled.

"Something that would draw their attention."

Alexander quickly rifled through his backpack, then held up a small
cassette, grinning.  "And I have just the thing!

"Greetings, T'Son," Skel murmured, his expression impassive.  "I
appreciate your concern.  The experience aboard the Ferengi vessel was
quite ... tiring.  I judge myself to be recovered, but you are the
healer.

As always, I yield to your judgment."

He lowered his own gaze beneath her professionally concerned one.

"I would prefer to examine you, Skel, before you continue on to the
TechnoFair."

"And I," Riker said, with cordial diplomacy, "would like to invite
Healer T'Son, and any other of your crew who wish it, to come and view
the displays erected by our scientist passengers."

Captain T'La!'s response was instant and equally diplomatic, if
substantially less warm.  "We thank you for your invitation, Commander.

I know our scientists would find the displays quite fascinating.

However, it is to our best interests to curtail social activities and
retrieve the artifacts as quickly as possible, in the interests of
security."  She turned to glance up at T'Son, clearly dismissing her;
the healer nodded, then moved out of sight-toward the transporter room,
Skel realized.

"In the meantime," T'La! continued, "we would appreciate receiving the
requested logs concerning the incident aboard the Ferengi vessel-" "My
apologies on the delay," Riker countered smoothly.  "We've been unable
to transmit those files because of some minor computer problems.

But if you would like, we could-what the hell;"' Skel followed the
commander's startled gaze to the viewscreen, where the image of T'La!
had been suddenly replaced with that of Skal Torr.  But instead of being
surrounded by empty space and stars, the Vulcan ship was confronted by a
gigantic, glowing green eyeball-Klingon, Skel assessed automatically,
his Vulcan calm permitting him to note its details despite the surge of
disbelief evoked by its appearance.

The great eye stared for an instant at the Vulcan ship, then blinked and
turned its scowling scrutiny on the Enterprise.

"Impulse engines," the Vulcan captain ordered crisply.  "Draw us back."
And then she refocused her attention on Riker.  "Commander.  .

." T'La!'s tone was infinitely composed and matter-of-fact; the only
hint of her subdued surprise was the scarcely perceptible widening of
her eyes.  "Could you explain this phenomenon?   Our scanners reveal it
is being generated by your vessel."

Riker's lips were parted in amazement, his blue eyes far wider than
T'La!'s.  For a moment, he offered no response; then, swallowing, he
stammered, "Captain, I-I apologize.  This is either a computer
malfunction or someone's idea of a practical joke."

Skel watched silently as the human officer whirled in his chair shouting
at no one, at everyone, aboard the bridge; his entities, Skel realized,
were reacting violently to the surprise and stress.  "Someone shut that
damned thing down now!"

The bridge crew scrambled to comply, but they, too, were overworked and,
like Riker, on the verge of losing control.  Any more stress, and ...

Skel blinked at the sudden blaze of brightness on the screen; a dazzling
streak of phaser fire tore thro gh the hologram and struck the Skal Torr
a

@l glancing blow.

Commander Riker!"  the Vulcan captain demanded as, on the screen, her
bridge rocked.  This time, her voice bore a definite note of disbelief
and annoyance.  "Why is your ship firing on us?"

Before Riker could think of an answer, T'La! called to her helm: "Raise
shields!"

"The Vulcans have raised their shields," Worf announced, grinning with
pleasure from his tactical position at Data's makeshift panel.  At the
happy news, Deanna grabbed both Kyla and Alexander, permitting their
triumph to wash over her and temporarily displace the eerie sensation of
the entities' pull.

"Then they can handle another hit," Data decided.

"We cannot allow them to consider lowering their shields now.  I am
increasing the power.  Fire when ready, Mr.  Worf."

"Firing phasers," the Klingon announced.  Deanna grinned, one arm around
Alexander's shoulders, the other about Kyla's, as she watched the small
screen that showed Skal Torils shields safely absorbing the second
blast.

"And now, we must leave with great alacrity."  Data rose and began to
rapidly disconnect his computer padds.

A brilliant beam of light streaked past Deanna, dazzling her and
bouncing blindingly off the nearby bulkhead.  Instinctively, both Kyla
and Alexander ducked, pulling Deanna down with them to the deck.

"Too late!"  Worf shouted.  "They are here!"

He moved over to the trio and lifted them all at once to their feet;
behind them, at the far end of the tube, came the sound of heavy
footsteps.  Deanna glanced over her shoulder and saw four uniformed
security guards racing toward them.

"The VISORS!"  Kyla shouted, and Deanna quickly scooped hers up even as
she grabbed Alexander's hand and began to run.

Moments later, aboard the bridge of the Federation science vessel Skal
Torr-now safely out of the Enterprise's firing range-Captain T'La! sat
at her post with Healer T'Son in attendance beside her.  The
viewscreen-free now from the puzzling specter of the Klingon eye-instead
showed the grizzled, august visage of Admiral DuCheyne at Starfleet
headquarters.

A second series of scans of the Enterprise-after it had fired upon its
guest-pointed most definitively toward an outbreak of the madness:
violence was erupting on almost every deck.  Indeed, after the incident,
Commander Riker had exploded in uncontrolled fury and leapt from his
chair to physically strike another crew member.  Within seconds, a brawl
had erupted on the bridge-emotional behavior that even humans would find
unbecoming.

"It was as though," T'La! explained carefully to DuCheyne, "they had
managed to maintain control of the infection until the moment their
vessel fired upon us.  At that point, Commander Riker lost all sense of
decorum."

DuCheyne-indisputably human and irascible in temperament-furrowed his
wrinkled brow so deeply that his thick eyebrows presented one unbroken
and shaggy white line above his glistening dark eyes.  "Lost all sense
of decorum?"

T'La! continued patiently, choosing to ignore the admiral's exasperating
habit of repeating and challenging each statement.  "He rose shouting
from his chair, sir, and struck a junior officer with such force that
said officer fell to the deck."

"Oh.  You mean he went berserk."

"Yes, sir."  The Vulcan paused.  "Our scans indicate similar outbursts
all over the Enterprise.  Healer T'Son says there can be no doubt that
the majority of the crew is infected."

DuCheyne shook his head.  "And all those scientists on their way to the
TechnoFair ... now, that would be a tragedy of massive proportion."  He
glared at her, his small gleaming eyes filled with a sudden fierceness.
"Why did you people keep those damned artifacts, anyway?"

T'La! opened her mouth to explain the concepts of tolerance for all
life-forms and of knowledge, which protected one more securely than
ignorance, but the old admiral silenced her with a shake of his head and
a wave.

"I know, I know, I don't need a lecture on Vulcan philosophy.

Look, Picard notified us of an outbreak aboard his vessel; he also
notified us that he had performed the necessary shutdown to destroy the
creatures.  That means one of two things: either a mistake was made
during the shutdown or the creatures have mutated so that they can't be
as easily killed.  Knowing Picard and his crew, I'd say the shutdown
followed procedure very precisely.  And that means one thing-"

"Sir," T'La! interjected, " this is a science vessel; we do not sport
the .

weaponry of a starship.  Furthermore, our crew is entirely Vulcan.

If you are asking me to destroy the Enterprise with all hands aboard
her-" The shaggy white brows lifted in clear annoyance at her
impertinence.

"I'm not asking you to do anything, Captain.  I'm ordering you.

However, I'm not so damned old or arrogant that I fail to realize you
don't have the firepower to bring the Enterprise down alone.

You are to remain in the vicinity until you're joined by
reinforcements."

"Admiral .  . ."  T'La! began patiently.

His tone softened, and she saw in the shadowed, shining eyes a glimmer
of the regret she herself felt.  "I understand, Captain, that you would
prefer to find a way to cure those infected by the madness without
harming them or their ship.  And, believe me, we'll do everything
possible to see that happen.  But if we can't stop them before they
reach the TechnoFair ... we'll have no choice but to destroy that ship
and all aboard her."

In the dim echoing expanse of the cargohold, Deanna pressed her back
against the cool bulkhead and slid slowly into a sitting position.

Beside her, Alexander and Dannelke rested cross-legged on the deck,
while Worf paced, phaser still in his grip.  The four of them were still
gasping from the narrowness of their escape, while Data-perfectly
rested, without a hair out of place-located a power panel in hopes of
scanning for other pursuers.

"I believe we are safe for the moment," the android said.

"Although .  . ."

He gestured at a viewscreen on the bulkhead panel.

The small Vulcan ship still hovered serenely out in space, flanked now
by two Galaxy-class starships.

Odyssey and the Constitution, " Data said matter-of-factly.  "They are
analyzing the activity level aboard this ship with their
state-of-the-art scanners."

And contemplating using their state-of-the-art weaponry, Deanna knew,
without voicing the thought.

"Data ... it's time.  We have the VISORS, we have the containment device
... and we also have the lure."

The android turned to regard her with his golden eyes, but there was no
curiosity in his expression.  He clearly had come to the same conclusion
Deanna had, but was leaving it to her to make the decision.

"The lure?"  Dannelke asked, long arms folded atop long knees, her pale
hair falling forward out of its braid to frame an equally pale face.

Deanna paused, choosing her words carefully.

"Right now, those infected are in a precarious state; the entities had
adapted most successfully to Vulcan hosts, but the human hosts are not
able to contain the entities' desperate hunger for very long.  And now
that they've lost their opportunity to infect the Vulcans, they are even
more desperate; their controls are breaking down.

"Now, when they are especially vulnerable, we can lure them to us -- ."
She paused and drew in a steadying breath.  "By my opening my empathic
sense and actually broadcasting to them to come to me.  To feed."

Beside her, Kyla Dannelke shuddered and closed her eyes.

"I will not permit it!"  Worf exclaimed.  Deanna let the heat of his
anger bathe her, protect her for a few seconds' blessed relief before
the onslaught.  Worf turned toward the android.  "Commander, do not tell
me that you will allow her to do such a thing!"

Data blinked as if he, too, were buffeted by the powerful Klingon
emotions.  "This is not something I can order her to do-or not to do.

This is a very personal decision only she can make.  And I suspect she
has already done so."

Deanna glanced up at him gratefully; the android was becoming more
insightful into the human condition every year.

She'd resisted the idea herself when Skel's mother had first proposed
it.  It had taken time for her to accept the ramifications-especially if
their apparatus should fail.  But as she thought of T'Reth, of the
horrors that had been visited upon that courageous Vulcan woman and the
strength with which she'd faced them, Deanna knew she could do no less.

Realizing that Data's statement had implicitly put her in charge of this
current tactical situation, she fingered her VISOR and the containment
box it was attached to.

"The frequency modulation Data and Kyla programmed into the VISORs will
enhance this lure.  You will all be here to help control the hosts,"
Deanna went on, "and assist me in handling the crew so that they don't
go berserk, or try to crush us.  Since you will each be wearing VISORS,
it won't be necessary for me to collect the entities from each crew
member.

Every person with whom you can intervene will spare me."

Data nodded.  "Since we are in the cargohold, we can utilize the
temporary force shields that hold the cargo in place when the ship is
destabilized.  If the crowd becomes too large or unruly, these small
force fields can restrain them.  Twenty or thirty crew members can be
contained by each force field, until we are capable of handling
everyone."

"Like so many barrels of ale," Kyla remarked.

Deanna managed an uncertain smile.

"The force field units are small," Alexander piped up.  "I can handle
them while Father and Data manipulate the group."

"A good idea," Deanna agreed.  "It will be critical that we all work as
a team, and-" Her voice almost caught, but she stopped and collected
herself in time.

"And try to contain our fears.  Remember, the most important thing is to
keep your VISORs on and functioning.  Are we ready?"

Troi nodded her readiness to the others, and silently they donned their
VISORS.

The others took up positions on either side of her, except for
Alexander, who hung behind them lest he be overwhelmed by the crushing
tide of adults.  The others formed a short funnel, with Worf in front of
her, to blunt the numbers of victims who wouldWho would touch me, feed
from me, like a thousand strangers fondling me over and over.  She shook
off the thought and closed her eyes, then opened her mind and emotions
to the swirling, maddening evil that engulfed the ship.

The force of the desire nearly knocked her off her feet.  She staggered,
reeling.

On either side of her, Kyla and Data each grabbed an arm and supported
her; she could not have resisted their aid had she wanted to.

The lust, the hunger, the insatiable need pressed against her, smothered
her, filling her mind, her body, her soul with dread and disgust.

"Breathe deep, Deanna"' Kyla's voice came to her faintly through the
horror, as if from a great distance.

"Deep, steady, breaths ... you can do this .  . ."

No!   Behind the VISOR, tears of panic filled her eyes, spilled down her
cheeks.  No, I can't ...

Amid the maelstrom of depraved desire came a soft still voice-a voice
infinitely strong, infinitely soothing, infinitely serene.  I am here,
Deanna.

I'T'Reth ... " Deanna reached for that calm and pulled it to her.

I am here, the voice assured her.  I will not leave you.

You can withstand their force.  Take strength from me, from my Vulcan
discipline.  Touch my mind ...

The bay doors slid open.  In the dimness, a thin figure dressed in
medical blue staggered toward them.

In its desperation, it stumbled, falling to one knee; behind its frame
of red hair streamed an eerie violet halo.

"Beverly."  Deanna gasped.  Crusher's eyes were wild feverish pools of
darkness in a pale face slicked with blood and sweat.  At the sight of
Troi, she released a gasp of pure craving.

"Hungry," she whispered, her eyes growing impossibly huge.  "So hungry .
. ."  She reached for Deanna's face with a trembling hand.

Touch my mind, child Deanna drew a breath and reached out, mentally, for
the soothing balm of T'Reth's Vulcan control, then opened her eyes to
see Worf, blocking Crusher's advance.

"Let her come to me," Deanna whispered.

The Klingon drew back.  The infected woman surged forward and consumed
Deanna in a crushing embrace, pulling Trois face toward hers.

"So hungry!"  Crusher's uniform was damp with perspiration, her body
trembling uncontrollably.  For a terrifying millisecond, her eyes blazed
in a brilliantly colorful nova.

Deanna pulled back, gasping at the loud crackle of power, at the
electric blue sparks that attacked the VISOR like a swarm of maddened
bees.

Be calm, little one.  This will pass.

A soft hum; the sparks faded as abruptly as they had appeared.

For a breathless moment, Crusher stood swaying, eyes closed, arms still
enfolding Deanna.

The violet aura abruptly vanished, like a force field damped.

Crusher's grip eased; she opened her eyes and drew back in confusion.

"Deanna?"  She glanced from Troi to the other three VISORed adults.

"Good Lord, what's happening?"

It continued for what seemed to Troi to be hours; at one point, the
cargohold became a Hieronymous Bosch vision of hell, with dozens of crew
members held by invisible fields-all of them reaching, screaming in
desperation for Deanna.  But T'Reth remained steadfast throughout,
helping Deanna maintain her tenuous control as they painstakingly freed
each person.  At last, no new crew members were entering the hold, and
the force field corrals were gradually emptying.

But there were more, still more.

Picard, trapped in the brig.  Deanna opened her mind, searched for him,
then immediately forced herself to shut him out: He was wild, insane,
screaming for her in his confinement.

And there was one other who had not come: Skel.

You will have toqo to him, Skel's mother warned.

He has lived with them too long,- their hold on him is strong.

Deanna sensed a startling emotion in the Vulcan voice.  You're afraid,
aren't you?   You fear he may not survive the cure.

I cannot know the effect it will have on him.  They have been with him
since his childhood.  He may not survive the cure-but his death will be
a relief to him, even so.

But if he dies, Deanna realized, your spirit-and his-will be loosed upon
the winds.  That was something no Vulcan would want.

I accept whatever happens, T'Reth answered placidly.  But my son will,
at last, be free.

Jon-Luc Pickard HUDDLED shivering on the brig deck, allowing his
entities to gorge themselves on his terror and rage.  His eyes were
wide, yet he saw not the bulkheads of the Enterprise's cell, but the
gray metal honeycomb interior of the Borg ship.

They won't use me-I won't let them use me ...

Footsteps behind him, soft voices-he laughed at the sounds.  Let them
come for him-he would not permit them to use him.  He would die here
first, alone in his madness, and they would die with him, too.

He turned and peered-delirious, sweating-at the faces that gathered on
the other side of the force field: the pale moon that was the android,
the darker countenance of the Klingon, Will Riker's bearded face ...

Yet they were different-the eyes were covered in metal.  Picard released
a laugh that escalated into a sob.  The Borg-they had transformed his
people, even as they had once transformed him into Locutus, into neither
human nor machine, but a monstrous marriage of metal and flesh.

"No," he murmured, hugging himself.  "No!"

Voices beyond the field.

"Take it easy, Captain.  We'll have you out of there in a minute.

Data?"

'7'm afraid I was quite thorough, Commander.

These circuits arefused beyond repair."

"Then stand back-I'll blast them until the power is interrupted and the
field collapses- "

"The conduits provide too much power, Mr.  Worf You would be fatally
shocked.  I am afraid that only t can release the captain-" An abrupt
sound of metal slamming against metal-Picard glanced up and saw a bright
shower of sparks, heard a hum followed by an abrupt pop.

Riker's bearded face, the eyes hidden behind a metal band.  Not the
blinking red Borg sensor-scope, at least, but Picard cringed
nevertheless.  "Captain, can you hear us?   Do you know us?"

With a roar, he flung himself upward at his first officer-and struck an
immovable object with a gasp.

He flailed, only to find his arms pinned.

"Captain-it is Commander Data.  Please do not resist us,- I do not wish
to harm you." He howled in pure frustration, a sudden unbearable surge
of hunger causing him to seek their eyes, their eyes-but there were none
to be found.

A soft voice: "Let me get close to him ... And then, Captain.

Look at me.  It's Deanna.  Let me help you.  . .

'Her presence pulled at him like the moon at the tide; he stared up at
her, seeking her dark luminous eyes, but they, too, were covered by
metal.  And yethere was relief- emotional warmth, compassion-but, best
of all, anguish at the sight of him.  He reached for that pain, gazing
deep into the metal facets of her VISOR.

His entities surged up and out, racing toward her, making his nerves
sing.  They were ravenous, and for a moment he feared for her, but there
was nothing he could do.  They flooded from him into her; his sorrow was
incalculable as they drained out of him leaving him empty, hollow.

At the same instant, the metal band across her face shimmered with
electric blue light.  He blinked, dazzled ...

Then he smiled at the realization that he was free, his enemy defeated.
The momentary pleasure filled his hollowness and made him whole again.

The next moment he stared back in utter confusion at Counselor Troi,
Number One, Mr.  Worf, and Commander Data-each of them sporting VISORs
and huddling around him on the floor-of the brig?

Even more disturbing was that he was being held protectively by Data.

He pulled away from the android, reorganized his uniform, and attempted
to stand-but his body felt as though he'd run a marathon and lost, then
been beaten severely by the disappointed spectators.  He staggered.
Lieutenant Worf caught and supported him, and this time he did not
resist.

"What-what's happened here?"

Troi removed her VISOR; the others followed suit.

"What's the last thing you remember, sir?"

The memory of Riker's attack returned to him; instinctively, he recoiled
from them.

"It's all right, Captain," Deanna assured him.

"Commander Riker is cured, as are you.  He infected you with the alien
entities.  You've been under their control."

Quickly, Data, Riker, and Troi briefed him on all that had happened
while the Enterprise had been under seige.

"I should've listened to you," he told Troi, when she was finished.  "I
should've beamed those things out into space, and to hell with the
Vulcans and their research."

"It wouldn't have mattered if you had, Captain," she said wryly.

"Skel has been harboring the infection inside him since his
childhood-something of which he was completely unaware."  She paused,
letting Picard digest the horrific fact.  "I'm afraid you're needed on
the bridge now, sir.  We're having a small problem with some ...

visiting starships."

In the vast silence of Ten Forward, Skel sat at the bar, one hand
clutching the smooth shining counter as he trembled, struggling to
resist Trois siren call.  The other hand gripped a phaser, set to kill.
His mind was a swirling battlefield where two forces collided: the
entities-full of venomous rage and desire, who felt the lure of the
counselor's emotions, yet would not yield-and his true Vulcan self, who
felt no hunger, yet struggled desperately to push himself away from the
counter, to stand, to turn and move toward deliverance.

Beneath it all, T'Reth's soft voice urged her son to be strong, to have
hope.

But the entities were too strong, and so Skel sat, shivering, waiting,
struggling to loose his grip on the weapon, to change its setting-and
failing.

Soon.  Troi would come to him soon.

And so he sat, trembling, waiting, until at last he heard the doors open
behind him.  He did not turn, did not move except to draw the hand that
clutched the phaser close to his body, so that the others could not see
it.

Behind him, the deep voice of the Klingon: "Counselor, let me stun him
now!"

And the soft reply: "No, wait .  .

			 			 Skel
listened to the sound of their footsteps, waiting until the last instant
to rise, wheelIn less than a heartbeat, T'Reth shrilled in his skull.

Take care!   He is armedAt the same instant, Troi screamed.  "Look out!

He's armed!"

Unwillingly, Skel squeezed the phaser's trigger.

Before him, the three Starfleet officers parted like a wave as the
dazzling shaft of phaser beam streaked between them, then seared a black
smoking scar into the far bulkhead.  The dark-skinned Klingon had seized
Counselor Troi and pulled her to one side; meanwhile, a golden blur
hurtled toward Skel and seized his wrist with impossible speed and
strength.

Before Skel could so much as blink or fire, he found himself staring
into Commander Data's pale bland countenance and realized that the
android had wrested the phaser from him.

The entities within Skel roared.  He swung with his free arm at the
android, then shuddered with shock as his fist met a firmness more
unyielding than bone.

Data never reacted.

The rage and pain fed Skel's entities.  With a manic surge of strength,
the Vulcan lashed out again, but the android seized both his arms and
held him fast.  Skel hurled his body at the android, slamming them both
off-balance to the deck.

Data rolled so that the Vulcan lay with his back pinned against the
deck.  "You can only hurt yourself, Skel.  I shall not release you."

Even as the entities within him bellowed their fury, the Vulcan within
him watched with relief as Counselor Troi approached.  Her dark eyes
were masked by a VISOR, similar to the one worn by La Forge; despite his
outer turmoil, Skel realized the device's purpose.

A small part of him welcomed it ...

Yet without us you will die!   You must resist her-do not look!

You have lived with us too long.

He squeezed his eyes shut, delaying the inevitable.

Beneath the overlay of panic' a cooler voice whispered, Do not be
afraid, Skel.  At last, we are delivered...

Trembling, he opened his eyes, yielding to the sweet pull of Trois
vulnerable emotions, of her fear.  As he stared into the VISOR's
gleaming facets, it lit up dazzlingly, as though kissed by blue
lightning.

The image left him blinded for an instant; he blinked, then released a
long deep sigh at the interior lightness, the profound silence, the
freedom in his mind.

He closed his eyes again, still sighing, still sinking into the bliss of
his own untainted consciousness, pure and clear.

And yet his mind was still not entirely his own, but this time, the
realization evoked no dismay.  Quite the opposite: Now that his thoughts
were free from domination, he could clearly sense the other who shared
it-an entity calm, controlled, compassionate.

"Mother," he whispered with dawning understanding, and the silent reply
came: I am here, my son.  I have always been here...

For a brief, blessed instant, two Vulcans yielded to and felt no shame.

JOY

With Riker beside him, Picard stepped onto his bridge, where a
viewscreen displayed the image of two Galaxy-class starships hovering in
front of the much smaller Vulcan science vessel in a protective stance,
The screen blinked, then Captain Tiyo Soga's dark, normally friendly
face filled the screen, but for the moment, his expression and voice
were reserved.

"Captain Picard."

"It's good to see you, Captain Soga," Picard said, unsmiling.  The
situation demanded facts rather than diplomacy or charm.  Both the Skal
Torr's captain and the Odyssey's captain were listening and watching the
encounter.  "Have you been briefed on our ...

situation?"

"Your Commander Data has barraged us with information, to be frank,"
Soga confirmed.  "We have not only the historical information from
Starfleet and Vulcan archives, but logs and a summary of events leading
up to this moment, including detailed plans on the devices he claims
captured the infectious entities.  My staff are still reviewing the
material; they confirm the likelihood that Commander Data is immune and
probably telling the truth."

Picard wanted to relax but couldn't.  "However, you are still feeling a
great deal of concern."

"Yes," Soga admitted gravely.  "Your ship is carrying a full complement
of crew, and you're ferrying almost half of the Federation scientists
slated to attend the TechnoFair.  The possibility of spreading this
infection at the fair-"

"Understood," Picard interrupted.  "Tell me how we can prove to you that
we have indeed eradicated the infection."

"Well, that's just it, Jean-Luc," Soga admitted, with a faintly sheepish
expression.  "My staff has yet to be able to come up with a sure-fire
way to guarantee you have wiped out this threat.  My Betazoid counselor
assures me that you and your staff 'read' clean, but-"

"You still have your reservations," Picard finished.

"Just as I would have mine."

"Captain," Ensign Bron interjected from her station.  "All ships are
being hailed by the Vulcan vessel."

"On screen."

Soga's image wavered and metamorphosed into that of the Vulcan
captain's.  Beside her stood another female wearing the traditional long
robes of a healer.

"Federation captains," the woman said, addressing her audience, "I am
the Healer T'Son.  I have come from Vulcan to help my patient, the
Master Scientist Skel.  Skel and I are mentally linked.  Since he has
been the carrier of this terrible infection, and you believe you have
freed him of it, I can confirm that through a mind meld."

"Excuse me, Healer," Picard said apologetically, "but you've melded with
Skel in the past, and never detected the entities hiding within him. Why
do you think you would now?"

"There are many levels of the mind meld, Captain.

Mine did not extend to the deepest reaches of Skel's consciousness,
where the entities apparently dwelled; I am prepared to do so now. Also,
if I come aboard your vessel and am infected, we will know you have not
completely contained the entities.  But if my meld is successful, I
believe I can guarantee the safety of all."

"I am willing to agree, Healer T'Son," Picard said.

"Captain Soga?"

"My counselor assures me this will be a trustworthy test," Soga replied,
after a pause.  "Good luck, Healer T'Son."

Captain Picard stood alongside Will Riker and watched the stately form
of the Vulcan matriarch coalesce on the transporter pad.  When she was
fully integrated, Picard stepped forward, consciously reminding himself
not to offer his hand.  "Healer T'Son.

I am Captain Picard, and this is my first officer, Commander Riker."

"Captain."  With her flowing robes and plaited hair, T'Son seemed a
vision from Vulcan's past; in one arm, she cradled a dimly glowing
globe.  "Commander."  She nodded at each man in turn as she stepped from
the platform.

Picard had never seen such an object before, but he surmised what it was
that T'Son held so gently: a vrekatra, a receptacle designed to house a
Vulcan's intelligent essence, a Vulcan's soul.  "If you will follow me,
Healer.  . ."

Picard led the way to Skel's guest quarters.

"Captain," T'Son said, as they walked, "I have been in contact with the
other healers who work with childhood victims of the plague.

They are aware of Skel's unusual 'carrier' state, and have examined
their patients.  None can be found to harbor any entities at all.  We
will take the plans for the detection device your Mr.  Data transmitted
to us, and will construct one in order to verify our conclusions.  But
our current consensus is that Skel was the only child so infected."

"Well, that is partially a relief, and partially a tragedy," Picard
remarked.  She gazed at him silently.

"Healer," Picard said, "I plan to inform your captain that I will be
destroying the entities-all of them.  I will not permit them to leave
this ship."  He paused, knowing he was violating several protocols and
could be disciplined for his action.  Beside him, Riker struggled to
suppress a smile.

T'Son's expression remained bland; if the notion disturbed her, she
showed no sign.  "I did not know they could be destroyed, Captain.

How will you accomplish this?"

"Skel's research has determined that the entities only function as an
infectious organism when they are bonded into groups-that is how they
infect, feed, and procreate.  Mr.  Data has formulated a transporter
dispersal pattern that will disrupt the frequency that bonds the
entities together, so they will be forced into individual units.  Data
hypothesizes that this individual, harmless state may be their original,
natural condition, and that the people who fashioned them into a weapon
of war artificially bonded them to do so."

T'Son considered this in silence; when she did not reply, Picard asked
pointedly, "Do you anticipate that your government will protest this
decision?"

T'Son permitted herself a small sigh.  "It is entirely possible that the
entities have an innate intelligence.

Victims of the plague spoke of their infection as if another, conscious
being was inside them."

"Our counselor, too, sensed that," Picard admitted.

"But she felt that any intelligence there was a completely malevolent
one, totally incompatible with any other life-forms it would encounter."

"Yet Mr.  Data's solution would merely return them to their natural
condition as harmless individual entities," T'Son said.  "It would seem
to me that you are simply restoring the natural order, Captain.  And the
victims have suffered quite enough.  I will support your decision before
the Vulcan Council."

"Thank you, Healer."  He bowed.

They stopped before the doors to Skel's guest quarters, and Picard
watched the woman collect her sedate, emotionless demeanor about her
like a robe.

"And now it is time for Skel and T'Reth," she said softly, and moved
toward the doors.

Deanna Troi and the entire senior staff-Geordi, Beverly, Will, Worf,
Data, and Jean-Luc Picard stood in the transporter room
shoulder-to-shoulder.

Alexander was there as well, as was a healthy George Tarmud and a
smiling Kyla Dannelke.  There was barely room to breathe, but it seemed
to Troi that they were all breathing in unison anyway.

On the transporter pad sat the quarantine unit with the two alien
artifacts, and all of Data's containment devices that had trapped every
entity infecting the crew.

Skel had opted not to be present; at that moment, Deanna knew, his
consciousness was being separated from that of his mother, T'Reth-a
woman whose concern for her child had become so desperate that, with her
dying breath, she had ejected her katra into Skel's mind.  But because
of the entities' influence, Skel had not realized for all these years
that his mother truly was with him, offering her assistance.

It was an unheard-of event, a Vulcan being able to transfer her
consciousness without the medium of direct physical contact; Deanna had
no doubt that the Vulcan metaphysicians were puzzling over the fact.

To Troi, it was resoundingly simple: logic might fail when faced with
the impossible, but love would not.

The emotional overload in the room was overwhelming, but Troi basked in
it.  Never had she felt this much power from the people around her, this
much anticipation, this much resolve.  It was a heady reaction and it
made her feel a little woozy.

"Are we ready, Mr.  Data?"  Picard asked.

"Yes, sir," the android responded from behind the transporter console.
"Dispersal pattern is laid in.  The computer estimates that the
probability is twenty-five billion, seventeen million, two hundred and
fifty-eight thousand to one that any single entity will ever intersect
with an inhabited planet, and that the probability of that individual
entity being able to infect a living creature on that planet is-"
Everyone in the room turned to stare at him impatiently.

"Very, very small," he concluded.  "Ready to transport on your command,
sir."

"I think that honor belongs to Counselor Troi."

Picard turned to her, smiling.  "Counselor?"

With pleased surprise, she moved to the console beside Data and placed
her hand on the lever he indicated.  "Energize!"

A familiar whine filled the room.  The objects on the transporter pad
shimmered for a few moments, but the dispersal beam had been calibrated
to transport only the entities and leave the equipment behind.  As the
whine subsided, the small shell-shaped artifacts fell open-dark,
lifeless.

The final tendrils of their possession were cut adrift; Deanna laughed
aloud at the sensation of utter freedom.  "They're gone!   We're free. .
.

Epilogue GUINAN WALKED LEISURELY through the multitudinous displays of
the enormous TechnoFair, scanning the roster in her hand for Data and
Geordi's booth.  She was both surprised and amused to learn they had a
display; when she'd left for her convention, Picard had insisted they
wouldn't have time even to disembark here, what with the Enterprise's
impossible schedule of ferrying scientists here and there.  Luckily,
he'd gotten some other ships to assist with the transport, so that his
crew could enjoy the fair.

And an amazing thing it was.  In all her years, Guinan didn't think
she'd seen so many different races or species in one place, all of them
sharing their knowledge to promote science and its peaceful use.

She grinned suddenly at the familiar face in the distance, at a small
booth nestled between two larger displays.  She scurried over, her long
mauve robes rustling, her enormous hat carrying her along like a sail
through the parting crowd.

"Guinan!"  Deanna cried happily.  The empath stood with Will Riker to
one side of Data and Geordi's little booth, in front of another booth
featuring an android display.  "How good to see you!   You look so
rested!"

The darker woman patted her friend on the arm.  "I had a wonderful time!
I just can't wait to tell you!   I mean, I feel a little guilty leaving
the rest of you to the drudgery of all that moving around, all that
transporting, all those grim-faced scientists going on and on about
their work."  She peered at La Forge and Data suspiciously.  "So, what
condition is Ten Forward in?"

"Exactly as you left it," La Forge promised her, with an oddly secretive
little grin.  "You don't think Data and I were ready to face the wrath
of Guinan, do you?"

"Not if you're smart!   So what is this you guys have here?   I didn't
know you had plans for a display."

La Forge shot Data a bemused look.  "It was sort of a last-minute
thing."

"Yes," Data agreed.  "Very last-minute.  By using Geordi's VISOR, we
have perfected a frequency modulation device which will-"

"Sounds fascinating," Guinan agreed halfheartedly, knowing if she didn't
cut him off the android would quote her chapter and verse of a
scientific discovery she had no interest in.  "Nice booth.  Good color
scheme."

Glancing around, she noticed the booth next to Data and Geordi's had a
display featuring an enormous hologram of a floating Klingon eye, which
was currently glaring down at her.  Alexander, Worf's son, stood behind
the display, manipulating the eyeball and clearly having a wonderful
time doing it.  Worf was standing close to a tall blond woman-very
close.

Guinan's smile widened; this was looking more interesting by the moment.

She walked up to Alexander.  "I didn't know you were planning a display
at the TechnoFair either, young man.  And you usually tell me
everything." The boy smiled delightedly.  "It's not my display, Guinan.
It's Kyla's.  She just let me set up the eye."

Worf, in a surprisingly gentlemanly manner, introduced Guinan to the
scientist Kyla Dannelke.  Their body language was most interesting.

Guinan thought of all the evenings Worf sat in Ten Forward alone,
insisting that human women were "too delicate" for him.  There wasn't
much about Kyla Dannelke that seemed delicate to her.

"So, have you two known each other long?"  Guinan asked
conversationally.

"Oh, it feels like forever," Kyla replied drolly.  Worf looked
surprisingly embarrassed and everyone else broke into much more laughter
than the situation seemed to call for.  What had been going on while she
was away?

"I want to hear everything that happened during the day devoted to the
'llse of Chocolate as an Entertainment Consumptive,"' Troi declared.

"Start talking!"

Guinan grinned.  "The recipes!   You just won't believe them.  For
example: Rich Andusian chocolate bars, melted into Saurian brandy, with
a little Terran vanilla, topped with whipped cream-" Just then Picard
strolled into view.  He seemed tired, Guinan thought, but otherwise his
usual self.

The transport job must've been much more than he'd anticipated.

And she'd heard about Ensign Ito's tragic death.  No wonder he looked
weary.  If she couldn't lure him into Ten Forward, she'd beard the lion
in his den.  She couldn't wait to try some of her new concoctions on
him!   She didn't know anyone else who needed to relax more.

Picard was flanked by a tallish human male with a pleasant face and a
pronounced widow's peak.  Picard said something, and the man gave a warm
hearty laugh and replied with a pronounced New England accent. Beverly
Crusher walked beside this man, and she, too, laughed.

Even the serene Vulcan male walking on Picard's right seemed more placid
than the average Vulcan.

Yet there was a sadness about him.

"Guinan!"  Picard said as he spotted her.  "It's good to see you.

I certainly hope your ... religious retreat fulfilled your spiritual
needs and helped you find the peace of mind you were looking for.

We'll all certainly enjoy the advantages of your counsel."

Religious retreat?   What was he talking about?   Oh, yes!   She'd
completely forgotten the "official justification" for her trip.  She had
been afraid he wouldn't have let her go during the hectic transporting
assignment if he thought she was just going to have fun.

She blushed darkly as everyone but Data swallowed their smiles.

The android only looked confused.  "Why would they discuss the
consumption of chocolate at a religious retreat?"  he asked La Forge,
who only jabbed him into silence.

"Yes, it was wonderful," Guinan assured the captain with only a little
guilt.  "Very ... enriching."

Enriching wasn't the word.  She knew she'd put on at least five pounds.

He introduced her to the Vulcan scientist, Skel, and the
android-builder, George Tarmud.  Another android-maker!   Guinan could
see if she didn't get out of here soon she'd be trapped into
science-speak for hours.

Snagging Deanna's arm, she said, "If you'll excuse us, I promised Deanna
I'd show her the recorded scenes from the seminars on 'Religious
Counseling Today." @9 Trois eyes widened in horror as Guinan wrested her
away from a chuckling Will Riker and pulled her quickly out of earshot.

"So, what's with Worf and that woman?"  Guinan hissed at her friend as
they left the others.  "I want details!   And I thought it would be
boring to have all those scientists on board."

"Oh," Deanna said mildly, "I wouldn't call it boring, exactly .  .

As Guinan left them, Tarmud and Crusher remained at his booth, talking,
while the rest of the group continued to interact with one another.
Picard took the opportunity to follow Skel to his display on force field
technology, which was set apart from the others.  He'd had no chance to
address Skel in private.

Now that they were, in effect, alone, Picard wasn't even sure what he
wanted to say to the Vulcan.  I'm sorry about what happened to you.

It was criminal, and should've never been inflicted on anyone, least of
all a child.

Finally, as he stood beside the Vulcan-both of them gazing silently up
at the display-he murmured, "Skel, I am sorry about your mother.  She
touched my mind, spoke to me in my own mother's guise; it made me feel I
knew her.  She was an amazing woman.  I wanted to tell you-I grieve with
thee."

Skel turned to him, his expression relaxed, his air that of one who had
resolved many problems.  "It is not logical to grieve for my mother,
Captain."

Picard felt awkward.  "Perhaps not, but we humans-" Skel held up his
hand.  "My mother's katra was not loosed upon the winds, as I had so
long thought.

Believing that, I had grieved for her all of my life.

Now I know her katra reposes in the Hall of Ancient Thought.  I can
consult with her whenever I feel the need, and she can communicate with
the katra of my father, and bring him peace.  My mother is aware that
her years of struggle were successful.  In many ways, she was
responsible for saving all of our people from being revisited by this
dread infestation-indeed, all of the Federation.  Even in death, she
succeeded.  So there is truly no reason to grieve, Captain."

Picard smiled slightly.  "No, I suppose there isn't.

Especially when I remember that the entities have been completely
annihilated, that there is no possibility they can ever harm anyone
again."

The faintest hint of shadow crossed the Vulcan's face and was gone.  "Is
that what you think, Captain?   I thought you were aware-" "Aware of
what?"  Picard demanded, a sudden knot of fear coiling in his stomach.

"The two artifacts in my possession," the Vulcan replied.  "They were
but a sample, recovered by a Vulcan archaeological expedition from an
uninhabited planet in the Hydrilla sector.  Thousands of artifacts
remain there still.