The rec area dissolved into the sickbay as the transporter came to life. "Doctor!" Worf roared. He picked up Riker and slung him onto a biobed. Across the compartment, Deanna Troi lay unconscious on another biobed.

Dr. Beverly Crusher hurried out of her office. "What is it?" she demanded.

"Commander Riker has been poisoned," Worf said. He tried to think of how it could be done-by reprogramming the replicator? And why? Was some underling attempting to advance his career by a.s.sa.s.sinating Riker? That was a common business aboard Klingon ships, but it was unknown in Starfleet. Meanwhile Riker was losing the battle to hide his pain. "There shall be vengeance," Worf vowed to him.

"Easy," the doctor said. She activated the biobed's instruments, glanced at the readouts, then peered into Riker's eyes and mouth. "You were having dinner," she said. "What were you eating?"

Worf thought. "Rokeg, gagh, scrag-"

"Scrag," Dr. Crusher said. She produced a hypospray and injected Riker in the arm. "Ah, yes. The flesh of the killer garbat, marinated in its own blood and treated with ten different spices. The finest achievement of Klingonese culinary arts-and completely indigestible by human beings." The doctor produced a larger hypo and pumped something into Riker's midriff.

Worf looked down at Riker as the agony drained from his face. "Scrag did this?"

The doctor nodded and gazed at her patient. "Will Riker," she said firmly, "I warned you to avoid certain Klingonese foods. I gave you a list of items which the human digestive system cannot tolerate. Didn't scrag top the list?"

Riker let out his breath in a rattling gasp. "I forgot."

"And I warned you that certain Klingonese substances can be lethal," she continued. "You're fortunate that all you had this time was what, in medical parlance, we call a dingwally of a tummy ache."

"It was worth it," Riker rasped. He forced a skeletal grin as he looked at Worf. "Bring on the second course."

Chapter Five.

KARDEL ANIT was hungry and tired. His eyelid grated over his eye whenever he blinked, which was often. His body moved more out of habit than anything else as he dragged his junk cart down the alley. It had rained that day, and the streets were muddy where they were not cobbled. His boots kept his feet dry, and his coverall protected him from the air's damp chill. The garb and armor of a Vo's soldier had never been so good as what he wore now. Twice while a soldier he had fallen ill in such weather, and once frost had taken three toes from his feet. Yet who honored a man who wore this shapeless gray garment?

There was a fresh pile of waste behind the rateyes' factory. Most of what the workers cast aside was worthless, but enough could be salvaged to make this business worthwhile. Anit found several large cans, a pry-bar, a stained tarpaulin made from something that seemed more like metal than cloth.

The factory's rear door slid open, and an oxless wagon rolled into the alley. The man who held the steering wheel seemed unaware of Anit's presence as the wagon rolled past. Despite exhaustion, Anit felt the old rage at that. Who was this man to ignore a soldier?

A whole man, Anit answered himself. He had tried to get a job in such a factory, but the rateyes and their lackeys had rejected him. What use was a man with one arm and one eye? It counted for nothing that Anit had been maimed in the service of the Vo Gatyn, who now ruled all of Megara. A man received no work permit, no place if he was no longer "useful," if he could not meet a "production quota." It was all such a man could do to keep breath and blood in himself and his family.

Anit stopped and looked through a window into the factory. He saw men operating machines. The machines caused metal blocks and pipes to float through the air. Men in clumsy heatsuits pushed them together, and welded them together with sticks that spewed flamelike light. Ten years ago such magical sights would have filled him with awe. Now he only felt envy for the workers, who were a.s.sured of having their next meal and of finding the money to pay off the unending demands of the tax collectors.

The junk dealer was pulling his cart through another alley when a man walked up to him. At first Anit thought the man was a thief-crime had spread like weeds since the arrival of the rateyes-but when he reached inside his coverall it was to draw out a sheet of paper. He held out the paper to Anit, who took it when he saw the symbol drawn on it: a world, split by a bolt of lightning. The sign of the Prophet Against the Dark. The other side was covered with print. Anit hid the paper inside his coverall and went home.

Anit lived in a two-room brick building with his wife and five children. Six, soon, he thought as he saw Molokan in the front doorway. Heavily pregnant, she waddled out and looked inside the cart. She picked up one of the cans. "A good bucket this will make," she said.

"Yes," he said. They carried the junk into the building's front room. The shop was already filled with clutter, much of which Anit knew he would never sell. Still, one never knew what people would buy.

Their work finished, Anit and Molokan went into the rear room. Their two oldest children sat on the floor against one wall, diligently reading the books from the rateyes' school-an old-style school, he reminded himself, of the sort where students sat on benches for endless days while a teacher drilled them in their lessons. Mercifully, the rateyes did not subject children to the learning helmet. The other children lay curled in a corner, their backs warmed by the cooking fire in the pit as they slept.

Anit sat at the table. Wordlessly, Molokan placed a bowl of stew and a mug of ale in front of him, and he fed himself with movements that made him think of factory machines. The food was not good; it had the stale taste of food stored too long, but the merchants sold no fresh food here-only preserved food, carried in on railways and stored in iceboxes.

Anit looked at his oldest son. Vaton's "school-book," Anit realized, was one of the adventure books that the rateyes had banned; the boy read them because they were illegal. Such books told crude, impossible stories about worlds that somehow circled the stars, where people did nothing but kill, betray and rob one another. If there really were worlds among the stars, Anit could believe that star folk would behave so monstrously. He had seen the rateyes do worse, and force people to do far worse.

Molokan stood behind her husband as he ate. When they had been young, before the rateyes came, she had objected to his demands that she behave as a proper soldier's wife. No more did she call this simple gesture a humiliation. Through it, she too clung to the old times.

She had always been good, he remembered. She had kept him alive after the battle that had maimed him. She had refused to take the children and find a new husband, one who could provide her with better food and a decent home. Molokan was a peasant, but she knew more of loyalty than the Vo Gatyn.

When Anit finished his meal, he took the paper from inside his coverall and handed it to Molokan. "Read," he ordered. The rateyes had taught many people to read, forcing them to submit to a demonic ritual that involved wearing a metal cap and having needles stuck into one's flesh, but they had not required Anit to undergo the ordeal. They had judged him too worthless to teach.

Molokan read. " 'Thus speaks the Prophet Against the Dark,' " she said in a voice hushed from the children's hearing. " 'Tomorrow I shall defy the evil which comes from the sky, which has occupied Heaven itself, sc.r.a.ping the filth of its boots on the Paths of Paradise and spewing its foulness into the beards of our G.o.ds. Soon shall we take from the rateyes all which is ours, and more. That which they force upon us, we shall turn against them, and our children shall crusade against the demon outworlders in Heaven itself. Tomorrow at midnight you will see me in the holy places. Now burn this paper and witness a miracle.' "

Anit was too tired to make sense of the tangled words. "The Prophet Against the Dark here is coming?" he asked, as simply as a child might. He didn't know if outworlders were monsters or evil men; he only wanted to know that there was hope.

"The paper says among us she shall walk," Molokan said.

"Good," Anit said. "Now let us see the miracle of the paper."

Molokan waddled over to the cooking fire and fed the paper into the flames. The paper caught fire and burned with an abnormal brightness. As the flames consumed it, a ghost no bigger than a man's fist appeared above it. The Prophet Against the Dark! Anit thought. He dropped to his knees in awe as the robed image raised its hands in benediction before it faded.

Anit and Molokan gazed at the fire for a long moment. "Good it would be," Molokan said wistfully, "the Prophet herself to see, in a holy place speaking."

"That we shall not do," Anit said, resting his hand on her swollen belly. "From rateyes and brigands too great the danger is. Of parents our children we shall not deprive. Besides," he added, nodding at the fire, "the Prophet we have just seen."

"We have," Molokan said reluctantly. Anit knew that she wanted to see the Prophet, with a need stronger than hunger or thirst. There was a grove outside the city, where people had worshiped before the rateyes had outlawed religion. It would be good to go there and see the Prophet, even if it meant being killed by vengeful rateyes- Anit shook his head as if to drive out that thought. The world had turned cruel since the rateyes had taken over. If he died, who would take care of Molokan and their children? Orphans starved in the streets, a shameful horror that no one would have tolerated in the old days.

Anit and Molokan made ready to sleep. They lay down on their cot, and Anit ordered Vaton to turn out the gla.s.sfire. In the darkness, Anit pulled the blanket over himself and his wife, and pillowed Molokan's head on the stump of his arm. She slept deeply-this pregnancy tired her more than had any other-but despite his own exhaustion Anit could not sleep. He pictured the Prophet striding into the city, leveling the factories with a glance of her eye, restoring the old times with a spoken word, sweeping away the rateyes with a gesture.

Picard was familiar with the aftereffects of alcoholic overindulgence-his family owned one of the finest vineyards and distilleries in France-but what he found in sickbay astonished him. Deanna Troi looked like the victim of a brutal transporter malfunction. Her skin had turned pasty, her hair lay in disarray on the biobed, and her wide dark eyes had grown bloodshot and sunken. "Fear not," Picard said with sympathetic humor, "Dr. Crusher a.s.sures me you shall survive."

Troi winced and groaned. "Don't remind me," she said.

"Courage," Picard said, and sighed. "The amba.s.sador picked a fine time to get you drunk."

"It wasn't deliberate," Troi said, in a voice that was barely audible. "I didn't sense any malice in him-he didn't even realize he was offering me anything unusual. That's why I didn't know ..."

"But he did override the replicator programming to create some rather potent grain alcohol," Picard said, "in defiance of Starfleet regulations."

"It seems to have been what he needed," Troi whispered. "And if he can override a safety program, then he's not quite the primitive b.u.mpkin everyone feels he is."

"That isn't at all what I feel," Picard said.

"It isn't? Good. Maybe that means this hangover is going away." Troi started to sit up, then slumped back as the biobed's electronic squeals protested her movement. "And maybe it isn't."

Picard sighed again. "I need to know the amba.s.sador's mental state."

"He's fine now, although be careful about mentioning his son." Troi winced again, as though a bright light had flashed in her eyes. "I don't believe it. The walls have feelings." She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. "At least they're in a good mood."

"Counselor-" Picard began patiently.

"You want to know more about Ralph," she said. "It might help if you brushed up on the Eugenics War."

Picard nodded. "I have already done so. And I won't deny I'm fascinated by military history." Barbaric though it was, there had been something direct and vigorous about twentieth-century combat-especially when brave men had hurled themselves and their fragile aircraft against the flying battlewagons of the Khanate, or fought laser cannons and electromagnetic shields with rifles and artillery- Troi cringed at what he felt. "Captain, Ralph isn't a pacifist, but he hates war. The death of his only child hit him very hard. Somehow it's given him an enormous burden of guilt."

"I'll keep that in mind," Picard said. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes," Troi whispered. She reached up, grabbed his collar and pulled his face close to hers. "Please don't feel so loud."

The captain extricated himself from her grip and left the sickbay. Troi's condition suggested that the amba.s.sador would be dead to the world, but when Picard signaled at Offenhouse's door the amba.s.sador greeted him in a cheery voice. "C'mon in, Picard."

Picard entered the room. Offenhouse looked quite healthy. His eyes were clear, his face pink and clean-shaven. "Mr. Amba.s.sador," Picard said, his voice at once firm and cordial, "henceforth please refrain from getting my crew members drunk."

Offenhouse looked puzzled. " 'Drunk'?" he repeated.

"Counselor Troi-"

"Oh!" He shook his head. "Sorry, Picard. I didn't think a couple of vodka martinis could get anyone plastered. But I'll tell you, she makes more sense drunk than a lot of people do sober."

"Does she?" Picard asked. He waved a hand to dismiss the point. "I've come here to discuss our mission."

"Fine. Have a seat." Offenhouse sprawled on the bed while the captain settled into a chair. "Our first problem is going to be exploring Megara without tipping off the Ferengi."

"That can't be done," Picard said. "Suspicion is the natural state of the Ferengi mind."

"Correct," Offenhouse said, "so we've got to misdirect their suspicions. I think we can manage that, because they're going to want to believe their operations are still secret."

"That will be tricky," Picard said. "The Ferengi are sharp."

"They're a bunch of piranhas. But think of me as a shark." Offenhouse grinned, showing teeth. "Picard, back when I was a poor but humble financier, I learned how easy it is to outsmart crooked businessmen like the Ferengi. I can handle 'em."

Picard leaned forward in his seat. "Mr. Amba.s.sador, are you saying that Ferengi behave like twentieth-century businessmen?"

"Crooked twentieth-century businessmen," Offenhouse said smugly. "That's the secret of my success, Picard, the one factor that makes the Federation think I'm a genius, or at least a, a"-he looked at the ceiling as he snapped his fingers several times-"what's that French term, the one that means 'wise fool'-"

"Idiot savant," Picard said in a weak voice.

"Right. Not that anyone says it to my face." He rolled off the bed and went to the replicator. "One cherry cola, with crushed ice." He removed a gla.s.s from the opening and eyed Picard. "Took me a long time to duplicate this drink. You ought to try it, Picard."

Picard looked at the gla.s.s. The brown fluid fizzed and sputtered nastily, as though it had just made a forcible escape from a chemistry lab. "Perhaps some other time," Picard said. "We were discussing your approach to the Ferengi."

"Business is business," Offenhouse told him as he sat down. "And crooks is crooks. Picard, it's been a century since anyone in the Federation has had to worry about compet.i.tion and percentages and all the other things that make business the grandest game man ever invented. Okay, you've rationalized your economy to the point where you have no unemployment, poverty or depressions, but it means you don't understand cultures who do."

"Our sociologists might beg to differ," Picard said. He watched in barely restrained horror as Offenhouse drank the hissing brown fluid in his gla.s.s. "They have an excellent understanding of these matters."

"The way your android understands emotions," Offenhouse said. "I've told them things their 'expertise' has missed, because they can't imagine what it feels like to be threatened with unemployment, or poverty, or-well, a lot of things. I've studied everything the Federation has learned about the Ferengi, and I've felt like I was reading about some long-lost friends.

"The point is, I understand the Ferengi and I can handle those smarmy weasels. Right now my real question is how we're going to investigate Megara. I'm going down, of course, but I can't be everywhere. I'll need other people who can look around, learn things and tell me what's going on."

Picard smiled. "Curiosity, observation and intelligence are prerequisite qualities in Starfleet officers. And one of the reasons we have civilians on this ship is so that they may visit alien worlds and allow other people to meet Federation citizens. It's an important diplomatic function."

"Sounds like a great little icebreaker," Offenhouse agreed. He sucked at his drink, and despite its corrosive effervescence he seemed unharmed. "How much money will they spend on Megara? For souvenirs, and dining, and whatever."

"Modest amounts, I should say," Picard said. "By and large our people aren't acquisitive."

"Tell them to get the habit," the amba.s.sador said. "They'll need it."

"Very well," Picard said. "Now, Mr. Amba.s.sador, let's discuss the Megarans. They're caught up in the Ferengi's machinations; what do we do about them?"

"Aside from running the Ferengi out of town?" The amba.s.sador shook his head. "It's a safe guess that the Ferengi have turned Megaran society on its head, but beyond that, I don't know what to expect or what we'll do to help them recover."

"Nor do I," Picard said, "but, a.s.suming we're successful, we can't simply walk away from the situation."

Offenhouse's knuckles whitened as his hand tightened on his gla.s.s. "No, I won't," he said, almost to himself. "Not this time."

Wesley hesitated, then walked into the Ten-Forward lounge. Guinan was nowhere in sight; she was off-duty, and Data had taken her place behind the bar. Shrev sat in a corner, eating something that looked like a bowl of gummy yellow soup.

Data was polishing a gla.s.s with a clean cloth. He was out of uniform, and dressed in the archaic, red-and-white-striped costume of a soda jerk. "h.e.l.lo, Wesley," the android said. "What is your pleasure?"

"Uh-a hot-fudge sundae, please," the youth said. "A big one, with everything, like Counselor Troi likes."

"With nonreplicated ingredients?" the android asked. "Counselor Troi claims that replication does not 'catch' the subtle flavors of 'real' ice cream and chocolate. I would suggest you attempt the experience."

"Uh ..." Wesley had heard similar claims before. Frankly, he thought that nonreplicated food tasted funny-especially when you thought about where some of the ingredients came from. On the other hand, he didn't want to offend Data. "Sure, I'll try it."

"Coming right up."

"Thanks." Wesley watched the android's hands as they swiftly created the dessert. "Say, Data, why are you doing this?"

Data's head tilted inquisitively. "Did you not request that I construct a hot-fudge sundae?"

Wesley smiled. He sometimes wondered if Data misunderstood questions on purpose, to provoke a smile. "I mean, why are you working behind the bar?"

"Guinan recently informed me that bartenders obtain a unique perspective on human behavior," Data said. He piled whipped cream onto the scoops of ice cream, then added an a.s.sortment of toppings. "This comes primarily in the form of what she called 'confessions,' a process by which bar patrons unburden their problems to the bartender after a quite modest stimulus. For example, I would make the observation that you appear troubled, and you would expound upon whatever matter troubled you, which would soothe your emotional state." Data poured hot fudge over the dessert. "As it happens, you do appear troubled."

"No, I've just been studying a lot the past couple of days. Zhuik culture," he added.

"You might consult Ensign Shrev," Data suggested.

"I've already talked with her a few times," Wesley said. "She's the reason I'm studying."

"Ah. You are cultivating a friendship?" Data asked.

"I hope so. The problem is, I've been around nonhumans most of my life, but I guess I don't understand how different they are." Wesley took the sundae and a spoon from Data. Instead of eating, he toyed with the spoon. "I start to think of other species as just different-looking humans, and then I get surprised when they do something a human would never do."

"This is a common human feeling," Data noted. "Has Ensign Shrev done something that troubles you?"

"Yes-no." Wesley shook his head. "It's me. I shouldn't expect her to act human, not when what she does is normal for her."

"Then you wish to accept her as she is," Data said. His head tilted again, as though he was consulting some inner data-readout. "I believe the proper course would be for you to dine with her, which will present the opportunity for further learning. And as with most races, Zhuik prefer to dine with friends."

"Right. Thanks, Data." Wesley picked up the sundae and crossed the lounge to Shrev's table. Her soup, he saw, was more like honey or nectar, and the spoon was a spatula which she licked clean with a raspy tongue as green as her face. The meal probably was nectar, he decided, given the fact that Zhuiks had evolved from insects similar to terrestrial bees.