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No matter, Worf told himself. If the rest of them wish to retreat, let them.

The Klingon would not go back. Not now, when his chance to avenge himself on the honorless ones was just around the corner.

“Worf,” whispered Pulaski, wide-eyed. “Where are you going?”

He shrugged her off as gently as he could, approached the turning of the corridor.

Ma’alor whirled, trained his blaster on him. The Klingon wondered what setting it was adjusted to.

For a moment, the two of them eyed one another-Ma’alor insisting on his right to lead, Worf challenging him to do what he had come here to do. And all the while, the voices of the marshals were ringing in the stone passageway beyond them.

Finally, Ma’alor let the nose of his blaster drop. Reaching out with his free hand, he clasped the Klingon’s shoulder-a gesture of respect? Of gratitude for reminding him of his mission? Worf suffered it, knowing it brought him a little closer to that which he hungered for.

Crouching, they proceeded to the brink of the turning-all except Pulaski. Worf could see the muscles in Ma’alor’s neck tense as he prepared to spring.

Then they were rolling and blasting in a corridor full of marshals, and there were screams of surprise and the wssk of weapons being drawn and the sound of bodies hitting the floor.

It was difficult to anticipate the blaster beams, as invisible as they were but for their eerie rippling effect. Nonetheless, Worf’s battle-honed reflexes served him well. He bounced from wall to wall, dropping marshals with unerring accuracy.

Impressive, he told himself, considering he had never handled a blaster before. At least not that he could remember.

But it did not fill his aching need for revenge. It was too simple-too detached. He needed to take one of the slugs in his hands-to crush him, to feel his bones splinter.

For the shame and the suffering they had inflicted. For their leering laughter.

And for what his kind had done to Worf’s kind back at the fortress.

Unfortunately, there were just a few of the marshals left standing. And as Worf looked on, Ma’alor and Nurel’lid dropped two of them.

That left but one. Apparently unarmed, he was hiding behind the prisoners.

Worf was oblivious to the half dozen or more figures that sprawled across the corridor. He had forgotten about the trio he had come in with, the comrades they had left outside.

Even the prisoners-one of them Klah’kimmbri-seemed to melt away. He had eyes for but one face, one despised form.

In the back of his mind, he wondered why the marshal did not run away. Or pick up a weapon and fire at him. Or at least threaten him with reprisals.

But he did not wonder so much that it cooled his blood-fury. Never breaking his stride, he reached out and took the marshal by the throat.

Raised him off the floor with the strength of one arm. And with great satisfaction, began to squeeze the breath out of him.

But there was something wrong here. The flesh of the marshal’s neck did not yield. Nor did his grasp seem to have any effect on the cursed one’s breathing.

In fact, he was able to smile. And speak.

“It is a pleasure,” he said evenly, “to see you again, Worf. I had feared I would not find you in time.”

The Klingon’s eyes narrowed as he squeezed harder. His arm trembled with the effort.

Yet it gained him nothing. The marshal still seemed unaffected.

“I would take this for a show of affection,” said the honorless one, “but for the fact that you are incapable of recognizing me. Therefore, I must conclude that it is something else. Perhaps a display of aggression?”

“Worf!” The cry came ringing the length of the corridor. The Klingon looked back over his shoulder and snarled. Who dared?

It was Pulaski. And she was approaching with an obvious sense of urgency.

“Put him down,” she insisted. “That’s Data. Don’t you-oh, that’s right. You don’t.”

The Klingon turned back again, saw the affable expression on his victim’s face. He did not quite understand, but one thing was obvious. This seeming marshal was another