FORTUNE'S LIGHT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  But Picard could wait to hear the rest of the story. For a change, he had no other pressing business. He could afford to let the younger man proceed at his own pace. “

  I left,” confirmed Riker. “Shortly after that, I was made first officer of the Hood, and our assignment was way the hell on the other side of Federation territory. I lost touch with Teller. A couple of times he sent messages to me via subspace packet or through some mutual friend I’d be bumping into, but I never got around to sending anything back.”

  The captain smiled as forgivingly as he could. He was aware that forgiveness was not the attitude that best suited his features. “These things happen, Number One, to all of us. It’s difficult to keep up friendships in Starfleet.”

  But his first officer wasn’t accepting absolution. Stubbornly he went on.

  “Pretty soon the messages stopped on his end, too. But I knew he was doing well, because I’d see dolacite containers listing Imprima as their point of origin. Every indication was that Teller had become a big success there.”

  A “but” was coming. Obligingly Picard supplied it: “But?”

  Riker accepted the prod. “But just now I got a transmission from Starfleet—telling me that my friend is a thief. Worse—a traitor.”

  The captain eased himself back in his chair. “Serious charges. What is the basis for them?”

  Riker sighed. “Criathis and Terrin are about to merge.”

  “Criathis and Terrin?” Picard prompted.

  “Sorry. Two of the madraggi. Criathis has been the Federation’s staunchest ally over the years. Terrin has been a Federation proponent as well, though in a somewhat more cautious vein.

  “As I understand it, Terrin has not benefited from the trade agreement as much as it had hoped. Criathis, on the other hand, has profited handsomely. Terrin still has tremendous resources, and political influence to match; Criathis has growth potential. From both points of view, it’s a merger made in heaven.

  “What’s more, Madraga Terrin—as the larger of the two madraggi—would have the right to install its first official as head of the newly formed entity—in this case, a man named Larrak, disputably the best businessman on the planet. Armed with an even broader array of resources, who knows how far he can take Terrin-Criathis?

  “Needless to say, not all the madraggi see this as a good thing. The merger stands to hurt the political enemies of both Criathis and Terrin—chief among them a madraga called Rhurig.

  “But there is nothing Rhurig or anyone else can do to stop the merger—that is, as long as Criathis and Terrin follow the traditional protocols.”

  Picard nodded. “The Imprimans value tradition, do they?”

  “Very much so. Before Criathis and Terrin can get together, there has to be an old-fashioned merger ceremony. And the merger must be made official by the use of special jewel-encrusted seals.”

  “Seals,” repeated Picard. “Like those used to authorize documents on ancient Earth?”

  “Precisely, sir. But these are priceless—even apart from any historical value they may have. Dismantled for its jewels, any one of the seals could buy a man an easy life in some obscure corner of the galaxy.”

  The captain was beginning to understand. “And it is believed that your friend Conlon lifted one of these seals so that he could buy himself this easy life?”

  “That’s what they’re saying,” agreed Riker. “Apparently one of the seals to be used in the upcoming ceremony has disappeared—and Teller along with it. Naturally they’re putting two and two together. All the evidence points to Teller’s having stolen the seal, and without Fortune’s Light—”

  “Fortune’s Light?”

  “The seal, sir—all of these seals have names. In any case, its disappearance is going to cause that merger to fall apart. Both madraggi will be scandalized, effectively crippling two of our biggest supporters on Imprima. And when the other madraggi get wind of Teller’s guilt in the matter, the Federation will be booted off Imprima so fast our heads will swim.”

  “All unfortunate,” said Picard. “Quite unfortunate. But what has this to do with you?”

  Muscles tippled beneath the first officer’s bearded jaw. He leaned forward. “They want me to go to Imprima. To find my friend and recover the seal—before the scheduled date of the merger ceremony.”

  Picard absorbed the information. “I see,” he said. “And of course it makes sense. You know Imprima as well as anyone in the Federation. What is more, you know your friend.” He measured the younger man. “You have agreed to this assignment?”

  “I had little choice, sir. It’s Priority One.”

  The captain grunted. “Then I will be receiving a message myself, no doubt. And it will instruct me to remain in the vicinity of Imprima as your backup, should you need it.” He grunted again. “Is your friend that dangerous, Commander?”

  Riker straightened. “I don’t think Teller’s the culprit, sir.”

  “Really. You think the evidence is circumstantial?”

  “I think it’s no evidence at all. Teller was like a brother to me. I know him better than anyone, and I know he could never have done anything like this. Someone has framed him—set him up. And when I find out where the seal has been hidden, I bet I’ll find Teller as well.”

  Picard did not discount his first officer’s intuitive powers. He had proved himself a fine judge of character again and again. But the fact pattern did point to Conlon.

  “Are you sure,” asked the captain, “that you’re not allowing your own regrets to cloud your assessment, Number One?”

  Riker’s face went taut. “What do you mean?”

  “Simply this—that you feel guilty for having allowed your close friend to go astray. You feel as though you should have done something to prevent it.”

  “My brother’s keeper?” suggested Riker.

  “Something like that, yes.”

  The younger man shook his head. “No. Teller is innocent, and I’m going to prove it.”

  “All right,” Picard said gently. “You do that. But first, let’s get you to Imprima.” He looked up, as he always did when addressing someone via the ship’s intercom computer. An unnecessary gesture, of course, but one that seemed to be endemic to Starfleet personnel.

  “Mr. Data, set a course for the planet Imprima in the . . . Dante Maxima system?” He looked to his first officer for confirmation and got it in the form of a nod. Again, looking up: “Make it warp eight, Commander.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the android. “Working . . . done. Course plotted and laid in.”

  “Engage,” said the captain.

  As the ship surged into warp drive, Riker got up to go. He mumbled something about having to prepare for his mission, though Picard privately wondered how much preparation could be required in this instance.

  “Good luck, Number One. I hope the facts come to bear out your beliefs.”

  His first officer looked at him. “Yes, sir. I know you do.”

  When the ready room doors closed behind him, they barely made a sound.

  Chapter Two

  DATA HADN’T STARTED OUT with any intention of using the holodeck. He’d only been passing by when he noticed something that piqued his curiosity.

  A combination of two somethings, really. Two bits of information displayed on the holodeck computer monitor. One indicated that the holodeck was in active use—that the program was proceeding in real time. The other told him that there was no one inside.

  Of course this was explainable in any of several ways. Most likely someone had forgotten to terminate a program before leaving or for some reason had left before using all of it. It could also have been a sign of a holodeck malfunction—something that happened rarely, but happened nonetheless. Or someone could be inside, undetected by the computer.

  Just to be on the safe side, Data called up the details of the programming. He scanned the identity of the user, the nature of the program, and the projected duration.

  There did n
ot appear to be anything potentially dangerous about the environment selected. In fact, it seemed quite benign. However, it was an environment with which Data had had no direct experience. The best course, it seemed to him, was to find the programmer—to make sure he wasn’t trapped in the holodeck, a prisoner of his own creation.

  The android tapped his communicator, waited less than a second before it beeped in token of its readiness. “Commander Riker,” he said out loud.

  “Riker here,” came the near-immediate response. “What’s the matter, Data?”

  “You are safe?” confirmed the android.

  A pause. “Assuming there are no poisonous lizards under my bed, yes. Why do you ask?”

  Data told him.

  “Oops,” said the first officer. “Sorry about that.”

  “You need not apologize,” said the android. “There has been no harm done.”

  Another pause. “Say, Data, I’m not going to get the chance to use that program—not for a while, at least. And I put quite a bit of work into it. Why don’t you give it a try?”

  Data reflected on the possibility. “Me, sir?”

  “Why not? You might find it interesting. And anyway, it’ll probably take a trial run or two to work out the bugs. You can test it out and let me know what you think.”

  Data glanced at the monitor and the information contained on the screen. “I do not know. I am not well acquainted with the environment you have synthesized.”

  “So what? Broaden your horizons.”

  “Indeed,” said the android, unable to keep a note of skepticism out of his voice.

  “Look,” said Commander Riker, “it’s up to you—I won’t twist your arm. In any case, please don’t erase it. As I mentioned, it took me quite a while to put it together.”

  “Of course,” said Data. “I will be careful to preserve it.”

  “Thanks.”

  The android stood alone in the silent corridor, peering at the monitor—and then at the holodeck doors. At the monitor. At the doors.

  It had been some time since he had used a holodeck, he mused. Neither pastoral settings nor comedy nightclubs nor Sherlock Holmes’s London held much fascination for him lately.

  Perhaps Commander Riker was right. Perhaps it was time for a new experience.

  A beep told Riker that someone was in the corridor outside.

  “Open,” he said, swiveling around in his chair.

  The door slid aside, revealing the stolid bulk of the ship’s security chief. “May I come in?” Worf asked, in the same tone he might have used to propose the annihilation of a hostile vessel. Klingons always seemed to be engaged in a heated argument, even when they were uttering pleasantries.

  The first officer nodded. “Sure. Have a seat.”

  Worf entered and headed for a chair. It was situated on the other side of a polished amber-colored wood table—one Riker had made himself out of wood from a thousand-year-old Alaskan pine after a landslide had toppled the tree and half buried it.

  The Klingon sat eyeing him—but not before he’d darted a glance at the garments laid out on Riker’s bed.

  “What can I do for you?” asked the first officer.

  Worf frowned. It was not necessarily a sign of displeasure—he frowned a lot.

  “I have been notified that you will be beaming down to Dante Maxima Seven, also known as Imprima.”

  “Yes,” said Riker. “That’s correct.”

  “On a Priority One mission.” Worf paused. “By yourself.” Another pause. “Unarmed.”

  “Right on all counts.”

  The Klingon seemed to be at a loss for the right words. Riker waited patiently, knowing that his visitor would in time find what he sought.

  “Of course,” Worf said at last, “it is a Priority One mission. You need not tell me anything about it—even though your safety is my responsibility.”

  The first officer found it difficult not to smile, but he restrained himself. So that was what Worf wanted. “In other words,” said Riker, “you’d like to know what I’m going to be doing on Imprima. Even though it’s supposed to be classified information.”

  Worf shrugged his massive shoulders. “If it will, in your estimation, enable me more efficiently to carry out my duties as security chief.”

  “Which, of course, extend to all members of the crew, even when they are not on the ship.”

  “Of course.”

  It was a rather liberal interpretation of Starfleet regulations. However, Riker wasn’t disposed to argue with it. After all, he felt the same way on those rare occasions when the captain led an away team.

  So he told Worf what he wanted to know. Not in the same detail he’d used with Picard, but nonetheless covering all the essentials.

  The Klingon’s frown gradually deepened. “Then this matter is of some personal importance to you?”

  “Yes,” conceded the human. “It is.”

  Worf digested that. Loyalty was something he could easily understand. “Naturally, you will remain in contact with the ship?”

  “I’ll report in occasionally. Besidia, the city where I’ll beam down, is hosting something called a Trade Carnival. One of the rules of the carnival is that there are to be no high-tech devices, including communications equipment, and they’ve gone to the trouble of enumerating the items they don’t want to see. Of course the list doesn’t specifically mention our communicators . . .”

  “But their use may be frowned upon.”

  “Yes.”

  “Still, you will carry one. Won’t you?”

  “Of course· Why?”

  It was hard to tell what kinds of thoughts were taking shape behind those void-black Klingon eyes. Worf seemed to straighten a little in preparation for his next remark.

  “There are few situations that do not have at least the potential to become dangerous. An ally—one who is immediately accessible—may prove quite valuable should trouble arise.”

  Riker was touched by the offer. But he didn’t say so. It would only have embarrassed Worf, and to a Klingon, being embarrassed was worse than being flayed alive. The latter situation, at least, was something they were emotionally equipped for.

  “I don’t think the Federation had it in mind for anyone besides me to go. Besides, I’m in good hands. I’ve been assigned someone who works for Criathis, the madraga from which the seal was stolen.”

  “Someone who works there?” said Worf, his voice dripping with disdain.

  “We’re not talking about a bureaucrat,” advised Riker. “He’s a retainer—a lifelong employee of the madraga, specially trained to protect the house, its officers, and its interests in any way necessary. That includes hand-to-hand combat, the use of weapons, clandestine operations . . . Come to think of it, these retainers have a lot in common with security officers.”

  The Klingon grunted at the gibe. “But they are not security officers.” Obviously he was unimpressed.

  “No,” agreed the first officer. “They’re not. Nor do they operate by the same set of rules. But from what I saw during my last visit to Imprima, they are quite effective.”

  Worf did not belabor the point. He rose, considering Riker past the high bony ridge of his nose.

  “If you find this retainer is insufficient . . .” He shrugged again. “I do not expect that I will be otherwise occupied.”

  The human stood, too. This time, he had to say something. “I appreciate that, Mr. Worf.”

  Without another word, the Klingon turned and walked out of the cabin. The door yielded at his approach and remained open for a second or two after he was gone. That’s how brisk his exit was.

  Riker marveled at his luck. What had he done to deserve a friendship like Worf’s?

  Or for that matter, like Teller Conlon’s?

  Perhaps, in Teller’s case, not enough. He hoped it wasn’t too late to make up for that deficit.

  “We did it, Will. We actually did it.”

  “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

&nb
sp; “I mean we honest-to-God did it!”

  “I think you said that already.”

  Teller grinned that grin that drove women wild. He set his glass down, leaned back in his chair and ran freckled fingers through thick reddish blond hair. “I wish I could see the faces of the Ferengi when they get the news. Are they going to be fuming or what?”

  “Fuming? You think so? Just because they lost one of their primary sources of hydranium and dolacite? You think that’s going to bother a philosophical bunch like the Ferengi?”

  They laughed. And laughed again.

  Heads turned. A couple of women, one in the red of Terrin and another in the green of Ekariah, seemed to share in their amusement.

  Riker lifted his glass to them. “Terrin and Ekariah on friendly terms. What does that tell you?”

  “It tells me that now Terrin ‘s got more influence than Rhurig has. At least with Ekariah.”

  A small space in time, filled with music and the sound of someone singing. Riker took it all in.

  “You know, Teller, I’ve enjoyed this. I really have. But it’ll be good to get back to the Yorktown.”

  “Sure, real good. I’ll bet you’ve missed the hell out of Captain Leadbelly.”

  “That’s Ledbetter to you, Lieutenant. And maybe I haven’t missed him, but I’ve missed a lot of other things. You know what I mean—being out there. “Riker blushed. “You know what I mean.”

  Teller nodded. “Yes. You can spare me the John Masefield bit. I’ve been there, just as you have. I’ve whispered my share of secrets to the stars.” He seemed to withdraw a little; his eyes sought the table between them. “Naturally that makes it a bit more difficult . . .”

  Riker looked at him. “Makes what a bit more difficult?”

  His friend met his gaze. “I’m staying, Will. I’ve signed on as permanent trade liaison to Imprima.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true. Everything’s been approved, top to bottom.” A pause. “You knew they were looking for somebody; I just threw my name in the hat.” Another pause. “Who’d have believed they’d actually give it to me?”

  Riker felt empty inside, as if he’d been betrayed somehow.