FORTUNE'S LIGHT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “I don’t get it, Teller. Aren’t you the one who said to throttle you if you even thought of becoming a diplomat? What happened to all that?”

  For once his friend was at a loss for words. He shook his head. “I don’t know, Will. It’s just that . . . damn, I feel as if I belong here. Like these people are my people.” He shook his head again. “And maybe I can do the Federation some good as a liaison. Lord knows, I won’t do that serving on a starship—not the way you will.”

  “Come on, Teller. They didn ‘t make you a lieutenant for the hell of it.”

  “We both know why they made me a lieutenant, my friend. So let’s not use that as an argument.”

  “I’m not talking about Gamma Tobin. I’m talking about your whole career. You’ve shown as much promise as anyone.”

  Teller smiled ruefully. “No, I haven’t. But that’s not even the point. I’m not running away from Starfleet by taking this post. Dammit, I was happy in Starfleet. But now I’ve found something that makes me happier. A lot happier.”

  Silence.

  “Give me a break, Will. Can’t a man want a change? Can’t he love something that doesn’t move at the speed of light?”

  Not this man, Riker told himself. But then, he and Teller weren’t Siamese twins. They were two different people—more different, perhaps, than he’d allowed himself to admit.

  “All right,” he said finally. “If that’s what you really want . . . hell, do it.”

  More silence.

  “Hey, don’t give me the cold shoulder, all right? I wanted to tell you about this sooner. But I was . . . well, I was scared. I thought you might talk me out of it.” A pause. “Don’t hold that against me, for God’s sake.”

  Riker grunted. He looked into his friend’s eyes, and the anger left him. “I’ve got enough to hold against you, you slimy bastard. You think I need something else to add to the list?”

  “Then you’re not mad?”

  “I’m not mad.”

  Teller blinked. His eyes seemed bluer than ever. “Good. Damn good. But I want you to prove it. Drink a toast to the new trade liaison to the planetary government of Imprima. ”

  They raised their glasses and drank.

  “Not as good as that stuff you brought up from Dibdina. ”

  Teller smiled. “Nope. Nothing was as good as that stuff.”

  “What was that toast you made, then? To the art of the . . . something. I forget.”

  “Me, too. But what the hell, it was just a toast. There’s plenty more where that came from.” Teller looked at him. “Keep in touch, Will. Don’t be a stranger.”

  “I promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  “Listen—give these Impriman ladies a break, all right? Without me to chaperon you, you might get into all kinds of trouble.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, son. Looking forward to it indeed.”

  As the holodeck doors slid away, the android stepped inside. He found himself in a roomful of lockers.

  At one end of the room a man sat watching two other men converse on a primitive video monitor. The watcher had his feet up on a chair.

  “Sure,” he said. “A beautiful day for baseball. And if it stays that way, I’ll eat my shorts. Hell, I’ll eat your shorts.”

  Data approached, took up a position to one side of the fellow. It wasn’t long before his presence was noted.

  The man turned a pinched face to him, looked at the android through squinty eyes. “You the new kid?” he asked. “What’s his name—Bogdonovich?”

  Was that a persona that Commander Riker had picked out for himself? There was only one way to be certain.

  “Stop program,” he said. Suddenly the man with the pinched face came to a dead stop—not that he had been moving that much to begin with. “Query,” said Data. “An individual named Bogdonovich—is this the role Commander Riker had intended to play?”

  “Affirmative,” responded the computer in its pleasant female voice. “Bobo Bogdonovich. No other information included in program. Shall I access main data banks?”

  “No,” said the android. “That will not be necessary.” For the time being he knew all he needed to know. “Resume program.”

  The man came to life again. He had asked a question; he was expecting an answer.

  “Yes,” said Data. “I am Bogdonovich. But you may call me Bobo.”

  The man pointed past the android to one of the lockers along the wall. “There ya go, Bogdonovich. Nice fresh uniform—Tonelli’s old number. Hope it’s as lucky for you as it was for him.” He glanced up beyond a flight of stairs at a rectangle of pale blue sky framed in a doorway. “We’re gonna need all the luck we can get.”

  Data walked over to the indicated locker. The uniform hanging inside it was red and blue; the word “Icebreakers” was emblazoned on the shirt in flowing letters.

  The android gathered that he was supposed to exchange his own clothes for these. Of course. One often wore specialized attire when participating in sports.

  “You’d better get a move on,” said the man in front of the video monitor. “They’re already halfway through batting practice, and Terwilliger doesn’t take kindly to rookies who waltz in late. Even if they did just get off the red-eye.”

  Data frowned. Rookie? Red-eye? He was unfamiliar with the terminology. But he sensed that it was not essential for him to understand these terms—not yet, at any rate.

  On the other hand, he had a feeling that he should learn more about Terwilliger, who seemed to be in a position of some authority here. As he pulled off his Starfleet garb, Data decided that it might be more challenging to glean the information from his companion than to query the computer again.

  The android tried to effect a casual manner. “Is this Terwilliger the kind of man they say he is?”

  The videoscreen watcher grunted loudly. “You bet he is. Tough as nails. Mean as they come.” He shrugged. “‘Course, I’m no player. I’m just the clubhouse man. I never get chewed out by Terwilliger. But I’ve seen plenty of those who have been.”

  Data didn’t understand all the colloquialisms, but he got the gist of it. Apparently Terwilliger’s management style was a bit different from that of Captain Picard.

  “It’s really too bad,” added the self-professed clubhouse man. “After all he’s been through, all those seasons of finishing in the cellar, he finally had a shot this year. Prob’ly his only shot. Put together a damned fine team—Sakahara, Kilkenney, Gilderbaum. Built up an eight-game lead. But he had too many veterans; I could see that from the start. Came August, they started to drop like flies—a hamstring here, a busted Wrist there. Before you know it, that lead starts to dwindle and . . .” He stopped himself, grinned a little sheepishly. “Hell, I don’t have to tell you. You know the rest.”

  For a moment, Data thought he would have to ask another question to learn any more. But it turned out not to be necessary. The man resumed of his own accord.

  “So now the whole season—all hundred sixty-two games—comes down to one measly playoff. And with the walking wounded Terwilliger’s got out there today, it’ll be a wonder if we even finish the thing—much less win it.”

  The android had just slipped on the shirt with “Icebreakers” scrawled across the front of it. He reached into the locker for his shoes and socks, all the while piecing the scenario together.

  “Then again, Bogdonovich, maybe you’ll make a difference. Maybe you’ll live up to those Triple A clippings of yours and put a jolt in this team—and give Terwilliger a championship before he retires.” The man made a dry, cackling sound. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “You do not seem hopeful,” observed Data.

  His source of information turned to look at him. “You could say that.”

  “But in any game, there is always an element of unpredictability. If there were not, there would be no point in playing it.”

  A smile crept slowly over the clubhouse man’s face. “I didn’t know you were a philosopher,
kid. I kind of like philosophers—all flakes, in fact. They liven things up a little.” Abruptly the smile vanished. “Just don’t go spouting any philosophy in front of Terwilliger. He hates that stuff.”

  The android finished dressing and considered himself in the mirror. Actually, the uniform fit quite well. But that was no surprise—the computer would have automatically tailored it to his physique.

  “If I were you,” said the man, “I wouldn’t stand there admiring myself. You-know-who could come down here any moment. And if he catches you preening like that, you’ll be riding the pines today, no matter how bad he needs a third baseman.”

  “Yes,” said Data. “Of course.” Observing the clubhouse man’s urgency, he headed for the wedge of blue sky, which he gathered was in the direction of the playing field. As he got closer, he could hear what sounded like surf on an ocean beach. It took him a moment to realize that it was an amalgamation of human voices—a great many human voices.

  “Bogdonovich! Hey, Bobo!”

  The android stopped just shy of the threshold and turned around. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  Grumbling, the clubhouse man got to his feet. He walked over to Data’s locker, took out something brown and leathery-looking, and with a quick flip of his wrist sent it whirling in the android’s direction.

  Data snatched it in midair. It was some sort of glove, though it looked far too big for him. He looked at the clubhouse man.

  “And that’s the last time I’m gonna fetch yet damned leather for ya. I don’t care who you are.”

  “My apologies,” said the android. “It will not happen again.”

  Then he turned around and followed the voices to their source.

  Chapter Three

  RIKER MATERIALIZED in a large but seedy-looking hotel room. Long, open shutters on his right let in shafts of ruddy sunlight and the sounds of a street clown show—not to mention a good cold breeze, which turned his first planetside breath into a shivering wisp of frost vapor. The fireplace on his left was stocked with wood, but unused—and had been for some months, judging by the rakannad webs that had proliferated inside it.

  He had forgotten how cold-blooded these Imprimans were.

  Riker went to the window. Outside, there was snow on the ground, churned into mud around the clown show. A couple of ascetics sat against a wall, apart from the festivity and the laughter, dressed in their brown robes. Brightly colored balls rose into the iron gray sky and fell again. Everyone cheered except the ascetics.

  Nothing had changed.

  Just as he thought that, he heard the scrape of footsteps in the next room. His partner, of course. The retainer who would be working with him.

  A figure emerged. He glanced at it over his shoulder.

  And did a double take.

  The newcomer was female.

  That was evident from her smooth, pale skin, her sea green eyes and exotic cheekbones. It was evident in her blue-black hair, pulled back to reveal ears like delicate little half-crowns.

  She was not only female, but beautiful—in a way that transcended Impriman standards.

  Had O’Brien screwed up the transport somehow? Was he in the wrong suite—or even the wrong hotel?

  That was possible, but not probable. They’d gotten the coordinates directly from Starfleet. And O’Brien’s performance had been impeccable up until now.

  Was this female his partner, then? Perhaps things had changed around here.

  She looked at him, placing her hands on her hips. She was dressed in rather unremarkable Besidian street garb, just as he was—low boots, a belted tunic, a hooded cloak with the hood pulled down for now. Her bare legs, he couldn’t help but notice, were slender and shapely at the same time.

  “You’re staring,” she said.

  He felt his cheeks grow hot. “Sorry,” he said. “

  You didn’t expect to see a woman, did you?”

  Riker’s first inclination was to deny his surprise. But that would only have made things worse.

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

  “That’s all right,” she told him, but there was a stiffness in her voice that belied the assurance. “No one expects a female retainer. That’s what makes me so effective. I can go places where Criathis’s other retainers can’t. Or, as in this case, work on an investigation without drawing attention to the fact.”

  “Makes sense.” He nodded. “I’m—”

  “I know who you are. Let’s just get started, shall we?” She indicated a low-slung couch to one side of the fireplace. Riker sat and tried not to stare again as she began to pace.

  “All right,” said the woman, rubbing her hands together. “Here’s where we stand. As you already know, if you’ve spent any time at all on this planet, a high-tech ban is imposed on Besidia during the Trade Carnival. That means no weapons or other devices of the sort introduced into Imprima over the last seven hundred years—in deference to the age of wisdom that spawned the madraggi in the first place.

  “Another rule is that people can come in whenever they want—but no one can leave. That’s not just a custom—it’s enforced through the use of energy shields. Though of course they are dropped momentarily to permit arrivals like yours.”

  “You’re right,” he said evenly. “I’m already aware of all this.” Probably he should have just shut up and listened. But he had the distinct feeling that he was being talked down to. Worse, it seemed to him that she knew she was doing it—had, in fact, assumed this condescending attitude to mock him.

  But why? Not over the issue of her sex, he hoped. He had apologized for that mistake already.

  The Impriman went on as if he’d never interrupted. “Since Teller Conlon was entrusted with the seal after the beginning of the carnival, he couldn’t have left Besidia with it. Therefore, it is somewhere within the city limits. When we find him, we find it—and I’ve already discovered a trail that may lead us to him.”

  “You sound certain that it was Conlon who took the seal,” said Riker.

  She regarded him. “Aren’t you?”

  “Far from it. If he’s missing, it’s because he was kidnapped to make it look as though he took the seal.”

  She grunted. “I see. And his history of petty smuggling does nothing to make you doubt that?”

  He stared back at her. “What history of petty smuggling?”

  The Impriman frowned slightly. “My apologies. I thought you had been better informed by your Starfleet.” Pulling a leather wallet out of her tunic, she tossed it to him.

  He caught it, opened it, and drew out its contents. “What’s this?” he asked her.

  “The details,” she said, “of Teller Conlon’s illegal activities, in which he used the power of his office to amass personal wealth.”

  Riker pored over the information, aware that she was watching him the whole time, waiting to see his reaction. Finally he replaced the material in the wallet and tossed it back to her. “I don’t believe this—any of it. All it shows is that someone’s gone to great lengths to set up my friend—created an elaborate trail that would eventually lead to him.” He shook his head. “I just don’t buy it.”

  The Impriman nodded. “I was warned you might feel this way.”

  “Whoever warned you was right. I’m here to get Teller out of this mess safe and sound. Not to participate in his incrimination.”

  The woman eyed him. “Rest assured,” she said, “that I’m a professional. I’m not here to incriminate your friend, just to conduct my investigation. Criathis will decide the question of guilt. And I think you’ll agree—whether he’s guilty or not, the discovery of Teller Conlon’s whereabouts may be of some importance in recovering the seal.”

  Riker spread his hands. “No argument there. You said you had a lead?”

  “Yes. We can pursue it now, if you like. Or if you have some ideas of your own, I can pursue it by myself.”

  Her tone was brisk, businesslike. But there was something very unbusinesslike beneath it. Som
ething decidedly hostile.

  “No,” said Riker. “I think we can work on your idea. Together.” He paused, seeking the right words. “You know, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot here. It’s just that Teller Conlon is my friend and—”

  “Yes,” she interjected. “You said that.”

  He looked at her, trying to remain calm and reasonable. “So I did,” he said. Clearing his throat, he took another stab at it. “Listen—there’s obviously something about me that bothers you. If it’s not my belief in my friend’s innocence, then what is it? The fact that you caught me staring at your legs?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then know this,” she said, the edge in her voice becoming even sharper. “The theft of Fortune’s Light is an Impriman affair. It should be dealt with by Imprimans, not by offworlders who have passed through on their way from one place to another. We are your allies, not your puppets.” The muscles in her temples rippled. “The mere suggestion that we need the help of the Federation in this instance is . . . irksome to me. More than that—it’s hateful.” Her delicate nostrils flared. “However,” she said, and her voice was calm again suddenly, “as I told you, I’m a professional, a retainer of Madraga Criathis. I will carry out my assignment to the letter, no matter whom I must ally myself with.”

  Her declaration caught him a little off-balance. “I see” was all he could get out.

  “No doubt you’re glad you asked.”

  Riker shrugged. “Actually, I am. It’s important for us to know each other, at least a little bit.” He managed a smile. “What our names are, for instance.”

  Her features seemed to soften a bit.

  He held out his hand. She took it, and her grip was stronger than he’d anticipated. No shortage of surprises in this retainer, no matter what her name was.

  “I’m Riker,” he said. “Will Riker.”

  “Yes,” she told him. “I know that. It was in my briefing. I’m Lyneea Tal.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  She took back her hand. “Are you? I wouldn’t have thought so, under the circumstances.”