FORTUNE'S LIGHT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “It is preferable to avoid intentional walks,” he said.

  Terwilliger glanced at him. “What?”

  “Intentional walks have the desired effect only forty-eight-point-two percent of the time,” expanded the android. “Situations are more often resolved successfully when the temptation to fill an open base is resisted.”

  The manager said something under his breath. This time it was too low for Data to make out.

  “I beg your pardon?” said the android.

  “I said to shut up,” explained Terwilliger.

  “I only offered the—”

  “Shut up,” the manager repeated. “Shut up, shut up, shut up. Do you understand what I’m saying? Shut up!”

  And with that he turned his attention back to the pitcher. Data looked at Denyabe. The second baseman winked at him.

  “I feel good,” said the Icebreaker pitcher, answering Terwilliger’s question. He plucked the ball out of his glove and popped it back in. “I think I can blow this guy away.”

  Terwilliger looked to Sakahara. “What do you think?” Sakahara shrugged. “He’s got good stuff. They’re just finding the holes.”

  Terwilliger frowned and chewed his lip. Then he chewed his lip some more.

  By that time the home plate umpire had joined them on the mound. “All right, ladies,” he told them. “The sewing circle’s over. What’s it gonna be?”

  Terwilliger made his decision. “We pitch to him.”

  Abruptly the group broke up. Data found himself standing alone on the mound with the pitcher.

  The man looked surprised to see him still standing there, and Data gathered that he was supposed to have left with everyone else. With a quick inclination of his head, he took his leave of the pitcher and jogged back to third base.

  The next batter approached home plate. He watched the first pitch miss for a ball. Then the pitcher reared back and threw again, and again the ball missed the strike zone.

  Statistically, the android knew, batters were more likely to swing on two-and-oh pitches than on any other kind. This instance proved no exception to that rule.

  The Sunset player hit the ball about as sharply as Data imagined a baseball could be hit. However, his android reflexes stood him in good stead. Launching himself toward the third base line, his body horizontal to the ground, the android caught the ball as it went by him—and landed directly on third base, abdicated by the Sunsets’ lead runner only half a second earlier.

  It was a double play. The Sunsets’ half of the inning was over.

  The stadium vibrated with the thunderous applause and cheers that followed. The sound cascaded from the stands to the playing field in waves.

  Getting to his feet, Data tossed the ball in the direction of the pitcher’s mound and made his way toward the dugout. Before he got there, a couple of his teammates had swatted him on the rump with their gloves.

  It was a good feeling. A feeling of belonging, of being appreciated. Data savored it.

  Down in the dugout, Terwilliger was standing with his arms folded. He seemed to be intent on something in the outfield, though Data couldn’t imagine what.

  As the android took a seat on the bench, Denyabe plunked himself down next to him. The second baseman grinned as he regarded Data.

  “You didn’t tell me you were that good,” he said.

  Data shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

  “And you showed it at a good time, too,” added Denyabe. “I think Terwilliger was getting ready to yank you.”

  Data looked at him. “To yank me? As in remove me from the game?”

  The second baseman nodded. “Hey, don’t look so surprised. It’s not like you’re not giving him good reason.”

  “I don’t understand,” the android confessed.

  “Sure,” said Denyabe. “You’re not razzing him, right? You’re not pulling his chain?”

  “Razzing? Pulling . . . his chain?” More unfamiliar terminology. One day, Data hoped, he would comprehend every colloquialism that was thrown in his path. But for each one he came to grasp, it seemed two more waited just around the corner.

  Denyabe shook his head, smiling lazily. “I guess some guys just like to live on the edge.”

  As Data pondered the remark, the Icebreakers’ half of the inning seemed to fly by. It seemed he’d only been in the dugout for a couple of minutes when it was time to take the field again.

  In the top of the next inning, the Sunsets sent up only four batters. But the third hit a home run, tying the score at one all.

  Then it was the Icebreakers’ turn again—and the chance Data had been waiting for. Denyabe was to lead off. If either he or Sakahara or Galanti reached base safely, the android—or rather, Bobo—would come up to bat again. And this time, Data resolved, Bobo would not stop at a single.

  As if to pave the way, the Sunset pitcher suddenly became wild. Denyabe drew a walk, and so did Sakahara. Then Galanti hit a ball to deep shortstop that resulted in an infield hit.

  The bases were loaded, and Data was the next scheduled batter. Apparently the historical Bobo had failed to drive in any of the three runners—but that would not happen here, the android vowed as he stepped up to the plate.

  The spectators cheered and stamped their feet, no doubt remembering Data’s play at third base. For the moment he put them out of his mind.

  Sixty feet away, the pitcher focused on his target, his eyes slitted with concentration. Slowly he brought his hands together, coiled his long arms and legs—and unleashed them. Somehow the ball shot out of that flurry of motion.

  The android clocked it at one hundred miles an hour—even faster than the first time he came up. But it was too far out of the strike zone for Data even to consider swinging at it. In fact, the catcher had to scramble to keep the ball from getting past him.

  Again the pitcher set his sights on home plate. Again he rocked back on one leg, gathered himself, and let fly.

  Data had already started his stride when he noticed something different about this pitch. It was approaching more slowly than the one before it. This throw had fooled him, and he would have to make an adjustment in order to connect with it.

  That hardly seemed like an insurmountable task. And even though he was a little off-balance, Data decided, he should be able to propel the ball over the outfield wall.

  Applying a level of strength and coordination no human player ever enjoyed, the android swung. For the fences, he thought, recalling a phrase he had heard in batting practice.

  But even before the ball left the bat, he could tell that it would not reach the fence. It would not even approach the fence.

  The first clue was the sound: a flat plonk rather than the crisp whack that denoted solid contact. His suspicion was confirmed a second later by the arc of the ball: too high, much too high.

  The umpire called the infield fly rule, preventing the runners from advancing on the play. Eventually the ball landed in the shortstop’s glove, not more than a few feet behind second base.

  Data was numb. What had gone wrong? What could have gone wrong?

  The crowd was all but silent. Certainly there were none of the cheers he’d heard earlier.

  The dugout, too, was quiet. As Data reclaimed his seat, Jackson made a clucking sound with his mouth.

  “Some hook,” remarked the shortstop.

  “Hook?” echoed the android.

  “Number Two,” said Cherry, who was sitting on the other side of Data. “You know—Uncle Charlie.”

  The android just shook his head in bewilderment.

  “Curveball,” explained Jackson. “I know you don’t see too many of those in the minors, but up here you’re going to see a lot of them. At least until you prove you can hit them.”

  Data looked at him. He resolved to learn more about this thing called a curveball.

  On the next pitch Cordoban hit into a double play.

  Chapter Nine

  “HERE WE ARE,” said Lyneea.

  Riker’s eyes
focused again and he looked around, remembering where they’d been headed. Sometime in the last several minutes a light snow had begun to fall.

  Only the Imprimans, Riker remarked to himself, would consider near-constant precipitation and subfreezing temperatures suitable conditions for an open-air marketplace. Which accounted for the dearth of offworlders strolling through the place.

  The merchants had set up their booths on either side of a single winding lane that somehow made its serpentine way from one end of the square to the other. Not the most efficient use of space, perhaps, but it did make the shopping experience a little more intriguing.

  The merchandise was all native, all Impriman, from the antique rugs that seemed to be hanging everywhere to the spices that laced the air with strange, compelling scents. Rare animals sat grunting and screeching in their cages, wines and liqueurs poured like tawny waterfalls from dusky bottles, and the snow hissed where it fell into the flames of exotic oil lamps.

  Riker had only been here twice during his first stay on Imprima. Once with Teller and Norayan and once by himself, just before he left. But for the life of him he couldn’t remember why he’d come alone. Had he meant to buy something? He couldn’t recall.

  In any case, the market hadn’t changed much. More than likely the rest of Besidia had been built around it, and it would probably go on long after the walls that defined it had turned to dust.

  “You—the human!”

  Reflexively, Riker turned his head. He was relieved to see it was only a spice merchant beckoning to him.

  The fellow’s eyes were sharp. With Riker’s broader build, it was easy to see that he wasn’t Impriman—but to know he was human, the merchant had to have gotten a good look inside his hood.

  “Whatever it is,” he told the man, “no, thank you.”

  “But I have what you’ve been looking for.” The merchant’s eyes seemed to smile all by themselves.

  “And what’s that?” asked Riker.

  The Impriman held up a finely tooled wooden box. “The thing that all young men crave—the love of their fair companions.”

  Then he looked past Riker to Lyneea. And if his eyes had been smiling before, they suddenly seemed to laugh out loud.

  “Ah,” he said. “My mistake. It’s you, my lady, who must buy this spice.”

  Lyneea looked at him as if he were crazy. “Ply your wares elsewhere,” she advised, her voice as cold and businesslike as ever.

  But the merchant didn’t give up easily. “Come,” he told her, “don’t be shy. A woman may yearn for love, too, may she not?”

  Lyneea pulled gently but insistently at Riker’s sleeve. “Let’s go,” she said, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

  Under different circumstances, Riker might have played the situation for the obvious humor in it. Hell, he might not have been able to resist.

  But they were here to find Teller’s killer. He wasn’t able to forget that, nor did he want to.

  “All right,” he told her. “I don’t have any desire to linger here either.”

  “Then don’t,” she said, continuing to tug. “The last thing we need is to draw undue attention to ourselves.”

  “I’m walking, see? I’m walking.”

  “So you are.” Finally she let go of him, after they were well past the spice merchant and his remarks. A moment later they negotiated a bend in the lane and the man was gone altogether.

  “Touchy,” he said, “aren’t we?”

  She snorted, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “I prefer to call it impatient.”

  “It couldn’t be that you were a little embarrassed, could it?”

  Lyneea turned and scowled at him.

  “I guess not,” he said. “Sorry I even mentioned it.”

  Abruptly she grabbed his sleeve again. “Look,” she told him.

  He followed her gesture to a booth about halfway down the lane on the right. The merchant within was tall, heavyset—an unusual trait among the Imprimans—and thickly bearded—no less unusual.

  Behind him, on a wooden frame, all manner of ancient weapons were displayed: long spiked maces, a javelin with a nest of deadly hooks surrounding a cruel point, swords with blades so curved they looked like blood-thirsty question marks. On the table before him were knives—thirty, maybe forty of them, some still in their original sheaths.

  Riker grimaced. “Nice stuff. I guess that’s our antique weapons dealer?”

  Lyneea nodded.

  The merchant was haggling with a couple of middle-class types over a rather plain-looking sword. Madraga employees, in town for the carnival? Or retainers, like Lyneea? If so, their jobs were probably a good deal simpler than hers was right now.

  The merchant turned the sword over in his hands, no doubt pointing out how finely it was balanced. His customers shrugged and made disparaging gestures. The merchant held the weapon up to his oil lamp, which limned the blade’s edge with a soft, rosy light. His customers shrugged again and passed remarks to each other, shaking their heads.

  And so on.

  Of course, Riker and Lyneea had to wait for this charade to end before they could move in. They didn’t want to start asking questions in front of people who might be another madraga’s retainers. Particularly if they were retainers for Rhurig—and of course, unless they wore their madraga’s color, one never knew.

  At last the middle-class pair decided to move on—without buying the sword. The merchant cast them a long, disapproving look before he turned and restored the piece to its place on the frame behind him.

  “Time for some new customers,” said Lyneea. “Let me do the talking.”

  He looked at her. “Don’t I always?”

  They had just started for the booth when Riker noticed that they weren’t the only ones. And the other group was closer.

  “Wait,” he told Lyneea, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  She must have seen them, too, because she didn’t balk, either at the warning or at the hand. She just stood there.

  “Riker,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Do you see what I see?”

  He took a closer look at the figures in front of the weapons dealer’s booth. And all at once he realized what Lyneea was talking about.

  “The emblem,” he said.

  “The emblem,” she confirmed. “I can’t tell for sure with his hood pulled up, but I’ll be quite surprised if that isn’t Kobar.”

  Riker studied the man Lyneea had pointed to, the third official of Madraga Rhurig. He was taller than his two companions, rangier. And there was something about his bearing—an arrogance? An attitude of superiority?

  This was the man who had murdered Teller Conlon. This was the maggot who’d killed his friend.

  Suddenly, he wanted very much to return the favor.

  Calm down, Riker. You’re not some chest-beating savage. You’re the first officer of the USS Enterprise. Let your feelings get in the way here and all you’ll do is put Kobar on the alert.

  “Riker? You’re being awfully quiet.”

  “I’m catching up on my beauty sleep.”

  “Well, catch up while you’re looking at a rug or something. We can’t just stand here and gape.”

  “No,” he said, “I suppose not.”

  The nearest booth was that of a pet merchant. The man peered at passersby from behind a corgodrill—something like a small ape with luxuriant rainbow-colored plumage covering its neck, shoulders, and arms. The corgodrill, known for its pleasant disposition, was sitting on the table picking parasites out of its fur.

  As they approached, the merchant straightened. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Not really,” said Lyneea. “We’re just taking in the sights.”

  “Then look no further,” he told them. “The greatest sights in the entire world are on display at Griziba’s booth.” His grin was so ingratiating it made Riker’s teeth hurt. “Now . . . was it the corgodrill that caught your eye? He’s a wonder with children.” The m
an pointed to a plump, cobalt-colored lizard. “Or perhaps a nice menigirri. It eats very little, and its scent has been known to help the digestion—”

  “That’s very nice,” interrupted Lyneea. “But we’re just looking. Really.”

  The merchant nodded. “I understand. You wish to see something less docile.” He leaned toward them over the table. “Something you can train to dissuade unwanted visitors. I have just the thing.”

  “It’s all right . . .” Lyneea began, but the merchant had already disappeared under his table.

  Riker was keeping one eye on Kobar, so he really didn’t pay too much attention when the fellow came up again. Nor did he notice what he came up with.

  “Here,” said the merchant, pushing a cage in their direction. “As you know, one so very young is not easy to come by. It will give you many long years of loyal service.”

  Suddenly something small and dark lashed out through the bars of the cage. Probably it would have gotten Riker’s attention even if it hadn’t been inches from his hand.

  Just in time, he withdrew the endangered appendage. And as if in parody, the dark thing snapped back into its cage.

  Riker inspected his hand. He found tiny rents in the back of his glove, but no damage to the flesh beneath.

  “Many pardons,” said the merchant. “But as you can see, he is quite effective. Imagine him guarding your domicile someday.”

  Then the animal pressed its small black muzzle against the bars in front, and Riker realized what it was the man was peddling.

  “An isak,” he said. He recalled his experience in the tavern, not without a certain amount of apprehension.

  “Of course,” said the merchant. “What else can strike so quickly? And with such strength?” He smiled. “A couple of months from now, he would not have fallen short of his mark.”

  Riker grunted, eyeing the beast even as it eyed him. “How reassuring,” he remarked.

  “Indeed,” said the petmonger. “Then you will take him?”

  “Look,” Lyneea cut in. “They’re moving away from the booth.”

  Riker looked. Sure enough, Kobar and his compatriots had finished their business with the weapons merchant. Judging by the package beneath Kobar’s arm and the smile on the merchant’s face, they had come to terms on some item or other.