FORTUNE'S LIGHT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Then the Impriman spat out a curse—and plunged the knife into the ground beside Riker’s ear. The human rolled his head to look at it, barely grasping its significance.

  Kobar lowered his face to Riker’s. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper, but his words had a cutting edge to them.

  “Go back,” he said, “and tell your friend Norayan that she’s wrong. I didn’t kill him, no matter how many times she accuses me.” He raised his lip in a sneer. “No matter how many Federation muzza she sends after me.”

  With a last shove, he got to his feet and walked away. His companions joined him as he made his way through the crowd.

  From his vantage point in the first row, next to the Sunset dugout, Geordi looked around at the frozen ball park—the frozen fans, the frozen players, the frozen umpires and hot dog vendors and video cameramen. Even the frozen clouds in the sky.

  “Data,” he said, “this is great. I mean, this is some program.”

  “I cannot take credit for it,” the android responded. “As I indicated earlier, it was conceived by Commander Riker before he went planetside.”

  Geordi leaned over the restraining wall and trained his gaze on the Sunset pitcher. “That’s the fellow who gave you trouble, eh?”

  Data nodded. “That is indeed the fellow. I propose to have him repeat the pitch he threw to me—the one I popped up.”

  “Popped up?”

  “Propelled the ball in a more vertical than horizontal trajectory,” interpreted the android. It was rare for him to have to explain jargon to Geordi; the significance of the moment did not escape him. “It is not the desired result of a swing.”

  The chief engineer of the Enterprise nodded. “Gotcha. Okay, let’s take our positions and get a gander at this—what did you call it?”

  “Curveball,” said Data. “Hook. Uncle Charlie. Number Two . . .”

  Geordi held up his hands to signify surrender. “All right already. Whatever it’s called, let’s see it.”

  The android entered the batter’s box, spread his feet, and held his bat aloft. “Ready?” he called to Geordi.

  “Ready,” came the answer.

  “Computer—resume program.”

  All at once, everything came back to life. The crowd yelled and cheered, the players in the field went into their crouches, and the clouds started crawling across the blue heavens.

  As before, the Sunset pitcher set himself, rocked back, and fired the ball. Data just stood there. After all, he’d already had his chance to hit this pitch. The replay was just for purposes of demonstration.

  Once again, the ball seemed to come in slower than it should have. And now that he wasn’t distracted by the motion of his swing, Data noticed something else: just before it reached home plate, the ball appeared to dip—rather precipitously.

  “Ball two,” ruled the umpire.

  “Stop program,” commanded the android.

  The program stopped. A flock of geese, on a diagonal path high above the diamond, stuck to the sky.

  Data turned to Geordi. “Was that of any help?”

  His friend still seemed to be eyeing the pitch, though the ball was now frozen in the catcher’s glove. After a moment or two Geordi climbed over the wall and trotted out onto the field.

  “I want to see it again,” he said, “from closer up. Also the pitch that preceded it—the one you said was faster.”

  Data issued the required instructions, and the computer complied. As Geordi looked on, the holodeck reenacted both of the pitches that Data had seen in his unproductive at-bat.

  Geordi harrumphed, stroking his chin. “I think we’ve got two issues here,” he announced. “The first one has more to do with you than with the ball.”

  “Me?” said the android.

  “Yup. With all that whirling and twirling, you expect that pitcher to be throwing the ball as hard as he can. But he’s not. He’s actually releasing it a little earlier, with a little less velocity. Of course, you don’t know he’s going to do that—so you swing too soon.”

  Data thought about it. “Or perhaps just begin to stride before I have to.”

  “Or perhaps just that,” agreed Geordi. “You should wait a little longer before reacting. That way, a slower pitch won’t fool you. And with your strength and speed, you’ll still be able to handle a fast pitch.”

  “Wait longer,” repeated Data. “I will remember that.”

  “But that’s not all there is to it,” Geordi added. “Remember, I said there were two issues involved here.”

  “Ah,” responded the android. “So you did.”

  “The second one,” said Geordi, “has to do with the flight of the pitch. Whoever named that thing a curveball knew just what he was talking about—it really does curve. In this case, down and into the batter, although that’s not to say it can’t curve in other directions as well.”

  “I thought I saw the ball drop just before it reached me,” recalled Data. “And you say it moved toward me as well?”

  “That’s what happened all right. And it had something to do with the way the ball was spinning.”

  “Spinning,” repeated the android. “How interesting.”

  “Very interesting. And also, as far as I can tell, quite impossible.”

  Data looked at him. “But it happened.”

  Geordi shrugged. “I can think of two principles that might be at work here—but neither one would explain that curve.”

  “Perhaps,” said the android, “if you went over them with me . . .”

  “Sure,” said the chief engineer. “Maybe you can find something I’ve overlooked.” He paused, frowning. “Okay, theory number one. If the weight of the ball was distributed unevenly, the spin imposed on it could create eccentricities in its trajectory. However, judging by this specimen I’m holding in my hand, there aren’t any serious disparities in weight distribution, so that shouldn’t be a factor.”

  Data pondered that. It was true—the balls he had handled in the field had actually been quite well balanced. If they’d been otherwise, he certainly would have noticed.

  “Theory number two,” resumed Geordi. “Friction. The stitches that protrude from the ball, finding resistance in the molecules that constitute this atmosphere, could work to turn the object away from the straight course dictated by momentum. But for that to happen in any significant way, the air would have to be several times denser than what we’re breathing. Or the stitches would have to be many times larger, to invite more resistance.”

  Data could find no loophole in either analysis. And yet there had to be an explanation. He said so.

  “No doubt there is,” said Geordi. “And I’ll think about it some more. But for now I’m stumped.”

  “Stumped,” echoed the android. He searched his memory for the word. “Ah. Stumped. Stymied. Thwarted. Frustrated . . .”

  “All of that,” admitted Geordi. “In the meantime, you’ll have to do the best you can.”

  He followed Geordi’s gaze into the Icebreaker dugout, where the android’s teammates were frozen in various poses. Terwilliger, his foot planted on the dugout’s second step, was leaning forward on his knee. His face was half turned away from the goings-on at home plate, as if he couldn’t bear to watch—as if he knew that Bobo would find a way to keep him from his victory. Jackson, nestled in the shadows, looked on with what appeared to be only mild interest. Cherry was leaning on the bat rack, scrutinizing the pitcher through narrowed eyes.

  “Didn’t those guys know anything?” asked Geordi. “About the curveball, I mean?”

  “Not very much,” said the android.

  His friend regarded him. “Look, Data, maybe it’s none of my business, but . . . well, why is this so important to you? Commander Riker no doubt intended this to be fun—relaxation. And here you are, putting an awful lot of effort into something that no one else will ever know or care about.”

  “Perhaps,” said the android. “And I must admit, I have asked myself the same
question, without being able to come up with a satisfactory answer.” He looked back at Geordi. “In that respect, I suppose, the curveball and my motivation have much in common.”

  Geordi smiled. “Okay. To each his own.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of third base. “Are you going to play some more now?”

  Data shook his head. “It strikes me that there may have been some scientific research concerning the curveball, back in the twentieth or twenty-first century. I would like to conduct a search for it before proceeding to the next inning.”

  Geordi nodded. “Then I’ll walk you as far as engineering. I’ve got a shift starting in ten minutes, and it doesn’t look good for the boss to be late. Sets a bad example.”

  “I understand,” said Data. “Computer—save program, please.”

  Riker tried to sit up, found it harder than he would have thought. The ringing in his ears wasn’t getting any better, and he could still taste the blood in his mouth. But he’d be damned if he was going to lie there on the hard, cold ground any longer. With an effort, he rolled over and got up on all fours. Then, slowly, he pushed himself to his feet.

  “Riker. Are you all right?”

  He turned. “Lyneea,” he said dully.

  She held his head steady, looked into his eyes. “I think you’ve got a concussion,” she told him.

  “Great.” It sounded as if someone else had said it.

  She took his arm. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” She pointed to a narrow street that led off the market square. “Can you walk by yourself?”

  He nodded. They walked. And what was left of the crowd let them through.

  At one point Riker took note of the petmonger they’d seen before, the one whose isak had gotten loose and caused all the furor. Ironically, his was one of the few booths left untouched by the uproar. And by the looks of things, he’d even managed to recover the vicious little beast.

  A moment later they were in the street that Lyneea had pointed out. There were a couple of shops here, but neither seemed to be open. The street itself was deserted—unusual, Riker decided, considering its proximity to the marketplace.

  Lyneea turned him toward her, looked into his eyes again. She frowned, nodded. “Definitely a concussion.”

  “Feels like someone packed my head with mud,” he admitted. Then a memory cut through the fog. “Where were you?”

  “Watching. And hoping I wouldn’t have to intervene. After all, that would have neutralized my usefulness.”

  He felt something like anger crawl up his gullet. “Neutralized your . . . I could’ve been killed.”

  Lyneea shook her head. “Not a chance. I’m too good a shot—remember the isak pit?” She turned Riker’s face to one side, looked at it critically. “You look terrible,” she decided. “We should get you to a doctor.”

  He took her hands away. “No doctor,” he told her. “There’s too much to do.”

  “Is there?” she asked. “What, for instance? Kobar will be on his guard now. He’ll never lead us to the seal.”

  Riker thought about that, or tried to. It wasn’t easy. The ringing in his ears was starting to abate, but he still felt as if his brain had grown a size too large for his skull. And now there was a new pain, in the area of his temple—no doubt the point of impact of the knife handle, or whatever had hit him.

  Then it came to him: it was something Kobar had said. Something about . . .

  “He didn’t do it,” blurted Riker.

  Lyneea looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Kobar. He didn’t murder Teller.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “For one thing, he could have killed me just now if he’d really wanted to. He could have eliminated someone who was almost certainly on to his crimes. But he didn’t. What does that tell you?”

  Lyneea shrugged. “That he’s a fool?”

  “No. That he may be innocent—of the murder and maybe even of the theft.” He paused, trying to pull it all together in his mind. “Kobar said something to me after he stuck his knife in the ground. He told me that Norayan was wrong about him. Apparently she’d accused him of killing Teller, and he was passing a message to her through me.”

  His partner’s brow wrinkled ever so slightly. “I thought Norayan didn’t know your friend was dead.”

  Riker grunted. “According to what she told me, she didn’t. But what if she really did know? What if she went looking for Teller in the maze, and found him lying there—as we did?”

  “Then she lied to you. But why would she do that?” A pause. “Unless . . .” She licked her lips. Had some of the color drained from her face? “Riker . . . couldn’t Norayan have planted that patch we found? The one that led us to Rhurig—to Kobar?”

  With hindsight, it did seem like a coincidence—didn’t it?

  “For what reason?” he asked out loud. “Because someone else killed Conlon? Someone she didn’t want us to know about?”

  His mind had finally kicked into gear, and his mouth along with it. But it took a couple of moments for his emotions to catch up—for him to realize the implications of what he was saying.

  They looked at each other. For their own individual reasons, neither of them wanted to believe it. To Riker, Norayan was a friend. To Lyneea, she was an official of the madraga that the retainer had sworn to defend with her life. But if she was guilty of deceiving them . . .

  God. What if Norayan herself was the killer?

  “Let’s say it’s all true,” Lyneea told him. “Let’s say that Norayan led us to Kobar to keep us off the real killer’s trail. Why would she first alert Kobar by accusing him of the crime?”

  Riker shook his head. “Maybe to make him act the part of a hunted criminal, to make his behavior more convincing to us.” Something else occurred to him. “Or maybe to turn him on us, to take us out of the game.”

  Lyneea’s temples worked. “So we wouldn’t live long enough to find out she’d deceived us.”

  The human nodded. “And the rest of Criathis wouldn’t suspect a thing. Kobar’s a known hothead. It wouldn’t be so farfetched if he killed an offworlder, and maybe a Criathis retainer as well, without knowing it.”

  His partner scowled. “What about Fortune’s Light? Could Norayan have been in on the theft of that, too?”

  Riker met her gaze. “It’s hard to believe, I know. But is it any less believable than the rest of this?”

  It hurt to say these things. However, it hurt even more to think that Norayan was trying to kill them.

  Maybe Teller wasn’t the only one who had changed. Maybe.

  “Unless we’re jumping to conclusions,” said Lyneea. Her scowl deepened. “Or was that what we did back in the maze?” She sighed. “What about that oath of secrecy that Norayan swore you to? That sounded like something of genuine importance to her.”

  The human had to agree. “Maybe she was telling the truth about her affair with Teller and lying about the rest of it.”

  “But if that was the case, why let us in on her association with Conlon and the maze? Why not just let us blunder around and leave her secret a secret?”

  Riker pondered that one. “Could it be,” he suggested, “that we were close to the truth and didn’t know it? That Norayan had to lead us on a wild-goose chase and take some chances because otherwise we would have found her out?”

  Lyneea had a queer expression on her face. It had some surprise in it and some respect and maybe a couple of other things. “You know,” she said, “you’re not such a liability after all.”

  He wanted to smile, but his temple was throbbing too badly now. “Thanks” was all he could muster up.

  “Don’t mention it.” She looked away from him. “So now,” she said, “there are two questions staring us in the face—assuming, of course, that Norayan is truly hiding something about the murder or the theft or both.”

  “Number one,” said Riker, picking up the thread, “what were we looking at that made Norayan so nervous? What were we
doing that we should start doing again?”

  “And number two,” continued Lyneea, “whom was she protecting?”

  Lyneea seemed to think, as Riker did, that Norayan could have committed the murder herself. But, like Riker, she didn’t want to drag it into the open—not yet. It was the one possibility that neither of them was quite willing to countenance.

  The human pulled his tunic more tightly about himself. Somehow it seemed colder here in this narrow street.

  “Let’s go back,” he suggested, “to the time before Norayan’s visit. We had just tailed Bosch to his place at the Golden Muzza, right?”

  Lyneea’s eyes lost their focus a little as she remembered. “You think that Bosch was mixed up somehow with Norayan?”

  “Maybe. In any case, I think we should call on him again—that is, if he hasn’t decided to change his address.”

  Lyneea nodded, her gaze still focused elsewhere. “What if it wasn’t Bosch? What if it was the Pandrilite that made Norayan nervous?”

  Riker thought about it. The Pandrilite’s story had seemed plausible enough, but . . .

  “We’ve got him under wraps on that blaster charge,” he said. “It can’t hurt to ask him a few more—”

  Suddenly Riker felt something hit him in the back—hard. He turned instinctively and saw a cloaked figure fleeing in the direction of the marketplace.

  Lyneea cursed and clutched at him, and at the same time he felt something long and stiff in his shoulder, something that didn’t belong there, something that was beginning to hurt. Numbly he looked down at the right side of his chest and saw a bloody knife point sticking out of his tunic.

  “My God,” he whispered. The pain was getting worse with each passing moment. Already it felt as if there were a hot poker inside him, searing his flesh with agonizing slowness.

  He staggered against the nearest wall, Lyneea still holding on to him. There was fear in her eyes, rampaging wide-eyed fear.

  The stain on his tunic was spreading quickly; he was losing blood at an alarming rate. A few drops fell into the slush at his feet, making tiny black pools.

  Lyneea swallowed. “Hang on, Riker. I’m going for help.” Her voice was calmer than she looked—it must have taken quite an effort.