FORTUNE'S LIGHT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Turning back to the twist in the corridor, holding his breath, Riker closed his fingers into a fist. Just another moment. Just one more second. But his timing would have to be perfect.

  As their pursuer turned the corner, Will took a swing at him. But the man was shorter than he’d expected, and the blow was only a glancing one.

  It gave the Impriman a chance to strike back—and strike he did. Something hit Riker in the jaw—hard enough to stagger him. As he recovered, trying to protect his injured arm, a light came out of nowhere to blind him.

  “Run,” he told Crusher, sweeping her behind him—and knowing all the time how useless the gesture would be. He didn’t stand a chance against a blaster. And the doctor wouldn’t get very far in the time it would take Riker to fall.

  Anyway, Crusher wasn’t running. She was apparently going to stand her ground.

  “If I’m going to die,” she answered, throat tight, “I’m going to do it with dignity.” And she stepped up to stand alongside him.

  He was proud of her for that.

  “Chits and whispers,” said the voice behind the light. “Why did you have to go and surprise me like that?”

  He knew that voice. And he’d never been so happy to hear it as he was now.

  “Lyneea,” he said.

  “You’re damned right,” she told him, lowering the beamlight a little. She rubbed her temple with the fingers of one hand. “What were you trying to do? End our partnership in one fell swoop?”

  He chuckled, massaging his jaw where she’d struck him. “I might ask the same of you. What in blazes are you doing here anyway?”

  “Keeping an eye on you, of course. Did you think I’d leave you all alone, without protection?”

  “You mean you were waiting outside the hotel? Watching over us?”

  “That’s just what I mean.”

  He thought about it for a moment. “But not just to protect us—right? You were hoping the assassin would show up—and try again.”

  “Obviously. I had no other leads.”

  Riker sighed. “I’ve got to hand it to you,” he said. “Sentimental you’re not.”

  “And cooperative you’re not. What kind of insanity possessed you to leave your suite? Do you know how much more difficult it is to protect someone on the move?”

  “You could have stopped me,” he suggested.

  “But that would have ruined the plan. We would have lost the element of surprise.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I forgot—sorry.”

  “Excuse me,” said Crusher, “but could we continue this elsewhere? I mean, our assassin friend may be closer than we think.” She looked around, shivered. “I’d feel a whole lot safer on the outside of this maze.”

  Lyneea nodded. “Very sensible, Doctor.” She regarded Riker. “You would do well to take a lesson from her.”

  The first officer cursed beneath his breath. Just what he needed—arguments from both sides.

  Suddenly something clattered against the stones beneath their feet. As the echoes died, Lyneea played her light beam over it.

  “What’s that?” she asked. “More high-tech contraband?”

  Riker bent and picked it up. “Just the thing that’s going to lead us to Fortune’s Light.” And with a flick of his finger, he activated the device. It started beeping again.

  The expression on Lyneea’s face was worth the soreness in his jaw.

  Chapter Twelve

  “AND THAT,” said Riker’s intercom voice, “is the long and the short of it.”

  Picard drummed his fingers on his desk, stood, pulled down on his tunic, and strolled thoughtfully across his ready room.

  “Allow me to iterate,” he told his first officer, who had seldom seemed so far away as he did now. “Disregarding the severity of your wound, you hoodwinked Dr. Crusher into letting you go off on what is commonly known as a fishing expedition, despite the suspicion that whoever tried to kill you the first time would almost certainly try again. Once in the maze, you were rewarded—beyond any reasonable expectation—with the discovery of a homing device, which you believe has been programmed with the location of Fortune’s Light. And now you wish to test that theory again, despite the severity of your wounds and the all-too-obvious fact that more able-bodied personnel are available.” The captain cleared his throat. “Is that a fair summary, Number One?”

  Silence for a moment. “I don’t think I’d use the word ‘hoodwinked,’ sir.” More silence. “Not exactly.”

  Picard regarded his aquarium. Sometimes he wished he could place some of his officers in that tank; certainly they’d be easier to keep tabs on. And they would have considerably fewer opportunities to take foolish chances with their lives.

  Then again, there were extenuating circumstances. One could not forget that Riker had lost a close friend recently. That kind of experience had a way of jarring one’s values.

  “Will, you are obviously playing a very deadly game down there. Would it not be wiser to have someone healthy working with Lyneea?”

  Picard could almost hear his first officer bristling. And hadn’t he known what the answer would be, even before he posed the question?

  “I’m still the best man for the job, sir. Unless, of course, that was a thinly veiled order.”

  The captain grunted. “No, Number One. It wasn’t an order.”

  “Then I’d like to see this through, sir.”

  Picard nodded. “What about some help? A small security contingent?”

  “Not necessary,” advised Riker. “We’re just going to find out where the seal is hidden. And Teller wouldn’t have hidden it anywhere he couldn’t easily recover it.”

  Picard mulled it over. “No,” he agreed, “I suppose not.” He paused. “But there is still the matter of that assassin. And who can say he’s working alone? His employer could have hired others as well.”

  “I’ve thought of that myself, sir. But a group of offworlders would just draw too much attention. Remember, we’re still trying to keep the seal’s disappearance a secret. Besides, if someone’s really determined to get me, an entourage isn’t going to help.”

  The captain frowned. “All right. We’ll do it your way—for now. But I will take the precaution of preparing an away team, in the event you should need help.”

  “Fair enough,” said Riker.

  Picard considered the aquarium again. “What about Dr. Crusher? What provisions have you made for her safety?”

  “She’ll be well protected,” the first officer told him. “Lyneea has arranged for Madraga Criathis to provide some retainers. They’ll be guarding the doctor’s hotel suite from the inside as well as the outside.”

  “Good. At least one of my people will come out of this alive.”

  Riker didn’t respond to the gibe.

  “Incidentally, Number One, does your partner down there know of this conversation? Or will you be continuing to communicate in clandestine fashion?”

  “No,” said Riker. “She knows all right. In fact, sir, she’s standing right here. I’ve already explained about that loophole in the high-tech ban, and she agrees—for the time being, anyway—that it’s a gray area. So I don’t expect any restrictions on our communications.”

  An exchange followed—one that Picard couldn’t hear very well. “I beg your pardon, Commander?”

  “Uh—nothing, sir. Lyneea was just reminding me that we have to go. The merger ceremony is scheduled to take place in fourteen hours.”

  “I understand, Number One. But remember—stay in touch.”

  “Will do, Captain.”

  Picard thought for a moment, then exited his ready room. As the more brightly lit, more spacious environs of the bridge opened up before him, he turned toward Worf at Tactical.

  The Klingon had already looked up from his instruments, as if he’d sensed that an order was coming.

  “Lieutenant Worf, be ready to beam down to Besidia on short notice.”

  “Trouble, sir?” asked Worf.


  Picard shook his head. “Not yet, no. But I anticipate it.” He glanced at the Ops station, where Data usually sat. It was occupied by Lieutenant Solis. “Isn’t this Commander Data’s shift?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” responded the Klingon. “Commander Data’s shift ended twenty minutes ago. He is presently”—Worf punched up the information—”in Holodeck One.”

  The captain noted that. “Mr. Worf, I would like Commander Data to be ready to help out as well. Please convey this to him. In person.”

  The security chief must have wondered at the order, but he didn’t hesitate to obey it. Before Picard could make himself comfortable in the command center, Worf had disappeared into the turbolift.

  After the rain delay the Icebreakers put a new pitcher on the mound. As Data understood it, the first pitcher’s arm had tightened up, and it was feared he would no longer be effective. Or that he would strain his arm if he continued to pitch. Or both. The answer depended on which infielder he consulted in his search for insight.

  As luck would have it, the new pitcher threw to only two batters. The first one walked. The second one tripled into the gap in left center field.

  The Icebreakers’ third pitcher was a little more stingy. But with two outs, he allowed a single over second base. The Sunset runner came in from third with the go-ahead run, making the score three to one in favor of the Phoenix team.

  Terwilliger sat and fumed in one corner of the dugout. No one went near him—neither players nor coaches. No one dared. For as Jackson explained to Data while the fourth Icebreaker pitcher was warming up, Terwilliger felt responsible for the unfortunate turn of events.

  “Why should that be?” asked the android. “He was not on the field. We were. If anyone is to blame, we are.”

  Jackson shook his head. “He’s the manager.” He frowned at the sky and its tattered clouds, perhaps wondering why the rain had to come when it did. “If he had put in somebody else, the game might still be tied. Who’s he going to blame—the public address announcer?”

  The last out for the Sunsets came on a curveball, Data noted. A curveball that was popped up to Galanti at first.

  The android sympathized with the batter.

  The pitching coach, a large, red-faced man, stood and clapped his hands as the players came in from the field. “All right,” he roared. “Let’s get ‘em back. Let’s get something started here.”

  Data was only too glad to comply. As the leadoff hitter, he lingered in the dugout only long enough to deposit his glove and secure a bat. Then he bounced back out and headed for home plate.

  The Sunset pitcher was in back of the mound, already twirling the ball in his bare hand while he waited for his teammates to find their positions. By the time the android took his place in the batter’s box, the infielders were already set. A few seconds later the outfielders reached their destinations as well, and the pitcher ascended to the rubber.

  “Play ball,” called the umpire.

  The pitcher went into his motion. Data crouched slightly and drew the bat back. The first time the ball became visible, whipping around from behind the pitcher’s back, the android riveted his attention to it. It flew straight and true.

  Not a curveball, he observed—and was pleased by the fact. Keeping his eye on it, he prepared to drive it over the fence. After all, he had no trouble hitting fastballs.

  The ball came whizzing toward him. Data began to step forward, to put his weight into his swing.

  There was only one possibility he wasn’t prepared for. And of course, that was the one that presented itself.

  Instead of hurtling over home plate, or at least in that general direction, the ball came right at Data. Before he could avoid it, it had plunked him on the shoulder.

  Out on the mound, the pitcher kicked at the dirt. “Take yer base,” barked the home plate umpire.

  For a moment, Data just stood there. He felt as if he’d been cheated somehow, as if that fastball should have been sailing out of the stadium now, instead of lying motionless at his feet.

  But rules were rules. A batter hit by a pitch had no option but to go to first base. Reconciling himself to that reality, the android dropped his bat and started down the base path.

  “Wait a minute,” stormed Terwilliger, charging out of the dugout. The team trainer, an older man with a thick crop of white hair, was right behind him.

  Data was a little surprised by the manager’s concern. Until now, Terwilliger had not shown any great affinity for him.

  Perhaps, he mused, his gruff manner was a charade. A mask he used to conceal his true affection for his players.

  Then he realized that the manager wasn’t heading for him. He was heading for the umpire.

  “Time out,” called the man in blue, turning to confront Terwilliger.

  “What kind of bullhinkey is this?” growled the manager, coming up just short of a collision. “You’re gonna let them throw at my cleanup batter?”

  “Give me a break,” said the umpire. “He was leading off, and Cordoban’s up next. They’d be crazy to throw at him. The ball just got away.”

  Data could hear their words clearly and distinctly, despite the growing clamor in the stands. It was one of the benefits of being an android.

  “They threw at him, I tell ya!” Terwilliger turned his cap around and put his nose in the other man’s face. “I want that pitcher tossed out on his behind!”

  The umpire was obviously trying to remain composed. But he also wasn’t giving an inch. “I’m not throwing him out,” he said, “so forget it.”

  By this time, the other Icebreakers had been drawn to the top step of the dugout, and it did not take the talents of a Deanna Troi to divine their hostility.

  “Then I’m protesting the game,” yelled Terwilliger, his eyes bulging. “This is a mother-lovin’ outrage!” And he turned to the crowd along the first base line, raising his arms as if in appeal. The spectators responded with an ear-shattering roar. Next he turned to the other side of the field. Another roar, louder than the first.

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” said the umpire.

  “Oh, yeah?” said Terwilliger, rounding on him. “And what’s that?”

  “You’re trying to get me to throw you out. So your team’ll get riled up and do some damage.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” snarled Terwilliger, kicking dirt on the other man’s shoes with all the energy he could muster.

  “Nothing—except I’m not going along with it.”

  “Why not?” asked the manager, flinging his hat into the pile of dirt. “Don’tcha have any self-respect?”

  “Because it isn’t fair,” maintained the umpire. “Besides, if toss you out, then McNab’s going to want to get ejected, too.” McNab, Data knew, was the manager of the Sunsets.

  Terwilliger chomped and swore. “You mean I’ve got to bring family into this? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  The umpire’s features hardened.

  “I hate to do it,” snapped the manager. “I really, really do.”

  “Then get back to your dugout,” instructed the man in blue.

  “Not on your life,” said Terwilliger, planting his index finger in the umpire’s chest. And he proceeded to reel off a string of derogatory remarks the likes of which Data had never heard. The android believed that even a Klingon would have been shocked.

  By the time Terwilliger had finished, he was the color of molten lava. And the umpire was heaving him from the game—only figuratively, of course, though he looked as though he’d have liked to do it literally.

  “Come on,” said the Icebreakers’ trainer, taking Data by the arm. “By the way, you’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

  The android shook his head. “No. Thank you.” And still mulling over what had transpired, he allowed the older man to escort him to first base.

  “What an actor,” chuckled the trainer.

  “An actor,” repeated Data. “You mean Terwilliger?”

  “Sure do
. He was just itching for an excuse to come out here. If you hadn’t given it to him, he’d have had to make one up.” He chuckled again. “It’s moments like these that make me put off retirement.”

  Suddenly the crowd grew loud again. Data turned, expecting to see Terwilliger milking his ejection.

  But that wasn’t the case at all. In fact, Terwilliger seemed to be as riveted as everyone else as a powerful figure strode out onto the field.

  “Blazes,” said the trainer. “Who’s the guy in the Halloween costume?”

  “That is not a guy,” explained the android. “That is Lieutenant Worf.”

  Worf was halfway across the diamond when he noticed the uniformed men pouring out of the stands. Before he’d gotten much farther, he realized their purpose: to detain him.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” asked one.

  “Hey you,” called another. “We’re talking to you. Don’t make it hard on yourself.”

  Yes. Definitely to detain him.

  Instinctively, Worf rose to the challenge, whirling and bracing himself. As his nearest pursuer charged him, the Klingon stepped aside like a matador and used the man’s momentum to send him sprawling. The next two came at once; the first took a kick to the solar plexus, the second a fist to the jaw.

  However, the paired maneuvers left Worf vulnerable, precariously balanced. And as the rest of his uniformed adversaries swarmed over him, he went down rather unceremoniously. Nor was it easy to get up again; holodeck simulacrums were every bit as heavy as they looked.

  Kicking and smashing, tearing and slithering, he did his best to work free of the tangle. Anyone else would have acknowledged that he was fighting a losing battle—but Worf was not anyone.

  “Damn you, hold still,” yelled an adversary.

  “Hey, George . . . I don’t think that’s a mask.”

  “Of course it’s a mask. Nobody’s that ugly.”

  Worf struggled with renewed fury. Ugly, was it? He would show these slugs how ugly a Klingon could . . .

  “Pause,” said a voice—one that Worf recognized.

  Suddenly the comments stopped. And so did his adversaries’ attempts to subdue him. With as much dignity as possible, the Klingon climbed out from under the pile.