FORTUNE'S LIGHT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  He found Data waiting for him with an outstretched hand. The android looked more than a little apologetic.

  “I hope you are not injured,” he said. “I would have stopped the program sooner, but you appeared to be enjoying yourself.”

  Worf ignored the hand and got to his feet. “Who are they?” he asked, looking back at the mound of simulated humanity. “I did not know you were partial to combat programs.”

  “I am not,” answered Data. “The main activity here is something called a baseball game, a spectator sport of the twenty-first century.” He indicated the uniformed ones. “These security guards are present to keep the crowd from endangering the players and, of course, one another.”

  Worf couldn’t believe his ears. “These,” he said, “are security guards?” He grunted—a sound that another Klingon would have recognized as an expression of disdain. “They dishonor the title. A dozen of them could not subdue a lone intruder.”

  “To be fair,” said the android, “they were unaccustomed to dealing with an intruder like you.”

  The Klingon allowed the truth of that, but it did not raise the guards in his esteem. He believed that security personnel should be prepared for anything. Then another question occurred to him.

  “Why did they attack me,” he asked, “and not you?”

  “I am disguised by a persona function,” explained Data. “When the simulacrums look at me, they see someone called Bobo Bogdonovich—the role Commander Riker intended to play when he created this program. You, on the other hand, are extraneous to this milieu. Since the security guards did not recognize you, they attempted to remove you from the field.” A pause. “Nor could your Klingon appearance have helped matters any. In the twenty-first century, mankind had not yet seen a Klingon.”

  Mankind’s loss, mused Worf. As for the persona function, he probably should have thought of that himself—though in his own holodeck programs, he wove in no such protection. After all, it was essential that his enemies recognize him if they were to engage one another in battle.

  But this was all beside the point. He had come here for a reason, and he apprised Data of the fact. Without any further pleasantries.

  “The captain sent me. He wants you to be ready in case it becomes necessary to join Commander Riker in Besidia.”

  That seemed to pique the android’s curiosity. “I thought Commander Riker was incapacitated.”

  “He is. Apparently, he has decided to forge ahead anyway.”

  Worf did not disguise his admiration, though he would have expected no less of Riker. The first officer was not easily daunted.

  Data nodded. “I see. You may consider me alerted.”

  The Klingon rumbled his acknowledgment of the fact and turned to leave.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Worf looked back, saw the inquisitive expression on the android’s face. He hoped that the question would not be a long one, though experience had taught him to expect otherwise.

  “Certainly you could have contacted me via the ship’s intercom,” said Data. “Is there some reason you chose to deliver your message in person?”

  “Yes,” said the Klingon. “I was ordered to do so.” Then, before he could be interrogated any further, he exited the holodeck.

  As soon as Worf was gone, Data commanded the computer to resume the program—but at the point just prior to the Klingon’s unannounced visit. At once the stadium came back to life.

  “It’s moments like these,” said the trainer, “that make me put off retirement.”

  “Indeed,” replied the android.

  On the playing field, things were beginning to settle down again. The Sunset pitcher was back on the mound, the defensive players had taken up their positions, and Cordoban was approaching the plate.

  The trainer was still descending the dugout steps when the pitch came. Cordoban hit it hard to the right of the shortstop, who dove to knock the ball down. Then, after picking it up with his bare hand, he threw it to second base—just in time to beat the sliding Bobo.

  However, Cordoban reached first base before the relay throw. So the Icebreakers still had a runner at first—just a different runner. And, of course, there was one out.

  As Data returned to the Icebreaker dugout, he was surprised to see Terwilliger’s face peering out of the stairwell that led to the clubhouse. Hadn’t the manager been ejected from the contest?

  He asked Denyabe about it. “Come on,” said the second baseman. “You’re kidding, right? Even in the minors, managers don’t leave when they’re ejected. At least they didn’t when I was in the minors.”

  It was another nuance of the game that Data had been unprepared for. He filed it away with all the others.

  The next batter up was Augustyn. To the delight of the fans as well as his teammates on the bench, he doubled down the right field line. That put runners on second and third with only one man out.

  Jackson batted after Augustyn. He worked the count to three balls and two strikes before lofting the next pitch deep to center field. Data judged by the accolades all around him that it was deep enough for Cordoban, the runner on third, to tag up and score.

  In the end it accomplished more than that. When Augustyn tried to tag up as well, the Sunset center fielder made a poor throw to third. The ball squibbed into the Sunset dugout, and Augustyn was waved home.

  Once again, the score was tied. It made for a jubilant moment in the Icebreaker dugout when Cordoban and Augustyn came trotting down the steps, with Jackson on their heels.

  No one even seemed to care when Cherry struck out to end the inning.

  * * *

  The turbodoors opened, admitting Worf back onto the bridge. Picard turned and their eyes met.

  “All is in readiness,” said the chief of security, in response to the unspoken question. “Commander Data has been briefed.”

  Picard nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He paused, and the Klingon remained where he was, perceiving that the captain required something else. How well you have come to know me, Worf. “I would like a word with you. In my ready room.”

  Rising out of his command chair, Picard headed for his private office. He strode past the Klingon; the doors slid aside and they entered.

  As he rounded his desk, the captain gestured to the seat on the other side of it. “Please,” he said. “Sit.”

  Worf sat. He regarded Picard with hooded eyes, but said nothing. It was the human’s prerogative to speak first in this situation, and they both knew it.

  The captain leaned back in his chair. “I must confess,” he said, “I am more than a little curious as to what Data is doing in that holodeck. Which is why I had you relay my orders in person . . .”

  Suddenly a soft beeping came from the vicinity of the door. Sighing, Picard responded: “Come.”

  When the doors parted, Geordi came striding in, as full of energy and enthusiasm as ever. “Just wanted you to know,” he said, “that those enhancements are already paying dividends. I just—”

  He was halfway inside the cabin before he noticed the captain wasn’t alone.

  “Oops,” blurted Geordi. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know you had company.”

  “That is all right, Commander. Actually I was going to call you as soon as Worf and I were finished. You might as well pull up a chair and join us.”

  Geordi glanced at the Klingon, shrugged. “If I’m not interrupting, sure.” And with that, he slipped agreeably into the chair next to Worf’s.

  “We were talking about Mr. Data,” remarked Picard. “And his fascination with that holodeck program.” He indicated his security chief. “I just sent Worf to visit him in the holodeck—to alert him to the possibility that he may be needed on an away team.”

  “In support of Commander Riker,” supplied Geordi.

  “Precisely. Of course, I could have sent the order via ship’s intercom . . .”

  The engineering officer nodded. “But you wondered what Data was up to.”

  The captain ma
de a steeple of his fingers, taking the time to choose his words carefully. “I am not a busybody,” he said finally. “Normally, what people do in their off-duty hours is their own business. However, the last time Mr. Data spent so much time in a holodeck, he was helping his android prodigy to select a species and a gender. I do not want something like that happening again without my knowing it.”

  Geordi waved away even the suggestion of it. “Not to worry,” he said. “First of all, this program wasn’t even Data’s idea.”

  Picard looked at him. “Then whose idea was it?”

  “Commander Riker’s. It’s a baseball game he plucked out of the history books. Data just adopted it—with permission, of course.”

  The captain smiled. “Baseball, eh?”

  Geordi tilted his head. “You’re familiar with the sport, sir?”

  “I have a nodding acquaintance with it,” Picard said. He thought for a moment. “But why has Data become so absorbed in it?”

  “You know,” replied Geordi, “I asked him the same question, more or less. He said he’d thought about it a lot, but didn’t have an answer.”

  Picard grunted. “Care to venture a guess—either of you?”

  Worf just scowled. Apparently, the experience had been a bit too alien for him.

  Geordi was somewhat more daring. “This is only a guess,” he warned, “but I think Data feels . . . well, a kinship with the characters in the program.”

  “Kinship?” echoed the captain. “How so?”

  Geordi’s brow wrinkled. Obviously he hadn’t thought this all the way through yet. But he went on anyway, groping for the logical conclusion. “Because they’re man-made,” he said at last. “Because they’re like him.”

  Picard shook his head. “Only on the surface, Commander. Mr. Data is an autonomous life-form. He is not dependent on some external mechanism for his existence.”

  “Isn’t he?” Geordi wondered out loud. “In fact, aren’t we all? Let’s say the ship suddenly vanished out from under us. How long would we last in the vacuum of space? Of all of us, Data would be the only survivor. And even he would succumb eventually—if not to cold and radiation, then to the inexorable tug of Imprima’s gravity.”

  The captain drew a breath, let it out. “I see what you mean, Commander. And your point is well taken.”

  Picard was touched by a feeling of déjà vu. Hadn’t he had this conversation with someone once before?

  Or was it a conversation he’d had with himself—sometime during the many hours he’d spent trying to define intelligent life, if not for the Federation, then at least for Jean-Luc Picard? Since the day he entered space, his most heartfelt beliefs on that subject had been turned on their ear more than once. And Data had done much of the turning.

  Worf was looking at Geordi with narrowed eyes. “Commander, are you suggesting that Data’s loyalty may be divided?” Naturally, that would be of concern to the head of security, whether he believed it or not.

  “Not at all,” said Geordi. “I’m just saying that Data feels a responsibility to these characters. He doesn’t want to let them down, any more than he would want to let us down.”

  “In what way might he do that?” asked the captain.

  “Data wants to help them win the game, sir. That’s something they didn’t do historically. But he seems to feel they have a victory coming to them.” He stopped, stroked his chin. “One of them in particular—the manager, a fellow named Terwilliger.”

  “The manager?”

  “An administrative position. He’s like . . . well, like a captain, if you want to stretch it a little.”

  Picard digested that. “So Data wants simply to do a good deed. To rectify, in some sense, the way history has maltreated this individual. And the rest of the team as well.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell,” Geordi agreed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know if he has a prayer. History can be a pretty tough opponent. But he’s got to try. If he just gives it his best shot, I think he’ll feel he’s done his bit for his teammates. He’ll feel he’s earned their respect.”

  The captain leaned forward again. “Well,” he said, “one certainly can’t fault him for that. Particularly when he’s got his superior’s reputation at heart, eh?”

  Geordi chuckled. Worf’s scowl deepened.

  “Tell me,” said the captain. “Would I like this . . . what did you say his name was? Terwilliger?”

  “That’s right, sir,” said the engineering chief. “Terwilliger. But as for liking him . . . I don’t think so. Not from what Data told me.”

  Picard had expected otherwise, but he refrained from saying so. “Very well then, gentlemen. Carry on.”

  As his officers departed, the captain stood. Perhaps it was time to pay a visit to Holodeck One himself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “HEY—YOU! How the hellja get in here?”

  Picard considered the smallish, wiry man in front of the primitive viewscreen. What was that technology called again? Television? Yes, television.

  “Actually,” said the captain, holding out his hands in a gesture of helplessness, “I dropped in to visit an associate. Perhaps you know him—Bobo Bogdonovich?”

  He was glad he had obtained some details from the computer before entering the holodeck. Fortunately, the program was an open one, neither Riker nor Data having been inclined to close it.

  “Bogdonovich?” echoed the wiry man, his anger and surprise giving way to curiosity. “He give you a pass or something?”

  “Why, yes,” said Picard. “As a matter of fact, he did.” He pointed to a rectangle of blue sky balanced at the top of a short flight of steps. “He’s not up there, is he?”

  The man screwed up his face. “Of course he’s up there. What didja think? They’re playin’ a damned game, right? And he’s one of the players, so where the devil else would he be?”

  The captain smiled. “Thank you,” he said, and started for the patch of blue.

  “Just hold on there a second, buddy.” The man interposed himself between Picard and the exit. “You can’t just go out there, no matter what kind of pass you have. That’s the dugout, fer cryin’ out loud.”

  The captain took stock of the situation and realized it might be a difficult one. “Suspend program,” he said. Abruptly the wiry man fell silent, though his mouth remained open, in mid-argument.

  As he straightened his linen sport jacket, Picard walked past the frozen figure and up the stairs. Shading his eyes against the brightness of that blue sky, he almost bumped into someone huddled on the topmost step—someone apparently trying to peek out of the aperture without being seen himself.

  The man was in a uniform; logic dictated that he was part of a team. But he was certainly no athlete—not with that belly hanging over his belt. A suggestion bobbed up from the depths of Picard’s memories. Wasn’t there something called a batboy in these baseball games? Maybe that was this one’s function.

  No. Batboys were youngsters, weren’t they? And this grizzled specimen was anything but young.

  Negotiating a path around the man, the captain came out on the dugout level. From here he could see the playing field—a stretch of green that, from his eye-level perspective, seemed to go on forever.

  “Greetings, sir.”

  Picard looked up and saw Data standing to one side of the dugout. He was dressed in the same uniform as the man on the stairs. One hand held a leather mitt; the other dangled by his side.

  The captain smiled by way of acknowledgment. “Hello, Data. I hope you don’t mind my coming by. I just wanted to, er—”

  “To see what I was up to,” suggested the android.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then Mr. Worf’s report was insufficient?”

  Picard chuckled. “How did you know I sent Worf?”

  “He told me so,” explained Data. “Though perhaps not in so many words.”

  The captain nodded. “You know, Data, you really are becoming quite perceptive.” />
  “Thank you,” said the android. “But truthfully, your intent was not difficult to deduce. After all, given my recent efforts with Lal in one of the holodecks—”

  “Yes,” Picard interjected, not wishing to rehash a topic Data might find painful. Or was it he who might find it painful? “I see that you have anticipated my concern.”

  The android nodded. “But perhaps not far enough in advance. When I began spending so much time here, I should have apprised you of what I was doing. I should have set your mind at ease.”

  The captain shrugged good-naturedly. “Water under the bridge, I say. And in point of fact, it was more than concern that drew me here. It was curiosity as well.”

  Data looked at him. “Curiosity, sir?”

  “Indeed. You see, I have heard bits and pieces about this program. From Mr. Worf, of course. And also from Commander La Forge. I thought I should see it for myself—that is, of course, if you don’t object.”

  The android shook his head. “Certainly not. After all, it is only on loan to me in the first place.” He paused. “Do you wish to participate in the game? I could alter the program to—”

  “No, Data. That will not be necessary.” He looked out at the sea of humanity in the stands, gestured across the field. “I think I’ll just take a seat and watch. Like everyone else.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “But first, perhaps you could point someone out to me.” He surveyed the faces in the dugout. “Someone named Terwilliger, I believe. The man in charge of your team.”

  “Of course,” said the android. “That would be the individual just behind you. The one hiding in the stairwell.”

  The captain turned to take a second look at the man. It was no more impressive than the first.

  “This,” he said, “is Terwilliger?”

  “Yes,” maintained Data. “The manager of the Fairbanks Icebreakers. And now, sir, if you don’t mind, I would like to see the program continued.”

  Picard forced himself to regain his composure. “Sorry,” he said earnestly. “I will find a seat immediately.”