FORTUNE'S LIGHT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “No,” said Riker. “Do you want to hear it?” He pressed the communicator that he still wore beneath his tunic. A moment later he heard Picard’s voice on the other end.

  “Yes, Number One?”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” demanded Kelnae. “That is forbidden technology!”

  Riker shook his head. “Not true. Nowhere in the high-tech ban is there a mention of Federation communicators.”

  “A technicality,” said Kelnae.

  “Perhaps,” said Daran. “But that’s something we can rule on later. For now, I would like to allow the offworlder to proceed.”

  “On whose responsibility?” asked the leader of the black robes.

  “Mine,” answered Daran.

  “Commander? Are you there?”

  “Aye, sir. I need you to play back the audio portion of Teller Conlon’s confession.”

  “That will take a moment. I trust your listeners will not mind waiting?”

  Riker looked at Kelnae and then at Daran. “Briefly, Captain.”

  “I see. In that case, we’ll do everything we can to . . . ah, here it is, Number One.”

  The next voice they heard was that of Riker’s friend. It was a voice tinged with regret.

  “My name is Teller Conlon. I am the Federation trade liaison to Imprima. And I have conspired with the officials of Madraga Rhurig to steal Fortune’s Light in an effort to prevent the merger between Madraga Criathis and Madraga Terrin . . .”

  Riker found it hard to listen—even though the words were his, put together on their way here, and reshaped by the Enterprise’s computer to simulate the voice and speech patterns of his friend. The forgery was too good; it actually hurt to hear Teller admit his guilt.

  More important, those around him were listening—including Daran and Norayan, Kelnae and Kobar. Only Larrak had reason to doubt. He knew it was highly unlikely that Teller would have logged such a confession and then buried the seal anyway.

  “. . . to be rewarded for my efforts with Rhurig wealth and passage offplanet . . .”

  Riker had taken chances with some of the details. But he’d had to. If he’d made the confession too sketchy, it wouldn’t have convinced anyone.

  Still . . . if he’d gotten even one of the details wrong, Kelnae would see through the ruse. And Riker’s bluff would be called.

  “This can’t be!” protested Kobar. “It’s a fabrication!”

  “No,” said Riker, but he spoke to Daran, not Kobar. “It’s no fabrication. And when the carnival is over and you can use advanced communications again, we’ll be glad to show you the confession in all its holographic glory.”

  Teller’s voice continued.

  “. . . that the seal be buried. But that was not enough. To make doubly sure it could not be used to facilitate the merger, it was to be buried on the grounds of Madraga Terrin—the last place Criathis would expect to find it, and the place where its discovery would do the most . . .”

  Kobar made a short chopping motion with his hand—a gesture of dismissal. His emerald green eyes narrowed. “Come, Father. There’s no need to stay and be insulted—especially by an offworlder and by a madraga that can’t keep track of its valuables.”

  He started away. But Kelnae stayed.

  “. . . all of it,” said Teller’s voice. “I am not proud of it. But in some small way perhaps I have atoned for my actions.”

  “Father? What’s wrong?”

  Kelnae’s eyes had lost their fire. He somehow seemed to have shrunk a couple of inches in height.

  “Father . . . ?”

  “The offworlder is right,” said Kelnae. He darted a hate-filled glance at Riker. “I don’t know how he got Conlon to confess. But he is right.”

  Kobar obviously hadn’t been in on the crime. He was crestfallen.

  “I can’t believe—”

  “Of course you can’t,” said Kelnae. “I never told you, Kobar. I knew you wouldn’t countenance an alliance with the trade liaison—a man you hated—no matter how necessary it might have been.”

  “Then you admit to stealing the seal?” asked Riker.

  Kelnae sneered. “Yes—freely.” He turned to those on the silk-draped platform, and Daran in particular. “And now what? Would you punish me—for the theft of something that has already been returned to you?” He chuckled. “Who among us would not have done the same thing, given half a chance?”

  A good question, Riker observed. And one that only one man present dared answer.

  “The issue,” said Norayan’s father, “is not what others would have done. The issue is what you did.” He regarded Kelnae from the considerable height of the platform. “And once that becomes common knowledge, you may find Rhurig’s fortunes taking a turn for the worse.”

  “And what about Conlon?” asked Kelnae. “What about the Federation? Will they be held accountable—or only Rhurig?”

  Daran wouldn’t look at Riker or at his fellow officers. “That remains to be seen,” he said.

  “Of course,” said the first official of Rhurig. “By now, Conlon is long gone, no doubt. Secreted away, where Impriman justice can’t touch him.”

  It was truer than the man might have imagined. But Riker didn’t remark on the irony. It wasn’t time yet to let that cat out of the bag.

  Kelnae spat and started back toward the audience. His son made no move to go with him.

  Kelnae stopped, waited. “Kobar?” he prompted.

  The younger man didn’t react.

  Kelnae stood there for a moment. Then he shrugged and started walking again.

  Kobar turned to Norayan. His face was hard with humiliation. “Had I known,” he told her, “I would have prevented it. I swear it.”

  She nodded.

  Riker noticed that Larrak was studying him. With apprehension? Or was that admiration? Either way, he took it as a compliment.

  And Larrak hadn’t even seen his next move.

  “First Official,” said Riker, addressing Daran, “I have a confession to make.”

  The Impriman’s brows knit. He didn’t look as if he would relish any additional surprises.

  “A confession?” he echoed.

  “Yes.” Riker indicated Kobar with a gesture. “This man was right. The recording we just heard was a fabrication.”

  Norayan stifled her reaction. Back in the stands, the area populated with black robes erupted in protest. But Kobar himself was silent, trying to preserve what was left of his dignity.

  “I don’t understand,” said Daran.

  “If you had checked the holograph as I suggested, you would have found that it was a fake.” He held out his hands. “I apologize for the deception. But it seemed the only way to draw out First Official Kelnae.”

  Daran considered him. He grunted. “I can’t say I approve of your methods,” he noted. “But I must admit they are effective.”

  Norayan spoke for the first time. “What about the Ferengi?” she asked. “What is his role in this?”

  Riker admired her timing. “Glad you asked. You see, Rhurig is not the only madraga that has committed crimes against Criathis and the laws of Imprima.”

  Daran leaned forward. “Now what?”

  To Riker’s surprise, Larrak remained quiet—relaxed, even—as if relieved that the confrontation had finally begun.

  “Teller Conlon is not in hiding,” said Riker. “He’s dead—murdered by the man who sits beside you.”

  Again the crowd reacted. The second and third officials of Madraga Terrin added their indignant voices to the tumult. As the protests died down, Larrak shook his head. “That is ludicrous.”

  “You know better,” answered the human. He turned back to Daran. “Larrak deceived you, First Official. You thought his goals were in line with yours, but that wasn’t the case at all. After this merger went through, he planned to oust the Federation, against your wishes, and use his newfound power to bring back the Ferengi.”

  “Absurd,” said Larrak.

  “Pr
eposterous,” commented his third official—who might or might not have been in on the deal.

  Riker pointed to Ralk, who lay inert on the floor at Worf’s feet. “This one was Larrak’s contact with the Ferengi.”

  He went on to speak of how Teller had stumbled on Ralk’s presence, and the price he had paid for it. He told of how he and Lyneea had tracked the seal down to its hiding place on Terrin’s estate, how they were captured, and how it was Larrak who returned the seal.

  “We escaped,” he finished, “obviously. But not before recording the Ferengi’s admission of what he and Larrak had done, and still planned to do.”

  Larrak chuckled. “You’re lying. You have no such recording, because there were no admissions to make. And as far as the Ferengi goes”—he dismissed the prone figure with a gesture—“I have never seen him before in my life.”

  “The recording exists,” insisted Riker. “If you like, I can play it for you.”

  “And it will be a fabrication,” said Larrak, “exactly like the one we heard a moment ago.”

  The human shook his head. “Not this time, First Official. How could we have copied Ralk’s voice when we don’t have it on file? No, this time it’s for real.”

  Maybe it was the logic of Riker’s argument that convinced Larrak of the truth. Maybe it was the fact that the human had bluffed already and wasn’t likely to try it again. Maybe it was his certainty that eventually there would be corroboration for Riker’s claims. Or maybe it was just something in his voice.

  In any case, the accusation had its effect. And not an entirely expected one.

  For no sooner had the amphitheater stopped ringing with Riker’s voice than Larrak had a blaster in his hand.

  Daran saw it and tried to disarm him, but he wasn’t quick enough. Larrak smashed him across the face with his weapon, sent him tumbling off the dangerously high platform.

  Norayan had started to scream when he grabbed her and pulled her to him, using her as a shield.

  Nor did anyone—neither the assembled retainers nor the Enterprise officers—have a chance to stop him. It all happened too fast. And who would have dreamed that a first official would bring a banned weapon to a merger ceremony?

  So that was why he had kept silent all this time. He had an ace in the hole. The thought came to Riker instantaneously.

  Then things got crazy.

  One of the retainers must have decided he could stand up to a blaster with a projectile gun. It was a bad idea. Larrak demonstrated immediately that his weapon was set on kill. And then, just for good measure, he fired indiscriminately into the small crowd at the base of the platform.

  The retainers scattered, including those of Madraga Terrin. Larrak’s second and third officials took the opportunity to leap from their perch; likewise, the Criathan who’d been sitting on Norayan’s right.

  With Norayan in danger, Riker couldn’t run for the seats, so he exercised his only other option. He dove for the base of the wide-lipped platform, where the silk drapes didn’t quite reach, and where Larrak would be hard-pressed to get off a good shot at him.

  He wasn’t the only one who’d had that idea. When he looked around a moment later, he saw Lyneea beside him. Past her, he saw Worf and Data, and past them, Kobar.

  His fellow officers had drawn their phasers. Lyneea had her projectile weapon in hand—for all the good it would do. And Riker had the blaster he’d “borrowed” back at Terrin’s estate.

  “Come out,” cried Larrak. “All of you—where I can see you. Or I’ll blast this woman right where she stands.”

  Riker looked at Lyneea. She motioned for him to comply, then signed that she’d circle around the back of the platform, using the drapes for cover.

  Where had he heard that plan before?

  “Now,” cried Larrak, his voice an octave higher than it should have been. “I mean what I say.”

  “All right,” answered Riker. “We’re coming.”

  He motioned to Worf and Data. They nodded.

  Kobar, however, had something else in mind. Like Lyneea, he started to make his way around the platform—but at the other end.

  Riker tried to get his attention, to keep him from interfering with Lyneea’s maneuver. But Kobar either didn’t see him or chose to ignore him.

  Reluctantly, Riker came out of hiding and with him, Data and Worf. They were careful not to step on the Ferengi, who was just starting to come to.

  Larrak watched with satisfaction. “Drop your weapons,” he told them. His blaster muzzle was pressed against Norayan’s temple.

  “Don’t do it,” she said. “Not for me, Will.”

  But he had no choice. He couldn’t let Norayan die.

  “You heard him,” Riker instructed his companions. “Drop them.”

  The phasers made a couple of dull thumps as they hit the floor. Riker’s blaster made a slightly heavier sound.

  Suddenly Larrak’s face twisted. “No,” he said. “There’s another one—the female. Where is she?” He looked around him, but Lyneea was nowhere to be seen.

  Riker thought about trying to pick up one of their weapons. Data’s phaser was lying only a few inches from his foot, having fallen closer to him than his borrowed blaster.

  But Larrak didn’t give him a chance. He darted a look at Riker. “I want her in front of me,” he bellowed. “Tell her that!”

  There was a moment when anything could have happened. Then Lyneea showed herself, and Riker saw that she hadn’t gotten very far. She was only at the end of the platform; she hadn’t slipped around to the back yet, where she might have obtained a clear shot.

  “Drop the weapon,” said Larrak, “pitiful as it is.”

  She did as she was instructed. Not happily, but she did it.

  “Move over with the others,” he said.

  Again, she complied.

  “Nice try,” breathed Riker.

  “Not nice enough,” she told him.

  Of course Lyneea didn’t know about Kobar. As far as she was concerned, he had fled in the wake of the retainers.

  Larrak must have made the same assumption, more or less, because he didn’t look nervous anymore.

  Come on, Riker rooted silently. Come on, Kobar.

  “And now,” said Terrin’s first official, “I will need transportation off Imprima.”

  “Where will you go?” asked Riker.

  Larrak shrugged. “The Ferengi will take care of me. I can still be of use to them, as an adviser. After all, I know of other madraggi that might consider dealing with them.”

  Norayan winced at the pressure of the blaster muzzle against her temple. It made Riker want to do something stupid.

  But he kept his temper. He had to keep Larrak occupied, he reminded himself. Had to give Kobar a decent chance to bring him down.

  “It’ll never happen,” he said. “After this, no madraga will touch a Ferengi deal.”

  Larrak looked at him. “Nonsense. You are too naive. Now . . . transportation, if you please. Use your communicator. See to it.”

  The human frowned, in the interests of not looking too eager. “Riker to Captain Picard.”

  The answer was instantaneous. “We’ve been listening in, Number One. It sounds as if you’ve got a problem.”

  “It’s Terrin’s first official, sir. He’s got a blaster and a hostage. And he means to kill her if he can’t get offplanet transportation.”

  There was silence for a moment, as the captain seemed to mull it over. “It doesn’t appear we have much of a choice, does it?”

  “No, sir. We’ll need to start the beam-up calibrations immediately. You know how long that can take, and I don’t think our friend is in the mood to wait.”

  Picard’s answer was crisp, without a trace of hesitation, even though he knew that there were no “beam-up calibrations” to be made. He’d worked with Riker long enough to know how his mind worked—and to understand that he needed time.

  “Will do, Number One. I’ll see to it personally.”

/>   Larrak heard all this, of course, and he didn’t object. No surprise there—he wasn’t a technician, he was a bureaucrat. What did he know about transporter technology?

  “It’ll take a few minutes,” Riker told him.

  “So I understand,” said Larrak. “Just be warned that my patience isn’t—”

  That was when Kobar made his move—vaulting up onto the platform, grabbing Larrak and pulling him away from Norayan. Suddenly the blaster in Larrak’s hand went off—though fortunately, not in the direction of Norayan’s head, thanks to Kobar’s grip on Larrak’s wrist. It continued to spew destructive force as Norayan dropped out of sight, its beam ripping up the wood of the platform and digging a furrow in the floor in front of it.

  Larrak and Kobar struggled for control of the weapon, the Terrin official proving that he was stronger than his appearance suggested. They lurched together, falling across the table, and suddenly the blaster was cutting a swath in Riker’s direction.

  By that time the first officer had already knelt and retrieved Data’s phaser. As the beam came his way, plowing a trench in the floor, he was able to fling himself out of its path. Somehow he avoided further injuring his shoulder.

  Rolling to his feet, he saw that Larrak and Kobar were still vying for control of the blaster. But Larrak was slipping something out of his robe.

  A knife.

  Riker cried out, but his warning came too late. The knife slipped into Kobar’s side and he let go of Larrak’s weapon. Slumping to the platform, he left Larrak standing all alone.

  The Impriman was too easy a target to miss. Riker fired the phaser and knocked the blaster out of Larrak’s hand. A split-second later Worf retrieved a phaser, fired it, and spun him around and off the platform.

  Data was the first one around the platform. He was already kneeling beside Larrak when the others arrived.

  “His fall was not fatal,” reported the android, obviously pleased. “Though he may have broken some bones.”

  Amazing, Riker mused. It didn’t matter to Data that Larrak was ready to destroy him a few seconds ago. The android couldn’t bear a grudge if he wanted to.

  Riker, on the other hand, was only human. When he looked at Larrak, all he could see was the man who’d killed his friend.