A flurry of retainers and attendants and kinsmen took the injured away. Daran was protesting; he was hardly hurt at all, he claimed. And Kobar, though exceedingly pale even for an Impriman, was conscious when they removed him—a good sign. At the end, Norayan was clasping his hand, smiling, expressing her confidence that he was too tough to die.
And if there was more affection there than gratitude, she would not have admitted it, even to herself. She was still second official of Criathis—and he was still the son of Kelnae.
Ralk, they found out later, had not been so lucky. After Riker had avoided Larrak’s errant blaster beam, it had zigzagged in the Ferengi’s direction. At least, that was the way it looked.
More than likely, the human told himself, Ralk had never known what hit him.
Chapter Sixteen
PICARD TOOK A SIP of his Earl Grey. “Then we’re off the hook, Number One?”
Riker’s voice came through loud and clear over the ship’s communications system. “Aye, sir. The madraggi have recognized the validity of my loophole, which means that our communicators as well as our phasers are sanctioned under the high-tech ban. And Data, too.”
“Data?” echoed the captain.
“Yes. Once the Imprimans realized he was an artificial being, he came into question as well. Anyway, that’s all been resolved. Next year they’ll be closing the loophole to keep out communicators and phasers. But Data will be welcome anytime.”
Picard considered that as he placed his cup and saucer on his ready room desk. “You know, Commander, you took quite a few liberties during your stay down there. Not only with the high-tech ban, but with First Official Daran’s trust.”
“There was no other way, sir. And now that he’s had some time to think about it, the first official is coming to see that. Give him another few days and we’ll be firmly back in his good graces.”
The captain grunted. Optimism was a good trait for a first officer, and Riker had it in abundance. “And he suffered no injuries as a result of his fall?”
“Just some bruises, sir.”
“Good to hear. What about Larrak?”
“You mean his medical condition? Or what’s in store for him?”
“Both,” said Picard.
“Well, he’s going to be convalescing for a couple of weeks, until that leg can start to mend. Then he’ll stand trial for Teller’s murder, for killing the retainers in the amphitheater, and for violating the trade agreement. All in all, I’d say he’s going to be put away for a long time.”
“Put away, Number One?”
“The Impriman penal system is not as forward-looking as ours, sir. They still believe in long-term incarceration.”
That sounded a little barbaric, Picard thought. But then, it was their planet. They could do as they saw fit.
“Interestingly enough, Madraga Terrin will probably emerge from the trial unscathed. From the looks of it, the alliance with the Ferengi was a one-man operation. The other officials had nothing to do with it.” A pause. “That is, from the looks of it.”
“You’re skeptical?”
“There’s no proof one way or the other, sir. And I’ve got nothing left to bluff with.”
That was for certain.
“Kelnae?”
“It’ll never be proved that he ordered my assassination, though it’s pretty plain that he was the one. He’ll have his share of problems, though. The other madraggi won’t take kindly to the fact that he arranged the theft of Fortune’s Light. There’ll be sanctions—the kind that will give Rhurig a great deal of trouble.”
“And Kobar?” asked Picard.
Riker chuckled. “A real surprise, Captain. He showed a lot of character in the amphitheater—a lot of pride. I think he’s a better person than anyone has given him credit for being. He’s still trying to cope with a reputation he no longer deserves.”
“You seem to be quite an admirer, considering he had a knife at your throat not so long ago.”
“But he didn’t use it, sir, and that makes all the difference in the world. Did I mention that he’s severed all ties with his madraga?”
“No.” Picard found himself impressed as well.
“Kobar could have stayed with his father and continued to live the easy life. Even with all the problems Rhurig is going to face, the madraga won’t go downhill all at once. But Kobar doesn’t want anything to do with Kelnae’s machinations anymore; the old man went too far this time.”
The captain reflected on just how deceiving appearances could be. “Good for him. But what will he do? Cut off from his madraga, he’ll be penniless, won’t he?”
“Penniless indeed. That’s why I made . . . a suggestion.”
The words hung tantalizingly in the air. “All right, Commander, I’ll bite. What suggestion?”
“You see, sir, when I went to visit him in the hospital—to let him know that there were no hard feelings and to compare knife wounds—it occurred to me that the trade liaison post is unoccupied.”
Picard started to lean forward. “You didn’t.”
“I did, sir. After all, he’s demonstrated that his ethics are beyond reproach—a quality the Federation may find crucial if it’s going to continue relations with this planet. You’ve got to admit our credibility is somewhat threadbare at the moment. And besides, it may be intriguing to see how an Impriman deals with Imprimans.”
Picard smiled. He was glad that Riker wasn’t there to see it. “Commander, that is not your decision to make.”
“Of course not, Captain. As I said, it was only a suggestion.”
“And what was his reaction to this suggestion?”
“He turned me down. He said he’d sooner sell his soul than work for offworlders—though he didn’t sound entirely convincing. With a little work, I think, we could persuade him to take the job.”
Picard mulled it over. “I’ll propose it to the appropriate authorities,” he said finally. “And then, who knows? Stranger things have happened.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“No need, Number One. Incidentally, the carnival is scheduled to end in a few hours—and the transportation ban along with it. I take it you’ll be returning at that time, along with your fellow officers?”
For a moment, silence. “The others will beam up, Captain. But if it’s all right with you, I’d like to take some of that shore leave I’ve been accumulating. The ship has to stay anyway, to tie up the loose ends, and—”
“And you’d like to tie up some of your own?”
“Exactly.”
Picard nodded, for the benefit of no one in particular. “Take all the time you need, Will.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
Their communication over, the captain picked up his cup and saucer and returned them to the food processing unit. He had a long report ahead of him, and his Earl Grey had no doubt by this time gotten cold.
“Will?”
Riker turned at the sound of Norayan’s voice. He was in the anteroom to the Criathan inner chamber, where the madraga’s officials held their councils. Norayan was standing in the outer doorway—as if hesitant to come in.
“I’m glad you came,” she told him.
He shrugged. “You called,” he said, as if that were explanation enough.
“Let’s go out on the balcony,” she suggested, finally entering the room. Here in the chamber suite, it was proper to wear the dark blue color of her madraga, just as he had come in his proper attire—the red and black of a command officer in Starfleet.
As she went by, Riker offered her his arm. She took it—gladly, it seemed to him.
They walked through a narrow archway into the inner chamber proper, which was even more ornate than the anteroom and considerably larger. It was dominated by a great pink marble fireplace built into the wall on their right.
Before the hearth stood the simple wooden Table of Officials, around which the madraga’s founders were said to have seated themselves. It was unattended now, its chairs n
eatly organized around it, as if it had not been used since the founders’ passing.
But he knew better. It had been used the day before and throughout much of the night—to debrief Lyneea, to discuss the manner in which Criathis had been victimized and by whom, to decide what measures needed to be taken to patch up the damage, and finally to chart a new course for the madraga, now that it would not be merging with Terrin.
Apparently Riker’s partner had been discreet in her report concerning Norayan’s relationship with Teller. Otherwise, Norayan would have been stripped of her status as an official, and Riker would not have been meeting with her here.
Just to one side of the table, Fortune’s Light resided in its modest display case. Without direct light to awaken its multifaceted glory, the seal looked almost ordinary.
Hardly worth one’s life.
Norayan didn’t stop to look at any of this—though when Riker had first known her, she used to beg him for descriptions of the inner chamber. Of course, in those days, he was an honored guest of the madraggi and she was only a madraga-dzin’s daughter.
The exit onto the balcony was an archway as well. Norayan paused a moment to open the doors. Then they emerged into the brittle radiance of late-afternoon Besidia.
For a change, it wasn’t snowing, though the city’s slender, lofty towers bore evidence of the morning’s flurries. Riker breathed deep of the cold air, enjoying it for the first time since he’d beamed down.
All that separated them from the streets below was an elaborate wrought-iron railing that had blackened with age. Norayan approached it and looked out over the carnival town.
“I’ve been a fool,” she said simply.
He could have let her off the hook with just that simple admission. But it would have been dishonest. They knew each other too well to ignore what had happened.
“To put it mildly,” he answered.
When she turned, she looked a little surprised. But only a little.
“You lied to me,” he continued. “Worse, you used me.”
She nodded. “I had to—or at least I thought so at the time. There didn’t seem to be any other way . . .”
“To expose Kobar,” be offered, “without making public your relationship with Teller.”
She smiled sadly. “I was so sure it was Kobar who had killed him. He hated offworlders, and Teller in particular. Certainly they’d had their share of run-ins, and not all on a political level, nor was it a secret that Kobar had feelings for me—I imagine Lyneea told you about that. Perhaps he sensed that I was involved with Teller . . . I don’t know.” She shook her head. “From the beginning, I suspected that Rhurig was connected to the theft of the seal. When I found Teller’s body in the maze, it all seemed to come together. Kelnae had hired Teller, I decided, to do Rhurig’s dirty work. Then, once Teller had obtained Fortune’s Light, Kobar saw an opportunity—a chance to have his political and personal ambitions furthered at the same time. All he had to do was stab poor Teller in the back.”
Silence for a moment. A wind came up, chilled them, and was gone.
“And the patch?”
“Just after I returned from the maze, shaken with grief, Kobar came calling on me. As before, he professed his love for me, asked me to retire from my position with Criathis and marry him. It was too much of a coincidence; I became certain that he’d murdered Teller. When he moved to touch me, to embrace me, I ripped the patch off his shoulder and threw him out.”
More silence. This time there wasn’t even a wind.
Norayan hung her head. “I’m so ashamed, Will. I thought I was doing the right thing—giving justice a helping hand. Now I see how I stood in its way—and almost got you killed in the process.”
A tear ran down her cheek. A tear from an official of Madraga Criathis!
Riker had stood about all he could stand. He took Norayan in his arms, sling and all.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It is. You said it yourself—you did what you thought was right. That’s all any of us can do.”
She looked up at him. “That’s the kind of thing Teller would have told me.”
He smiled. “Is it?” He tried to remember. “I guess maybe it is.”
“You know,” she said, “there is one thing I can’t understand. In that moment when Teller had finished burying the seal and was about to leave—the moment when he noticed the Ferengi in Larrak’s house—why didn’t he just go? Was it simple curiosity that made him inch closer to the window, and ultimately get caught? Or was it something else?”
Riker thought about it for the first time. “A sense of duty, you mean? To the Federation?”
“I didn’t know him when he served on those starships, Will. I don’t know what he was like in those days. But is it possible that, in the end, he put your Federation first? That he would have come out of hiding, no matter what the penalty, to expose Larrak’s scheme?”
Riker shook his head. “I don’t know, Norayan. But I’d sure as hell like to think so.”
With matters settled in Besidia and Commander Riker’s mission accomplished, Data returned to Holodeck One. It was time to finish the game.
He had left in the eighth inning, with Sunset runners on second and third and two outs. The android recorded the last out himself, cutting off a sharply hit grounder between third and shortstop. His throw to first beat the runner by two strides.
The Icebreakers’ half of the inning was nothing to boast of. Augustyn hit a line drive right at the Phoenix shortstop. Jackson walked, but Cherry struck out swinging and Maggin hit a little nubber to first.
In the top of the ninth, the Sunsets mounted another threat. Their first two batters reached base safely before the Fairbanks pitching coach, managing in Terwilliger’s place, called for another pitcher.
The new man shut the door on the Phoenix team. There were two pop-ups and a meek ground ball, and suddenly it was the Icebreakers’ last chance.
The Sunset pitcher had been effective until this point, but his manager wasn’t taking any chances. As his team took the field, he called for his ace reliever.
“Tom Castle,” said Jackson. “If you thought Redding’s curve was a killer, wait till you see his. Best hook in the league, if you ask me.”
It was not good news—especially to Data, who would come up fourth in this inning. He could picture himself hitting the long fly ball that would give Phoenix the victory.
More than anything he wanted to avoid that. But it was looming more and more likely, the pieces all falling into place. When it came to the curveball, he was still not the hitter he wanted to be, despite Geordi’s advice and all his research. And he was facing the Sunset pitcher who could best exploit his weakness.
So far the game’s events had followed history faithfully. Was it even possible for Data to prevail when he came up to bat?
Denyabe led off the Icebreakers’ half of the ninth. Castle’s first pitch was a curveball out of the strike zone. The second baseman swung anyway and missed.
“Stee-rike one,” called the umpire.
The second pitch to Denyabe was in the same place as the first. Again he went fishing for it. Again he failed to make contact.
It wasn’t until the third pitch that he finally got some wood on the ball. But even then, it was only a foul tip that whizzed by the catcher.
As Data watched from the dugout, it seemed to him that none of these pitches were in the strike zone. Though they initially appeared as if they would get a piece of the plate, they consistently wound up wide to the right.
The android turned to Jackson, who was sitting beside him. “Is this the way Castle usually pitches? He has yet to throw an Uncle Charlie over the plate.”
Jackson grunted. “It’s called painting the corners, Bobo.”
But Data was forced to differ; after all, Jackson didn’t have an android’s visual acuity. Castle wasn’t painting the corners—he was missing them.
And Denyabe couldn’t seem to discern that any better than Jackson
could. As Castle released the ball again, Denyabe swung—not as if to hit it somewhere, but merely to stay alive. He just got a piece of it.
The pitcher smiled as the catcher threw him a new ball. It appeared that he had Denyabe right where he wanted him.
Data didn’t want his friend to be handled so ignominiously. It was one thing to make an out and quite another to be embarrassed in the process.
Nor could he help remembering Denyabe’s words. Like everything else he’d ever heard, they were preserved perfectly in his memory: “Men can’t depend on heaven, Bobo. They’ve got to depend on each other.”
Suddenly the android knew what he had to do. He got up and walked over to the pitching coach—Terwilliger’s replacement. “Coach,” he said, “we must call time out.”
The man looked at him. “What the hell for?”
“Because I have advice to give Denyabe.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Care to tell me about it?”
“I would prefer to tell him myself.”
The coach thought about it, snorted. “Sure,” he said finally. “Why not? Can’t hurt, the way we’re going.” He climbed to the top step of the dugout and called time. Then, turning back to Data, he said, “He’s all yours.”
When Denyabe saw Bobo trotting out toward the plate, he smiled. “You know,” he said, “it’s a good thing Terwilliger’s given up already. Otherwise, he’d have killed you for a stunt like this.”
“Please listen,” said Data. “You need not swing at the next curveball.”
“I need not?” echoed Denyabe. “Why do you say that?”
“Because Castle has not yet thrown one for a strike.”
The second baseman allowed himself a glance at the pitcher. “You sure about that? They looked pretty good to me.”
“I am as sure as I can be,” said the android.
Denyabe pretended to inspect his bat. “Even if you’re right,” he said, “that’s only what he’s been doing. Who’s to say what he’s going to do?”
“He has been successful with the strategy thus far,” insisted the android. “Why diverge? At least, until you give him reason to do so?”
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