FORTUNE'S LIGHT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “The circumstances—meaning our apparent inability to agree on anything substantial?”

  She nodded. “More or less, yes.”

  He grunted. “So it’s not the most congenial of partnerships. We don’t have to get along—we just have to do our jobs.”

  Lyneea eyed him. “You make sense—for an offworlder.”

  Riker didn’t take offense. He’d been called a lot worse. “Thank you,” he told her.

  Troi sat in Beverly Crusher’s office going over her patient logs on the chief medical officer’s desk monitor. Not, of course, that she needed to remind herself of anything—she’d reviewed her notes as recently as a few hours before. However, since the alternative was to sit and watch the med techs continue their routine maintenance checks on the biobeds . . .

  “Deanna?”

  Troi looked up and saw her friend breeze into the room. Plunking herself down behind her desk, Crusher took a deep breath and smiled.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Troi smiled back. “That’s all right. I had a lovely time gazing at the naked mechanisms of your biobeds. Who would have thought that they’d be as fascinating inside as out?”

  Crusher’s hand shot to her chest, as if she’d been stabbed. “I stand accused,” she said.

  Troi looked forward to these periodic meetings with Crusher—these note-comparing sessions based on the long-ago-accepted belief that maladies of the body and those of the mind were inextricably entwined. Nor did she really mind that she’d been kept waiting.

  But the doctor would have been disappointed if she hadn’t given her at least one friendly jab. After all, what were friends for?

  “You weren’t delayed by anything serious, I trust?”

  Crusher sighed. “That all depends. Is an obsessed teenager something serious?”

  The Betazoid pretended to ponder the question. “Could be,” she decided. Then: “What is Wesley obsessed with now?”

  “Well,” said her colleague, “it all started when he was sitting on the bridge, watching Captain Picard subtly maneuver Will Riker into telling him about his Priority One mission.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the counselor. “The one Will didn’t even confide in me about.”

  Crusher chuckled. “As if he’s going to make a Priority One mission common knowledge! Of course, it’s that very secrecy that piqued Wesley’s interest.”

  “Ah,” said Troi. “So that is his obsession.”

  Crusher nodded. “He was so wrapped up in the human interactions on the bridge, he overlooked the substance of Will’s summons—but not for long. And when my son sinks his teeth into a mystery . . .”

  “I understand,” said the counselor. “So it was difficult to tear yourself away.”

  “Quite. Before I left the ship for Starfleet Medical, I might’ve had an easier time of it. But he’s so independent now that when he does want to share something with me, I find it hard to say no.”

  “Don’t say another word,” Troi told her. “At least not by way of apology.” Her smile broadened. “If the ship’s counselor can’t be forgiving, who can?”

  “Right,” said Crusher, assuming a somewhat more professional demeanor. “Then let’s get down to business.” She activated another monitor, which resided on the bulkhead nearest her. “Why don’t we start with Mukhurjee in engineering? She gave birth to twins recently. I think there’s a little postpartum depression setting in.”

  “Yes,” said Troi. “I think you’re right.”

  “What do you think?” asked Lyneea.

  The dark tavern was packed full of simply dressed laborers, men and women puffing on nohnik pipes or tossing back mugs of korsch. Imprima’s working class, whether native or offworld-born, favored nothing but the gloomiest of colors in their garb, so only their faces threw back the lurid light of the hanging i’ekra lamps. Loud, wild music reverberated from wall to wall, punctuated by the cries of some rowdy patrons seated deeper inside the low-ceilinged chamber.

  But the sense that took the greatest beating was that of smell. The odors of nohnik and perspiration made a potent combination, to say the least.

  Back in the days when they were negotiating the trade agreement, Teller would have looked down his nose at a place like this. His taste was for amber-toned parlors where everyone dressed in the gaudy hue of his or her madraga and where power wafted on the air even thicker than the perfume.

  Riker had always been a little uncomfortable in those establishments. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the soft music and the rich light and the velvety skin of the madraga-dzins’ daughters—because he had.

  But the power part hadn’t intrigued him as it had his friend. Which was probably why Teller had been so much better at negotiation with the leaders of Imprima—he was more in tune with their way of looking at the world. . . .

  The reception hall was Impriman through and through, right down to the thread of gold in the furnishings. The tall open windows on the east wall let in the cold, crisp air and provided a glimpse of the stars.

  But even an offworlder could find warmth here. In the subtle potency of the drinks. In the gentle intimacy of the music. And in the company.

  Teller stared at a trio of young ladies as they made their way across the room. They wore yellow, signifying their kinship with Madraga Alionis; the color seemed all the more vibrant against the paleness of their perfect skin.

  “I’m in heaven,” he said.

  “No way,” said Riker. “Not unless they’ve lowered the entry standards considerably.”

  “Well, then, a reasonable facsimile thereof I mean, if these aren’t angels, I’ll eat my communicator.”

  “Which is back on the ship, thanks to the high-tech ban. Try again.”

  Teller shrugged. “You get the idea.”

  Riker nodded. “Don’t forget, though—these are the daughters of the people we’re trying to impress. Let’s not offend anyone, shall we?”

  His friend looked hurt—but he wasn’t very good at it. The twinkle in his blue eyes gave him away.

  “Will, old sod, if I’m not the picture of propriety, who is?”

  Riker never got a chance to answer that, because Norayan answered it for him. It was as if she’d appeared from out of nowhere, tempting in the dusky blue of Criathis.

  “I’d sooner trust an isak with a newborn muzza,” she said, “than turn you loose in a place like this.” She took Teller’s arm. “How did you get them to let you in? Either of you? Obviously they haven’t heard about your exploits as I have.”

  Teller blushed. “Come on,” he said. “That was just a line of malarkey. We were trying to impress you back then.”

  “And now?” asked Norayan.

  “Now you’re on to us. You know how harmless we are.”

  Riker grinned sheepishly in support of his friend’s claim.

  Norayan shook her head, smiling too. “Whatever will I do with you?”

  Teller tilted his head in the direction of the bar. “You could introduce us to those young ladies.”

  “Which?” asked Norayan. “The ones in yellow?”

  Teller looked at her ruefully.

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s right—sorry. I forgot you were . . . what did you call it? Color-blind?”

  Riker nodded. “A small flaw in an otherwise perfect human being.”

  Teller laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You said it, not me. Now, are we going to get acquainted with those lovelies or what?”

  “You go ahead,” said Riker. “I want to talk with Norayan.”

  Teller eyed them with mock suspicion. “Something going on that I don’t know about?”

  “Impossible. You know everything.”

  His friend sighed. “Well,” said Teller, “if I can’t get any moral support, I’ll have to handle this mission on my own.”

  And smoothing his uniform, he headed toward the ladies in yellow.

  “He’s one of a kind,” Norayan said affectionately.

  Riker grunted
.

  She turned to him. “Now, do you really want to talk? Or do you plan to whisk me away to someplace romantic?”

  “Perhaps later. Right now I want to know if you’ve heard anything.”

  “From my father? About the trade agreement?” She shook her head. “You would probably hear before I would. I’m just a madraga-dzin’s daughter—for now. Nobody tells me anything.” She paused. “Why? Have matters taken a turn for the worse?”

  He used his eyes to point across the room at a large Impriman dressed in the black of Madraga Rhurig. The man was loud and arrogant, but he was holding a group of green-robed Ekarians in thrall.

  Norayan followed his gaze. “Kelnae?”

  Riker nodded. “Looks as if Rhurig’s first official is gaining a following in Ekariah. Rumor has it he won them over today. Convinced them that the Federation isn’t interested in the industries they control.”

  “But the Federation is interested,” said Norayan. “Ekariah owns a bunch of dolacite mines.”

  “I know that. You know that. But Kelnae has told them that the Federation has other sources of dolacite—cheaper sources—and that the Ekarians can’t compete. Judging by that crowd, I’d say they bought it.”

  “Spiteful old man. Just because his madraga doesn’t have anything to interest offworld traders—”

  “Doesn’t mean he should deprive other madraggi of the opportunity. I agree. But that, apparently, is just what he has in mind. And Kelnae can be persuasive, especially when he goes into his ‘Imprima for Imprimans’ speech.” He bit his lip. “In the end, it may not be a choice between us and the Ferengi. There may be no offworld trading at all.”

  Norayan shook her head. “I wouldn’t worry about Kelnae if I were you. Madraggi like Rhurig are in the minority. Almost everybody makes a profit from offworld trading, and profit is their main concern. They may remain with the Ferengi, but there will be a trade agreement with someone.”

  Riker looked at her.

  “Sorry to have to put it that way,” she said. “Did you have any luck with Larrak?”

  “I don’t know. Terrin could do better with the Federation, but it could also do worse. And he’s got a pretty sweet deal right now. Why should he take a chance?”

  Norayan smiled. “You don’t understand us, Will. Not as your friend Teller does. We’re a greedy bunch. If there’s a possibility of amassing greater wealth, we’ll always take a chance.”

  She entwined her arm in his. “Come on. Wipe that flown off your face and get me a drink. Then we can watch Teller make a fool of himself with those girls from Alionis.”

  Riker chuckled as he let her guide him to the bar.

  “Riker? I asked you a question.”

  Will looked at Lyneea. “I think Teller would have avoided this place like the worst variety of plague.”

  She accepted the assessment with equanimity. “Nonetheless, this is a known meeting place for smugglers. In fact, my information—which you dispute—is that Conlon himself used to come here when he had something to sell.” She tilted her head to indicate the crowd. “You’d be surprised at how many of these seemingly innocent workers are actually agents of offplanet interests—one of the hazards of opening your world to galactic trade, I suppose.”

  Riker ignored the bait. It was becoming plainer and plainer that Lyneea wasn’t Imprima’s biggest xenophile.

  “So no matter what Teller’s involvement is, someone here may know where to find him. And if we come up empty regarding him, we may still dig up some information about Fortune’s Light.”

  “That’s the hope, yes. And remember,” she added, as they made their way to the bar, “let me do the talking.”

  “The floor,” he assured her, “is all yours.”

  Satisfied, she slung herself into a short-backed stool. Riker took the one beside it, eliciting a shrill creak as he sat down. Imprimans tended to be long and wiry, and the stool obviously wasn’t built to accommodate someone of his bulk, even though there were plenty of non-Imprimans in the crowd.

  He’d half expected to see Ferengi here as well. But of course there weren’t any. The madraggi had long ago decided that if they had an agreement with the Federation, they didn’t want Ferengi around to undermine it. The same had been true for Federation personnel during the years the Ferengi held exclusive trade rights.

  What’s more, this rule was backed up by some pretty severe penalties, not only for offworlders in violation but for any madraga found to be involved as well. Occasionally there were exceptions, but the last one had been made five years ago, and he and Teller had been the beneficiaries of it.

  The bartender came over when he saw them sitting there. His eyes sought out Riker’s beneath the hood. “What can I get you?” he asked.

  Riker looked at Lyneea.

  “Korsch,” she said crisply. “Two.”

  The bartender moved down the bar, found a ruby-colored bottle and poured. The liquid caught a light from somewhere and reveled in it.

  Clunk. And again, clunk, as the second of two ceramic mugs met the bar in front of them. The bartender raised his eyebrows, a reminder that the drinks weren’t free.

  Riker reached into his tunic and took out a couple of the plastic chits that served as money on Imprima. They were yellow, and stamped with the crest of Madraga Alionis, half a world away; there was no point in giving away their association with Criathis by paying with Criathan money.

  Without a word the Impriman swept up the chits and placed them in an open stoneware trough suspended from the wall in back of him. In the places Riker had visited during his first sojourn on this planet, the troughs had been elaborately decorated, sometimes rendered in the shape of a fanciful bird or beast. Here it was simply a trough, and not a very clean one at that.

  Lyneea picked up her korsch and tossed her head back, downing half the mug’s contents at a swallow. The human flinched inwardly at the quantity of warm red liquid in his own mug, sniffed at the pungent scent of it.

  He had never been very fond of the stuff, even in delicate little snifters. To him it tasted like vinegar straight up.

  Oh, well, he told himself. When in Rome . . .

  The korsch was just as strong as he remembered. Taken half a mug at a shot, it was comparable to a small landslide.

  Eyes smarting, throat closing so that he could barely breathe, Riker replaced the mug on the bar. His head swam dangerously, but he weathered the storm until his senses reestablished themselves.

  Whew. Synthehol, it was not.

  His ears having relented in their ringing, the human was able to detect the beginnings of a conversation that Lyneea had apparently managed to strike up with the bartender.

  “Too bad,” she said.

  “What is?” asked the one behind the bar. “We were looking for a friend, but I don’t see him.” “You were supposed to meet him here?”

  Lyneea shook her head. “Not exactly. He didn’t know we were coming. But I’m sure he’d have been glad to see US.”

  The cries in the back of the room rose in a sudden crescendo and died just as quickly. The bartender glanced in that direction, and a slow smile took charge of his mouth.

  “Why’s that?” he asked absently.

  Lyneea shrugged—a small, economical gesture. “Business,” she said.

  That seemed to get the bartender’s attention again. His eyes—as green as Lyneea’s—were now riveted to her, though his sideways-leaning stance remained casual.

  “This friend,” he said. “How well do you know him?”

  Another shrug—a little broader. “Not well at all, actually.”

  The bartender regarded her. “Know his name?” “Teller Conlon.”

  “That’s what I thought. He’ll be here later.”

  Lyneea nodded. “Any idea how much later?”

  The bartender seemed to pull back a little at that. Had she pushed too hard? Riker wondered.

  “No idea,” said the man. With a nod of his head, he indicated the small crowd at
the back of the tavern. “Why don’t you partake of the entertainment? It’ll help pass the time.”

  And with that slow, small smile reemerging, the bartender glided over to take care of another pair of customers.

  Riker peered at Lyneea from under his cowl. “Good? Bad?”

  “Somewhere in between,” she told him. “We’re to face a test.”

  “Oh? What kind of test?”

  “You’ll see in a moment.” Lifting her mug, she quaffed the remainder of her drink, then looked expectantly at Riker. “Well?” she said, a little louder now. “Don’t you like korsch anymore?”

  On the one hand, the comment was directed toward anyone who might have been listening—a likely reaction on Lyneea’s part to his lack of eagerness in consuming his drink. Human or not, a working-class Joe in Besidia would have been expected to have developed a taste for korsch—and in fairly large quantities. It came with the territory.

  On the other hand, Lyneea’s comment was a gibe at his offworldliness and, by extension, at the absurdity of asking an outsider to do an Impriman’s job.

  No question—he was out of his element here. But then, their search for his friend had only just begun.

  Again resisting a return comment, Riker picked up his mug and drained it. This time, expecting the maelstrom, he was able to tolerate it a little better.

  In fact, he slid out of his seat before his partner did, albeit on legs that were not quite steady. “After you,” he said, gesturing to the group in the back.

  She glanced at him—perhaps with a touch more respect, it was hard to tell—and led the way. Riker followed.

  About halfway to their destination, she slowed down, allowing him to catch up. He gathered that this was a better time for an explanation, away from the bartender as well as the barflies. Away, also, from the greatest concentration of tables.

  “So?” he said.

  Lyneea spoke in a low voice so that only he could hear—and even then, only barely. “The bartender has never seen us in here before, and he knows we’re asking questions that could get someone in trouble. So he has opted not to take sole responsibility for giving us the answers; he wants to run us past his board of review.” And by looking straight ahead, she showed Riker what constituted the board of review: the knot of patrons in the back of the room.