FORTUNE'S LIGHT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “Awright!” came a cry from the dugout. “You got ‘im where you want ‘im!”

  “Your pitch!” came another cry. “Wait for your pitch!”

  On the next offering, Galanti swung. It was a prodigious stroke that turned him almost completely around.

  It did not propel the ball very far or very fast, however. The pitcher fielded it on one hop. He threw to second and the shortstop relayed to first.

  Double play.

  The crowd made clear its dissatisfaction. It was a loud and infelicitous sound.

  Data understood that the play had expended two of the three outs they were allowed in this inning. However, it hadn’t been completely counterproductive. Wasn’t Denyabe standing on third base?

  Nor did it take a computer to calculate what the score would be if Data stepped up to the plate now and hit a home run—something of which he felt fully capable. Certainly he had had no trouble hitting them in batting practice.

  Nonetheless, the android had hardly left the on-deck circle when his teammates began shouting advice to him from the dugout.

  “Okay, Bobo, a little single!”

  “Just a single, baby! Bring that run in!”

  Data was a bit surprised. But of course there were undoubtedly nuances of the game that he did not yet comprehend. If a single was preferable to a home run in this instance, he would do his best to hit a single.

  Taking his cue from Denyabe, the android resolved to hit the first pitch that came his way. The ball was hardly out of the pitcher’s hand before he had gauged its velocity—ninety-seven miles an hour—as well as its mass, its trajectory, and the point at which it would cross home plate.

  Reaching out, he stroked the ball into center field and started off for first base. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Denyabe jogging home with the first score of the contest.

  The crowd exploded with approval. However, as Data rounded first base, he saw that the opposing team’s center fielder had misplayed the ball. It had glanced off his glove and dribbled a few feet away from him.

  The android knew he had to keep going. One could not remain on any given base when there was an opportunity to advance to the next one.

  Yet his teammates had specifically called for a single. If he went on, it would become a double—and he had no idea what effect that might have on the fate of the Icebreakers.

  It was an agonizing moment. Surely it seemed that going to second base would be a good thing. But then, it had seemed that a home run would be preferable to a single, and yet his teammates had indicated otherwise.

  Torn, Data hesitated—and finally decided to follow his instincts. As the center fielder pursued the rolling ball, he took off for second base. Halfway there, he saw that the ball had been recovered.

  He took a few more steps, then dove. The throw was made; the ball came in low and true, beating Data’s hand to the base by the merest fraction of a second.

  Both Data and the shortstop looked up at the umpire. The man didn’t do anything right away. The respective arrivals of Data and the ball would have appeared simultaneous to the human eye.

  Despite that, the umpire came to a decision—and, as it happened, the correct one. Pumping his thumb in the air, he cried, “Yerrout!”

  The crowd uttered unkind comments at the upper limits of their vocal range. But the opposing team was quite happy as it left the field.

  Data was happy, too. He had done his best to reach the next base safely, as the rules seemed to dictate. And yet, he had complied with his teammates’ exhortations by limiting his hit to a single.

  In light of all this, he expected that there would be some back-patting in store for him in the Icebreaker dugout. However, as he approached it, Galanti came loping out with his glove.

  “Here,” he said, tossing it to the android. “You don’t want to go in there—believe me, you don’t.”

  Before he turned and headed for his position at third base, Data got a glimpse of what his teammate was talking about. Terwilliger, it appeared, was livid. But for the two coaches restraining him, he looked as if he might have leapt out of the dugout and come after Data with a bat.

  The android frowned. Obviously he still had a lot to learn.

  “Save program,” he said, and exited the holodeck.

  The air was cold; it rasped in Riker’s throat as he ran down the long, winding alley, just a couple of strides behind Lyneea. Nor could he have easily caught up if he’d wanted to—Lyneea was a lot more surefooted than he was in the soft snow that had accumulated here.

  As a youngster, he would undoubtedly have done better. But it had been a long time since he’d had a chance to skid and slosh through the kind of half-frozen soup one used to find in the streets of Valdez.

  His senses alert, Riker found himself noticing minutiae that were irrelevant to the task at hand. Like the way Lyneea trailed white wisps of breath that dissipated before he could reach them. Or the way her heels threw up little white rooster tails, her footprints mingling with those of the one they sought—though there was no confusing them. Hers were slender and shallow, his deep and extremely wide.

  Up ahead, Riker saw an opening off to one side. Another alleyway? He wondered if she’d spotted it, too—then was certain she had, for she slowed down, angled closer to the wall, and stopped running.

  Sure enough, the bigger set of footprints ran around that corner. Lyneea took out her projectile gun again, shot a glance at him.

  He had no trouble deciphering her message: Be careful. We’re getting closer.

  Riker was glad she’d suddenly become concerned about his welfare. Maybe she thought that a single close call a night was all one should have to put up with—even if one was an offworlder.

  Hugging the stones that made up the wall, Lyneea stuck her head around the corner. She took a moment to peer into the shadows.

  Then, apparently satisfied that the coast was clear, she swung herself into the alley.

  It was almost the last thing she ever did. Only sheer luck kept her from being cut to ribbons by the bright-blue blaster beams that fried the air all around her.

  Riker reached out and caught Lyneea’s tunic. As he reeled her in, a beam caught the corner they’d been waiting behind and shattered some of the stones, sending splinters flying in every direction.

  Lyneea pushed herself away from Will and cursed.

  “Problem?” he asked, unable to resist.

  “So it would seem.”

  Silence. The fugitive with the blaster was biding his time, knowing he had the superior firepower or they would have struck back without hesitation.

  “I guess not everybody takes the high-tech ban seriously,” he observed.

  She grunted.

  “So what now?”

  She thought for a moment. “He’s not going anywhere, not on a bellyful of korsch, anyway. If he could have gone on, he wouldn’t have bothered to stop in the first place.” She chewed her lip, then abruptly thrust her projectile weapon into Riker’s hand.

  “You know how to use this?” she asked.

  He turned it over. “Doesn’t look too complicated. Eight chambers, seven projectiles left.” He wasn’t exactly an expert in antique arms, but he’d seen a few in his day.

  “Good,” she said. “Then use it to keep our fugitive distracted.”

  “Does that mean you’re leaving me? Just when we were starting to work so well together?”

  Glowering at him, the Impriman seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. Without warning, she bolted across the mouth of the perpendicular alleyway, drawing a barrage of sizzling blaster fire from their prey, and kept on going. In a few seconds she reached the opening at the far end and disappeared.

  Riker appreciated the simplicity of Lyneea’s plan: circle around behind their blaster-happy friend and catch him unaware. But her strategy was dangerous as all hell.

  Which was why it was so important to do as Lyneea had instructed—keep their fugitive busy, so he wouldn�
�t realize that one of his pursuers might be plying the alleys to outmaneuver him. And waste her, perhaps, as she came creeping up on him.

  However, at this range, Lyneea’s pop pistol was fairly useless. One or two shots and their friend in the alley would know that and take off again, confident that they couldn’t stop him. And if Riker didn’t shoot at all, the fellow would come to the same conclusion—maybe even faster.

  He needed to get closer to his target, but not so close he would scare him off and ruin Lyneea’s approach.

  Quickly Riker peered around the half-destroyed corner—and almost paid the price for it. But just before the cornerstones erupted again in an explosion of blue light, he caught a glimpse of something helpful.

  A row of large metal containers, mantled in shadow, stood against one wall of the alley. Overflowing with discarded clothes and ruined furniture and all sorts of less easily identifiable things that might or might not have been Impriman foodstuffs at one time. In a warmer climate, he thought, the stench would have been unbearable.

  But that wasn’t significant right now. What was significant was that those containers looked solid enough to withstand a blaster barrage, at least for a while.

  Oh, what the hell, he thought. What’s a poker game without a bluff or two?

  As he darted out from cover, the one with the blaster seemed to go berserk. There were beams all around him, carving up the alley walls and the ground beneath his feet and eliciting a scream from the very atoms in the air as they were torn one from the other.

  Riker rolled—once, twice—scrambled to his feet and lunged for the nearest container. He miscalculated and came up against it harder than he’d intended, rattling his teeth with the impact. But after a quick inventory, he found that he was still in one piece, unscathed by the blue light beams. Better than that—with all the adrenaline pumping through him, his ankle had stopped smarting.

  The blasterman’s weapon fell silent again. Was he waiting for Riker to come out from behind the container? Probably. Was he wondering where his Impriman companion was? Maybe that, too.

  Riker couldn’t allow him time to wonder. Leaning out past the container, he peered into the shadows and got off a shot—not that he had any hope of actually hitting anything. To do that, one generally had to see one’s target.

  Nothing. No response.

  Could it be that the fugitive had already fled?

  Riker knew he couldn’t take that for granted, but he couldn’t just sit there, either—so he left the protection of the container, took a couple of steps, and launched himself in the direction of the next one.

  This time he didn’t hit the container so hard. He was getting better with practice. Brushing some of the larger clumps of slush from his tunic, he lay on his belly and listened.

  Still nothing. But for the sound of Riker’s own breathing, the alley was preternaturally quiet.

  Damn. Could I have spooked him so easily?

  But he wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions. Maybe something had gone wrong with the blaster. Maybe it needed a new battery—and was getting one right now.

  He took a deep draft of the frigid air, expelled it, and scuttled out from behind the second container. The hairs at the nape of his neck prickled with a sudden premonition of disaster; if the blasterman was still there, Riker was getting devilishly close—probably too close for the fugitive to miss.

  Spurred by the eerie feeling that he’d bluffed his way into a trap, he wasted no time flinging himself behind the third container.

  But the reaction was the same: nonexistent. The impression of imminent peril faded rather quickly.

  In fact, he was starting to feel silly. To feel certain that their prey had departed, leaving him here to play hide-and-seek with refuse containers.

  Then the real fireworks started.

  In the next fraction of a second Riker realized that it had been a trap—just not the kind he’d expected. The force generated by the blaster at this range was enough to topple the massive container and send it crashing down on him, garbage and all. He tried to get out of its way, but it fell too quickly and before he knew it, he was pinned under the container, fighting to keep it from crushing him altogether.

  That was the moment in which the fugitive chose to reveal himself. He walked out from the shadows, blaster at the ready, seeming to take his time.

  Riker tried to free himself, to roll the weight of the container off him, but it was hard work. Slow work. He couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs; his chest seemed to be caught in a vise. And the fellow with the blaster was getting closer all the time.

  He had no idea what had happened to his projectile gun, nor would it have helped him much now—he needed both hands to keep the container from caving his ribs in.

  The fugitive came out of the shadows far enough for Riker to get a good look at him. A Pandrilite. Big, heavyset—Lyneea had been right. He never could have outrun them.

  And where in blazes was Lyneea? He peered down the alley, saw no sign of her.

  The Pandrilite smiled and aimed his weapon at Riker’s face. He was standing no more than four meters away now. There was no way he could miss.

  “Stop struggling,” said the broad, bony face behind the blaster. “It won’t do you any good.” Suddenly the smile fell away. “Where’s your friend?”

  “Damned if I know,” said Riker.

  But just as he said it, there was a soft, scraping sound above them—and something fell on the Pandrilite, knocking the blaster out of his hand and bringing him to his knees. Something long-limbed and, at a second glance, very Lyneea-like.

  The two of them fell in a heap, the Impriman on top. Both went for the blaster; Lyneea got to it first.

  “All right,” she told him. “On your feet—and over to that container.” She indicated the one that was still doing its best to compress Riker’s anatomy.

  The Pandrilite did as he was told.

  “Now help him remove it.”

  The Pandrilite stooped and, bringing his considerable strength to bear, gave Riker the leverage he needed to roll the container off him. That was only fair, thought Will, since he had put it there in the first place.

  With an effort, Riker got to his feet and belted the Pandrilite, sending him staggering into a wall.

  “That,” he said, “was for dropping me into the isak pit.”

  The Pandrilite wiped his mouth and glared at him, but refrained from retaliating. After all, Lyneea still had the blaster pointed at him.

  “Now,” she said, smiling approvingly at Riker’s outburst, “I want to know what made you nervous enough to drop my companion and flee the tavern.”

  The Pandrilite’s lip curled. He barked out one word: “Raat.”

  Riker looked at Lyneea. The word didn’t seem to mean anything to her, either.

  “What’s raat?” she asked.

  The Pandrilite’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t work for Drohner?” he asked.

  “Ah,” said Lyneea. “Drohner. Sure, I’ve heard of him.” She turned to Riker. “Big labor broker. Corrupt as they come.” Then she turned back to the Pandrilite. “What’s he got to do with you?”

  The Pandrilite shrugged. “I . . . crossed him. Organized a little labor crew of my own—an independent called Raat. It’s a Pandril word. Means ‘freedom.’ ” He spat. “Drohner didn’t like it. I heard he was trying to find out more about me, maybe teach me a lesson.” He stared at the Impriman. “You sure you don’t work for Drohner?”

  “Positive,” she said. “If I did, would I have come after you with a projectile gun?”

  Realization dawned. “You’re a retainer,” he said.

  Lyneea nodded. “And I couldn’t care less about Drohner’s difficulties in maintaining his monopoly. But I do need information, and I think you can give it to me.”

  The Pandrilite straightened. “What kind of information?”

  “We’re looking for someone named Teller Conlon,” Riker cut in. “Heard of him?”
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br />   The Pandrilite was expressionless. “Maybe. What do you want with him?”

  Riker shook his head. “I asked you first.”

  “The way I see it,” Lyneea told her captive, “you have a choice. You can be incarcerated for a little while, for possession of a high-tech weapon during carnival time. Or we can contact Drohner and see if we can do some business with him.”

  The Pandrilite measured her. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me,” she said.

  A pause. “All right. But I don’t know very much about Conlon. Only that he did a little smuggling on the side.”

  Riker felt the heat as it flooded his face. “You know that for a fact?” he asked.

  The Pandrilite shrugged a second time. “That’s what I heard. Nothing big—just a few artifacts here and there. Things the madraggi would have preferred to keep on Imprima.”

  “Have you seen him lately?” asked Lyneea.

  The Pandrilite shook his head. “No, I haven’t. The last time was probably a couple of weeks ago, now that I think about it. And that’s a little strange, because he’s around here all the time.”

  “Around where?” Lyneea pressed.

  “You know,” said the Pandrilite. “The tavern.”

  Riker didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. “

  You’re lying,” he told the Pandrilite. “You’re in league with whoever’s framing him.”

  “No. I’m telling the truth—I swear it.” He paused. “What do you mean, framing him? Is he wanted for something?”

  Riker frowned. He’d already gone too far. “Never mind.”

  “Conlon must have had agents,” said Lyneea, dragging the conversation back on course. “People he met at the tavern. Who were they?”

  The Pandrilite didn’t seem eager to provide the answer. But he must have been less eager to face Drohner. “As far as I can tell, he worked with only one outside player. An Impriman by the name of Bosch. Reggidor Bosch.”

  “You know,” said Lyneea, “if my companion is right and you’re lying to us—”

  “I know, I know.” The Pandrilite held up his hands. “I heard you the first time. But I’m giving it to you straight. Bosch. You can find him in the Gelden Muzza. That’s where he stays.”