The smuggler’s agent shrugged. “A month ago. Maybe more.” He put his hand to his head, shivered a little. “Listen,” he said, “give me a moment, will you? I need to take my medication.”
“Medication?” echoed Riker.
The smuggler’s agent lifted his chin and pointed to his jawline, where he bore the scars of korrus fever. They were faint, but they were there.
The first time Riker visited Imprima, korrus had still been fatal. When he’d heard about the cure a couple of years ago, he rejoiced—with a toast in Ten Forward to the researchers who’d made it possible, some of whom were Federation personnel.
Of course there were still some lasting symptoms of the disease—like the involuntary muscle tremors Bosch was experiencing now—and, if left unmedicated, some rather grisly seizures.
“Sure,” said Lyneea. “Go ahead. Don’t mind us.”
Bosch crossed the room to a chest of drawers. But the closer he got, it seemed to Riker, the less he trembled.
Covering the room in three strides, Will arrived just in time to grab Bosch’s wrist as he started to open the top drawer.
The Impriman looked at him. “I thought you said you were friends.”
“We are,” said Riker. “But we’ve got to be careful. You know how it is.”
Lyneea was giving him a look of disapproval: We’re trying to gain his confidence, Riker, and you’re not exactly furthering the effort.
Maybe he had jumped to a conclusion. He released Bosch’s wrist.
As the Impriman opened the drawer, Riker saw the vial of tablets inside.
See? You’re getting paranoid.
He started to turn away, to return to where Lyneea was standing, so Bosch could have some privacy.
But out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of something that was definitely not medicine. He whirled and kicked—and sent a blaster flying out of Bosch’s hand.
Lyneea was quick to recover it. She held it up, looked reproachfully at her fellow Impriman.
“What did you expect?” he asked, massaging his hand. “You say you’re Conlon’s friends, but I never heard him talk about you, not once. And you come barging in here—how do I know what you’re really after?”
“Just what we said,” Lyneea told him. “We’re looking for Conlon.”
“To help him,” added Riker.
The smuggler’s agent looked at them again. Finally he seemed to accept that there was no more to it than that—or very little more, anyway.
“Conlon’s in some kind of trouble,” he concluded. “Isn’t he?”
“We think he might be, yes,” said Lyneea.
Bosch cursed. “Look—I don’t know anything about Conlon disappearing, truly. But if there’s something I can do, just tell me.” He swallowed. “You’ve got to understand that Conlon’s my livelihood. Not part of it—all of it. And it’s not easy to pick up new clients these days. Too much competition, too many aliens out there crowding the field.”
Suddenly Riker found he had a bad taste in his mouth. But he believed that Bosch knew nothing of Teller’s whereabouts. Lyneea was of the same mind. Her expression confirmed that.
“When I find our friend,” he told Bosch, “I’ll inform him of your concern.”
In the meantime, Lyneea was removing the battery from the blaster. She tossed both components to Riker, one at a time.
Riker replaced them in Bosch’s drawer. Disconnecting the battery had rendered the weapon useless, and it would need a minute or so to recharge after it was connected again.
Just in case.
“Watch where you take that thing,” Lyneea said as she opened the door. “There’s a carnival on, you know. High-tech ban and all that.”
Bosch nodded. “Thanks for reminding me.” He turned back to Riker. “You going now?”
The human nodded. “Yes.” Crossing the room, he followed Lyneea out the door.
“Don’t forget,” said the smuggler’s agent, his words trailing them down the hall. “I really do want to help. Honest.”
“Subject?” queried the computer voice, silken and female as ever.
“Baseball,” said Data, confronting the monitor in his quarters. “Specifically, the state of the professional game in the year 2026 Old Earth Time.”
It took less than a second for the computer to call up the requisite information. “On screen?” it asked.
“No,” said the android. Though some of his colleagues liked to interact silently with the ship’s electronic brain, Data preferred to converse with it out loud and did so whenever circumstances allowed, as they did now. “Voice mode, please. Narrative format.”
“Very well.” There was a pause, which no one else on the Enterprise would have noticed. Then the computer began. “By the year 2026, the game of baseball had entered a period of decline. A series of bitter and protracted labor disputes, starting in 1981 and escalating shortly after the turn of the century, gradually eroded the popularity of the sport. What is more, sharp increases in ticket prices denied large segments of the population access to the games. As time went on, younger fans in particular became—”
“Stop,” said Data. “I am unfamiliar with the term ‘fan.’ ”
“Fan,” repeated the computer. “An abbreviated version of the word ‘fanatic.’ In this context, used to denote devotees of the game, those who have an enthusiastic admiration for players, their efforts, and the results of those efforts.”
“I see,” said the android. “Please proceed.”
“Younger fans in particular became alienated, and the market for the game dwindled. Fewer and fewer people watched baseball on television and purchased related paraphernalia. Surveys in the year 2019 indicated that the body of baseball enthusiasts was less than half the size it had been two decades earlier. While all franchises were financially damaged by this trend, those that catered to smaller populations were damaged the most. In the period from 2018 to 2023, four teams went bankrupt and another eight changed hands a total of nineteen times.
“Dismayed by the decreasing opportunities and increasing uncertainties associated with a career in baseball, talented athletes and managers opted for other sports or avenues of endeavor. Those who took their place were generally less gifted and willing to play for lower salaries. Ironically, the professional baseball player in 2026 had less in common with his immediate predecessors than he did with the players of one hundred years earlier.”
The computer stopped there, its summary complete. But having been supplied with a perspective on the matter, Data now had other questions.
“Tell me about the game played on October 7, 2026, between the Phoenix Sunsets and the Fairbanks Icebreakers.”
“The game was a playoff,” said the computer, “to determine the champion team of the American League, which would go on to face the National League’s San Diego Padres in the World Series. The contest was decided in the seventh inning when Sunset center fielder Rob Clemmons hit a home run with the bases empty. The final score was four to three.”
It took a moment for the information to sink in. “The Icebreakers lost?” asked Data.
“That is correct.”
He digested that. Terwilliger had failed—again. “Interesting,” he said out loud.
But it was more than interesting. It was disconcerting, somehow.
Data had just assumed the Fairbanks team had won. After all, it was Commander Riker’s program, and he had placed himself in the role of an Icebreaker. It stood to reason that he would have preferred to experience a positive result.
“Do you require additional information?” asked the computer.
“Yes,” said the android, straightening in his seat. “Describe the role played in the game by Bobo Bogdonovich.”
“Miroslav ‘Bobo’ Bogdonovich was a minor league player called up to replace George Kilkenny, the Icebreakers’ regular third baseman. Bogdonovich hit safely once in three official times at bat, with one run batted in. His fly ball to deep center field was the
final out of the game.”
Data experienced a pang of disappointment. The knowledge of the Icebreakers’ loss—of Terwilliger’s loss —bothered him even more.
But why? He wasn’t Bobo Bogdonovich, any more than he was Sherlock Holmes or Henry IV or any of the other guises he had assumed in the holodecks. He bore no responsibility for Bogdonovich’s performance on October 7, 2026.
The Icebreakers had played that game more than three hundred years ago. It was a matter of historical record.
Terwilliger and Denyabe and the clubhouse man were long gone. He had never become acquainted with any of them, only with their holographic replicas.
It seemed that the outcome of the contest was still in the future, still to be determined, but that was an illusion, of course. Only the outcome of the program might be malleable, depending on how Riker had structured it; the reality certainly was not.
And yet Data still felt troubled, as if he had left something incomplete.
Something—or someone?
Did that make sense? The android wasn’t entirely sure. But he knew one thing: he was obliged to finish the program. And to try to succeed, if he could, where the historical Bogdonovich had fallen short.
One last question occurred to him, and he posed it to the computer. The answer was appallingly concise.
“Professional baseball finally succumbed to mounting losses in the year 2059. At that point only eight franchises remained of the thirty-two that had populated the American and National Leagues at the peak of their prosperity.
“In the twenty-second century, entrepreneurs attempted to resurrect the sport with a ten-team intraplanetary league. However, their enterprise folded after less than two seasons.”
“Thank you,” said Data, though a part of him was sorry he’d asked.
Chapter Six
THE FIRE FELT GOOD. Riker nudged his chair a little closer to it.
Lyneea stood on the other side of the room, disdaining the warmth of the hearth. After all, as she had reminded him, it wasn’t even the coldest part of the winter yet.
For the last half-hour or so they had been examining their options. There were precious few.
No one at the tavern would talk to them now—that was for sure. The Pandrilite was in the custody of the Besidian authorities, but he’d probably told them all he knew. Likewise for Bosch.
“We could tail him,” suggested Riker. “Maybe we were wrong. Maybe he was lying.”
Lyneea shook her head. Brittle light slanted in through the window behind her; as she moved, it played along the soft lines of her hair and shoulders. “I don’t think so. And even if he was, he’s too smart to lead us anywhere. If he’s got something to hide, he’ll expect to be followed.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Nowhere we want to be.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any other leads?” asked Riker.
There was a knock on the door.
Lyneea frowned, half at the interruption, half at his implication that she was somehow remiss in doing her job. “Come in,” she said.
The door opened.
Riker wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see. A chambermaid, perhaps, or someone else from the hotel staff.
He had not expected the figure that stood hunched in the doorway, wrapped in long brown robes complete with a veil of the same color. It was an ascetic—one of the beggars who flooded Besidia at carnival time preaching an end to materialism and the ways of the madraggi.
Ironically, it was the madraggi who maintained places for the ascetics to sleep and eat for the duration of the carnival. And that was more than a gesture of tolerance; it was a nod to tradition. The ascetics had been protesting the principles of the madraggi for so long that the carnival wouldn’t have been the same without them.
But they normally carried on their begging in the street, not door-to-door. Riker approached the robed figure, delved into his pocket for a chit, and held it out.
The robed one held up a slender hand. “No.” Her voice was muffled, but the eyes that peered over the veil looked into his with an unflinching audacity.
Strange, he told himself. Ascetics never looked directly at offworlders.
“I need only to talk. To you, William Riker.”
That caught him off guard. “To me?” he repeated.
“Yes,” said the robed one.
By then Lyneea had joined him at the threshold. “Excuse me, sister,” she said. “Who are you? And how do you know this human’s name?”
The ascetic averted her eyes. “I speak only to Riker,” she insisted. “No one else.”
Lyneea looked at him. He shrugged. “I’m just popular, I guess.”
His partner stifled a curse. “Popular indeed.”
“Perhaps I should go,” said the robed one.
“No,” said Lyneea. Her voice took on a softer tone: “Stay, sister. I’ll go. At least, for a little while.”
Riker didn’t protest. Whatever this ascetic had to say, he wanted to hear it. If she knew his name, there was a good chance she knew about his mission as well. If so, he had to know where the security leak was before the whole business became common knowledge.
Lyneea, of course, had the same concerns. And if that meant swallowing her pride a little, it was a small price to pay.
But she wouldn’t stray too far from the room. Will was certain of that. This robed one had already proved herself to be more than she seemed. Who knew what other surprises she might have up her sleeve?
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” said Lyneea, slipping on her cloak. She addressed the ascetic: “Time enough?”
The robed one nodded. She stood back as Lyneea made her exit, slipping Riker one last warning glance.
As his partner strode down the hallway, bound for the lift, Riker turned to the ascetic. “Come in,” he said.
She nodded, made her way into the room. He closed the door behind her.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Something to eat? To drink?”
“No,” she said. “Thank you.” She sat on the couch. Riker took the chair he’d been sitting on and pulled it away from the fire. Straddling it, he leaned on the backrest.
“You said you needed to talk,” he opened. “I’m listening.”
For a small space in time there was only the crackling of the logs in the fire. Her eyes seemed to hold him. Then to see right through him. Finally she spoke again.
“You’ve grown a beard,” said the robed one.
Her voice was still muffled by the thick brown veil. But something about it was familiar. Very familiar.
“And you,” he told his guest, “have taken to wearing an ascetic’s robes.” He felt a grin coming on. “What’s the matter? Have the colors of Madraga Criathis become tedious for its second official?”
She removed the veil and pulled back her brown cowl, revealing the perfect features of an Impriman aristocrat.
“Norayan,” he said, rising and putting his chair aside.
“Will.” She rose, too, took the hands he extended in greeting. The warmth of her smile was genuine and only too welcome after the events of the last couple of days.
“It’s good to see you,” he told her.
“Yes. Too bad the circumstances couldn’t have been happier.” She sighed, let go of his hands, and sat again. “Then I might not have had to come to you in disguise.”
He placed himself beside her on the couch. “Why did you come? To see what kind of progress we’ve made? And why couldn’t you talk to your own retainer?”
She bowed her head. “I came to tell you something—something that will help your investigation.”
“You’ve heard something,” he concluded. “About Teller? Or the seal?”
“No,” she said. “You don’t understand. I’ve . . . I’ve come to make a confession, Will.”
Riker looked into her eyes. How could he not have recognized her, even with that veil? No one had eyes like Norayan’s. So wise. So regal.<
br />
“What the devil are you talking about?” he asked.
Her composure seemed to falter a little. In the average Impriman, that wouldn’t have meant anything. In a madraga official, it was the equivalent of going to pieces. But a moment later she caught herself and straightened.
“This isn’t easy for me to talk about,” she said, underscoring the obvious. “You and Teller and I were wonderful friends—do you remember?”
He nodded. “I still have fond memories. Lots of them.”
“As I do. It was a special time. I had not yet been named second official of Criathis. I was still free to pursue adventures I cannot pursue now. And I had two gallant Earthmen with whom to pursue them.”
“Yes,” said Riker. “We were quite a threesome.” Where was she going with this?
“Then you left,” said Norayan. “And it was just Teller and myself. And the nature of the adventures changed.” She paused. “We fell in love, Will.”
He hadn’t been prepared for that. Or had he? Had he seen it in her eyes even before she said the words?
And how did he feel about Norayan and Teller being lovers? A little jealous? Hell, it had always been the three of them. How could they have fallen in love without him?
“Really,” he said.
“I’ve shocked you,” observed Norayan.
“No,” he told her. “It’s all right. Go on.”
She frowned. “Of course we had to keep our love a secret. I was next in line for a position on Criathis’s council, and you know the rules. A council member must be chaste, lest he or she succumb to undue influences that might in turn affect the fate of the madraga.”
“Sexual blackmail,” Riker interpreted.
“Exactly. If my relationship with Teller had been made public, it would have cost me the opportunity to serve Criathis. And that is what I had been trained for all my life.”
“It must have been difficult.”
“It was. Every time we met, we risked everything—his future as well as mine. For what would the Federation have thought of a trade liaison who offended one of Imprima’s more powerful madraggi by bringing scandal to its doorstep?” A moment of remembering. “But in time Teller made it much less difficult: he made it impossible for us to go on.”
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