FORTUNE'S LIGHT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “What’s going on?” he asked, getting to his feet. “When I heard you yell, I thought the killer had come back.”

  Lyneea glanced at him. “No such luck.” Picking something up off the ground, she held it out so he could see it.

  It was an emblem of some sort, with torn cloth and threads around it, as if it had been removed by force from whatever garment it was meant to adorn.

  “May I?” he asked, holding his hand out. She gave it to him.

  A black field cut into two parts by a large yellow lightning bolt. In the upper right-hand corner, two yellow sheaves of grain. In the lower left, two yellow aircraft.

  All along the bottom edge, something had made the material stiff and maroon-colored. Riker recognized it as blood.

  “The emblem of Madraga Rhurig,” explained Lyneea. “Agriculture, hydroelectric power, air transport—the industries they control in various parts of Imprima.” She paused. “The stuff on the bottom wasn’t part of the original design.”

  “Rhurig,” Will repeated, recalling Norayan’s suspicions but unable to identify them as hers. He turned the emblem over in his hand. “You think they would stoop this low? Would they steal Fortune’s Light or arrange to have it stolen?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them. They’ve never seen eye to eye with Criathis.”

  “And the merger would only have made Criathis more powerful. So they moved to prevent it the only way they could.”

  “Yes,” Lyneea said. “And then—who knows? Maybe it was their intention to kill Conlon from the start, so that he couldn’t tell anyone what had happened to the seal. Or maybe he tried to hold them up for more money than was originally agreed upon. To blackmail them.”

  “Either way,” said Riker, “they killed him.” He could feel the excitement of discovery giving way to the heat of anger. “And whoever belongs to this patch must have been in on the deed—and lost it in the course of a struggle.”

  His partner nodded. “This is big, Riker. It’s no longer a matter of an individual, or even two. We’re talking about a madraga that has helped shape Impriman history for nearly eight hundred years. If Rhurig is involved with this, and it can be proven . . .”

  “Then Rhurig will be ruined,” he said. “Shunned by the other madraggi until it collapses of its own weight.”

  “Or worse.” She shook her head. “It’s hard to say what would be done. Nothing like this has ever happened before. But I can tell you this—the economic repercussions would be massive. Global.”

  For the first time since they’d known each other, Riker thought Lyneea seemed uncertain, almost overwhelmed.

  “This is big,” she repeated. “Very big.”

  He looked at her. “You’re not suggesting that we shouldn’t pursue it, are you? Just because of the implications?”

  “No,” she said. “Of course not. It’s just that we can’t keep it to ourselves any longer. We’ve got to contact Criathis—tell the first official what we know. Let him decide what we should do next.”

  “We can’t,” said Riker. Not if we’re to keep Norayan’s secret, as I promised.

  “We can’t?”

  “No.”

  Lyneea’s brow wrinkled. “Why not?”

  “Trust me,” he told her. “We just can’t.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “There you go again, Riker. Keeping things from your partner.” A little muscle in her jaw began to twitch. “If you’ve really got a good reason to keep this kind of information from the first official of Madraga Criathis—the man to whom I’ve sworn my loyalty—then I want to hear it.” She pointed a gloved finger at him. “But I’m telling you in advance—I don’t think there’s a reason in the world that’s even halfway good enough to make me do that.”

  Riker started to object and then realized it was no use. There was only one thing he could say at this juncture that would keep Lyneea from going to her superior.

  The truth.

  Forgive me, Norayan.

  He didn’t hold anything back. He related the whole story, just as Norayan had related it to him. And by the time he was done, Lyneea’s expression had lost some of its hardness.

  “Well,” she said at last, “that does put a different face on matters. Norayan is a great asset to Criathis. Mind you, I don’t approve of what she did. But her exposure could only hurt the madraga.”

  Riker breathed a sigh of relief. “Then you’ll keep Norayan’s secret?”

  Lyneea frowned. “Yes.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’d hoped you’d see it that way.”

  “But if we are to handle this ourselves, Riker, we must be careful. Very careful. We can’t afford to let Rhurig know of our investigation, or we could find ourselves sharing a pit with your friend.”

  “I agree,” he said, shutting out her image. He held out the emblem. “Is there something we can do with this?”

  She thought for a moment. “Yes,” she decided. “There is. Every madraga member’s emblem is just a little different from any other—a vanity that seems to pervade Impriman society. You or I might be hard-pressed to tell whose tunic that came from, even if we had another of his tunics lying right beside it. But there is one man in Besidia who can identify it at a glance.”

  “And that is?” he asked.

  “His tailor,” she told him.

  Chapter Eight

  PLUNK.

  There was something immensely soothing about repetition, Picard noted. Automation has relieved us of the need for it, but perhaps that is not all good. For at least the hundredth time in the last half hour, he lunged.

  It was an easy, graceful motion—one he had been taught long ago at Salle Guillaume, on the Rive Gauche in Paris. In fact, his old fencing den had provided the inspiration for this dark, hardwood environment he’d created here in the holodeck.

  He could almost hear the gibes of his fencing master: “Like a cat, not like your plodding old grandmother. Watch me now, Jean-Luc!”

  First the point, as if it had a will of its own, an energy independent of the fencer himself. Then the arm, pulled by that headstrong point, and finally the rest of him, until his right leg had no choice but to fly out and catch his weight.

  Head held high, left shoulder back. Trapezius muscles relaxed to permit maximum extension. Balance, always balance.

  Of course, none of this really mattered unless the ultimate goal was reached, the ultimate test met and passed. Everything depended on that hard black rubber ball hanging by its meter-long cord just a few feet in front of him.

  Plunk.

  If it swung straight back, he had succeeded. If it bounced or shot off in an oblique direction, he would know that his mechanics had been off, that perhaps he had not been as graceful as he’d thought.

  It swung straight back.

  For good measure, he held his lunge until the ball returned. Just as he would have in a match, in anticipation of a counterattack.

  Plunk.

  Once again he caught it on his point, but it didn’t swing out nearly as far this time. Then, shifting his weight back onto his left leg, he withdrew and retreated to an en garde position to wait for the ball to become still again.

  “Captain Picard?”

  The voice sounded eerie here, out of place. It broke Picard’s concentration; he frowned.

  “Yes, Mr. Aquino?”

  “It’s Commander Riker. He’d like to speak with you.” Picard took off his mask. He planted his point on the deck, which he’d programmed to simulate the hard cork floor of Salle Guillaume.

  “Put him through, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The ball’s arcs were getting smaller and smaller, thanks to the ship’s artificial gravity. His programming, he told himself once again, had been impeccable; the place even smelled right—like wood soap and well-earned perspiration.

  “Captain?”

  “Good to hear from you, Number One. How are things progressing down there?”

  Riker’s grunt was audible. “They
could be progressing better.”

  “How so?”

  “For one thing, we’ve found my friend.”

  That piqued the captain’s interest. “Have you?”

  “Yes. But if he’s guilty of the theft, he has more than paid the price.”

  “More than . . . What are you saying, Number One? Not that he’s dead?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, sir.”

  Had they been face to face, Picard might have found a way to adequately express the sympathy he felt for his first officer. The grief he shared.

  As it was, he had only words. “I’m sorry, Will. Damned sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  “How did it happen?”

  Riker told him. It seemed that this affair was a good deal more complicated than anyone had expected. More complicated and more dangerous.

  “So now,” Picard extrapolated, “you’re trying to identify the one whose emblem you found in the maze?”

  “That’s right. Lyneea has gone to the tailor Madraga Rhurig retains in Besidia. She’s posing as a servant for Rhurig, hoping that she can get the tailor to mention the name of the emblem’s owner.”

  “Very clever. And if she’s successful?”

  “We’ll trail the party in question. See if he’ll lead us to the seal—or at least give us some clue to its whereabouts.”

  “I see,” said the captain. “You know, Number One, time is running out.”

  A pause. “No one knows that better than I do, sir.” Was that a hint of resentment in Riker’s tone?

  “Of course not,” said Picard. “Forgive me.”

  “I think I’d better go now,” said his first officer. “But I’ll contact you again next chance I get.”

  Silence.

  Picard took a deep breath, exhaled. He knew what Riker was going through. After all, he’d lost his share of friends over the years. And in at least one case he’d felt responsible for the loss, though a court-martial had concluded that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.

  Suddenly he didn’t feel like hitting the little black ball anymore. Or looking at Salle Guillaume.

  At times like this he was more comfortable on the bridge, ensconced in the present rather than the past.

  “Terminate program,” he called out.

  And in the wink of an eye his old fencing den vanished —in its place, the stark, gridlike pattern of a naked holodeck.

  He had been testy with the captain—Riker knew that. A less understanding superior would have given him hell for it. What was the matter with him, letting his emotions get in the way of his job? They’d better not. Not now, when things were starting to heat up.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside his room. Opening his tunic, he slipped the communicator back inside.

  Not that using it to contact the ship was wrong. As he’d explained to Worf, Federation-issue communicators weren’t specifically listed among the high-tech items prohibited during the carnival. Technically he should be allowed to use it.

  It was a fine point, however, and one he didn’t care to argue with Lyneea. At some point, a link with the Enterprise might come in handy.

  A key rattled in the lock. The door opened and Lyneea came in. She looked at him.

  She smiled.

  “You’ve got a name,” he said, rising to his feet.

  “Indeed I have,” she told him. “Kobar. Third official of Madraga Rhurig—the first official’s son.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “I’m surprised. He’s a real firebrand. And he’s got designs on Norayan, if half the stories are true. If he suspected that she was having an affair with the trade liaison, that would have given him an additional reason for wanting to see Conlon dead.”

  Riker nodded, not bothering to hide his admiration. “Good work,” he told her.

  “I don’t do any other kind.”

  “The tailor didn’t give you any trouble?”

  “Far from it. He was so proud of being associated with a madraga like Rhurig, he would have recited Kobar’s genealogy if I’d let him.” She indicated the street outside with a jerk of her thumb. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find this Rhurig whelp.”

  He got up. “I’m with you. Sitting in hotel rooms gives me too much time to think.” In a couple of strides, Riker joined her in the corridor, then closed the door and made sure it was locked. “Where do we start? At Rhurig’s estate in Besidia?”

  Lyneea shook her head. “According to the tailor, Kobar prefers to stay in town during the carnival, with a friend or two.”

  “That makes it more difficult,” Riker noted.

  “Not necessarily. Our informant also told me that the third official is a collector. Ancient weapons. Knives, mostly.”

  Something hardened in the pit of Riker’s stomach. “Knives,” he echoed.

  “Yes. And if I’m not mistaken, there’s a rather well known antique-weapons merchant in the marketplace.”

  Data could have entered the holodeck back in the first inning and tried to hit a home run this time instead of a single or, at the very least, used his speed to beat the throw to second base.

  But somehow, it wouldn’t have seemed right. If he was going to thwart history, it would have to be on history’s terms. And history proceeded one step at a time, in a linear fashion.

  As a result, he came in exactly where he’d left off, joining his teammates as they stood in the field, defending against the Sunsets’ second turn at bat. There were runners on first and second and no one out.

  As the next batter stepped up to home plate, Data saw him glance in the direction of third base. Did that mean he would try to hit the ball to Bobo? It seemed a fair assumption.

  Meanwhile, in the Icebreaker dugout across the field, Terwilliger was behaving strangely—touching the top of his head, his belt, his shoulder, elbow and wrist in a rapid, apparently random series of gestures. The android wondered if it was some sort of nervous condition brought on by the stress of the moment. After all, having put their first two batters on base, the Sunsets had an opportunity to tie the score and perhaps even go ahead.

  Then Data saw Terwilliger ascend to the top of the dugout, stare at him, and repeat the gestures—this time more slowly and deliberately. The android had no idea what it meant, but he resolved to remain alert. If both the batter and his own manager were directing their attention to him, there was obviously a good chance that he would be involved in the next play.

  Data crouched as he’d seen the other players crouch. He picked up some loose dirt and pounded it into his mitt, again in imitation of the others.

  “Hey, Bobo!”

  Data looked up and found the source of the greeting. It was Jackson, the rangy fellow at shortstop. He was calling to the android from behind his glove.

  “You look a little confused,” observed Jackson. “You know what’s going on, man? You know the score?”

  Data nodded. Was this one of the rituals of the game? “One to nothing,” he called back.

  The shortstop stared at him from beneath the bill of his cap. Then he laughed.

  “Right, Bobo. One to nothing. Funny guy.”

  Then there was no more time for banter. The pitcher eyed the runners, breathed in and out, and went into his windup.

  That was when the first baseman charged toward home plate, Denyabe took off for first, and Jackson shuffled toward third—all at the same time, as if by prearranged design.

  Data realized he’d seen this maneuver before. And a moment later he remembered the circumstances. It was when Sakahara had laid down his bunt.

  There was the sound of ball meeting bat—but gently. And as Data turned back toward home plate, he saw the ball dribbling slowly up the third base line—while all of the Sunset runners advanced.

  Suddenly the android knew what he had to do. Making good use of his superhuman physique, he pounded toward the ball. Caught it in his bare right hand, whirled, and threw to
first, just in time to beat the batter to the spot.

  There was a roar of approval from the crowd. But not from Terwilliger, who came stalking out of the Icebreaker dugout with his head down—though not so far down that Data couldn’t note his discontent and hear some of the phrases he was muttering.

  Terwilliger headed straight for the pitcher’s mound. So did the catcher. So did the first baseman and Denyabe and Jackson.

  Data gathered that a conference of some sort was taking place. He decided to use the time to brush the dirt from his shoes.

  “Hey, Bobo! Cretin!”

  Terwilliger was yelling at the top of his lungs.

  The android pointed to himself. “Are you calling me?” he asked.

  The manager’s eyes seemed on the verge of leaping from his head. He balled up his fists and took a swing at the empty air.

  “Yes, goddammit!” he cried, taking a step toward Data, his complexion assuming that dark and dangerous cast again. “Yes, I’m calling you. You wanna join us or you got something better to do?”

  The android thought for a second. “No,” he said. “I have no other duties at the moment.”

  And he trotted to the center of the diamond, where the others awaited him.

  Terwilliger watched him every step of the way. By degrees, he calmed down, and the darkness left his face.

  Everyone huddled close together. Data huddled with them.

  “All right,” said the manager, “listen up. Thanks to twinkle-toes here at third base, we got ourselves one out.” He glared at the android. “Though it seemed to me he could’ve taken off a little sooner, and then maybe we’d have gotten the lead runner instead of the guy at first.” He cleared his throat. “In any case, I got a decision to make. Do we put the next guy on and set up the force or do we pitch to him?”

  Data understood. This was a matter of strategy. He felt fortunate to have been made privy to such a deliberation.

  Nor would he fail to make a contribution—not after Terwilliger had gone to the trouble of soliciting his opinion. He made some quick calculations.