FORTUNE'S LIGHT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Now he heard it, too, and recognized it immediately.

  “Isakki,” he snapped.

  A couple of seconds later he saw them. Four or five of them, deadly black streaks on the otherwise flawless fields of snow. A couple of Terrin’s retainers ran behind them, struggling to keep up. And they were all coming from the spot where he and Lyneea had climbed the wall.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” he told her, pulling her up off the ground. “Now.”

  She resisted just long enough to grab up the seal. Then she ran along behind him.

  Riker didn’t know where he was headed. He just knew that he didn’t want to be caught in those powerful jaws. And the only place that seemed to offer shelter was the house.

  “What are you doing?” asked Lyneea. “There may be more retainers inside!”

  And more isakki as well, if his last visit here was any indication. But he didn’t have time to stop and think about it.

  Their only chance was to get into the library, somehow neutralize Larrak and the Ferengi, lock the doors against pursuit, and contact the Enterprise. Then the captain could send for the authorities, who would be more than a little interested in their report of a Ferengi in Besidia.

  As they skirted the side of the house, he could hear the isakki bearing down on them. And the strident shouts of the Imprimans in their wake.

  Come on, he told himself. All we need is a door. As he recalled, this structure had only one entrance, and that was in the front. Snow crunching beneath their boots, they skidded around another corner.

  The isakki growled, closing the gap with dizzying quickness. Riker’s blood pounded in his ears.

  Yet another corner. Surely after this one . . .

  And there it was—the front door. An oversize specimen carved out of dark wood and inlaid with precious metals. It was set into an overhanging stone archway.

  Now, with any luck, it would be unlocked.

  It was.

  Riker ushered Lyneea inside. Then, together, they shoved the door closed behind them. Finding a dead bolt, he slammed it home.

  A moment later they heard the skittering of claws on the outside of the door, and the shrieks of the frustrated animals, and the shouts of the two retainers.

  Riker took a deep breath, let it out. But before he’d finished, Lyneea was pulling him away.

  “Come on,” she told him. “If they’ve got blasters, that door is history.”

  She was right. There was no time to waste. They had to get to Larrak before he could hear the commotion and prepare himself.

  Behind them was a corridor that seemed to lead into the center of the house; Riker didn’t remember for certain. They followed it.

  The inside of the place was still a lot like the outside. The walls were made of large gray stones; the ceiling was a tight latticework of assorted woods polished to a high gloss.

  The corridor ended in a hub from which six other spokes extended. Five led to closed doors. The sixth showed them the entrance to the library.

  Riker could see Larrak standing in the opening, his back to them, as yet unaware that there was anything wrong.

  Lyneea pulled her projectile weapon out of her tunic. Somewhere along the line, she had stuffed Fortune’s Light into the pouch at her belt; it dangled there heavily.

  They exchanged glances. “You take Larrak,” she whispered. “I’ll handle the Ferengi.”

  He nodded.

  Then they were off, pounding down the hallway as fast as they could. When they’d gotten about halfway, Larrak turned and saw them coming.

  A brief cry escaping his lips, he ducked and rolled out of sight. A moment later Riker burst into the room, Lyneea half a step behind him.

  Too late he saw that Larrak and the Ferengi weren’t the only ones waiting for them.

  Lyneea was blasted before she could get off a shot, but she wasn’t hit hard enough to lose consciousness. As Riker helped her to her feet, he saw those responsible for the blast—a quartet of armed retainers. Their host peeked out from behind the quartet. He smiled.

  “Welcome to the estate of Madraga Terrin,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE FIRST OFFICIAL of Madraga Terrin scrutinized the seal. It glittered with red, green, and blue sparks as the gems embedded in it took turns catching the light. Larrak looked appreciative, as did the retainers who stood by the walls and the Ferengi who leaned against a massive bookcase across the room.

  “I am forever in your debt,” said Larrak, turning his gaze first on Riker and then on Lyneea. “Who would have thought that my merger was in jeopardy? Imagine if you had been a trifle less clever and the seal had remained hidden for a while.” He shook his head. “All my maneuvering, all my planning . . . worthless.” Gently, almost reverently, he placed Fortune’s Light on a small wooden table near the window. Right next to Teller’s homing device. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

  Apparently, Riker mused, Larrak still didn’t recognize him, although they’d sat in this very room together once before. Was it the beard? Or was it just that Teller had been the memorable one?

  “You could show your gratitude,” he suggested, in response to Larrak’s speech. He shifted his weight in his chair, but it only made the ropes that held him cut more painfully, and his partially healed wound was already a throbbing misery. The Ferengi seemed to be enjoying his discomfort, he noticed. But Larrak was his main concern. “You could let us go.”

  Larrak chuckled. “I could, yes. But then you might be inclined to tell someone about my friend Ralk.” He indicated the Ferengi with an outstretched arm, and Ralk nodded his grotesque head. “That would put an end to my plans more surely than the lack of a seal.” He shook his head. “No, I think I’ll keep you here for a while. At least until Fortune’s Light is returned—surreptitiously, of course, so Criathis won’t suspect that I had anything to do with its disappearance. That way, there will be no questions, and everything will proceed according to schedule.”

  “And after the merger ceremony?” asked Riker.

  “Save your breath,” Lyneea advised him. “After the ceremony, he’ll kill us.” She glared at Larrak. “He would have killed us already if he wasn’t so superstitious. It’s supposed to be bad luck to bloody your hands on the day of a business transaction, and our host believes in luck more than most people.”

  Larrak considered her waspishly. “I see that I’m no stranger to you. I wish you were as familiar to me.” He approached Lyneea, his retainers straightening just a hair as their attentiveness increased. “Not that you’re a complete mystery.” He reached out to caress her cheek, then saw the fire in her eyes and thought better of it. “A retainer, no doubt. I’d heard that Criathis had some females on its payroll, and you’re proof of it.”

  Lyneea said nothing, but her expression spoke volumes.

  Larrak turned his attention to Riker. “As we all know, humans are rare on Imprima. Given the fact that you were searching for the seal—as evidenced by your little excavation effort—and in the company of a Criathan retainer, I’d say you’re here in an official capacity.” He shrugged. “Probably on loan from the Federation vessel that’s been in orbit the last several days—yes?”

  Riker didn’t give him the pleasure of an answer. He could feel Lyneea looking at him approvingly.

  “You need not respond,” said Larrak. “I have gotten this far without your help. I believe I can reconstruct the rest as well.” He looked to the Ferengi. “Shall I give it a try, Ralk?”

  The Ferengi laughed. It was more like a series of barks.

  Larrak let the echoes die before he continued. “The Federation trade liaison strikes a deal with one of the madraggi opposed to the merger. Rhurig, maybe, or Lycinthis. The liaison steals the seal, or arranges to have it stolen, and plants it on Terrin’s grounds. His price? Who knows? Probably enough to buy himself a nice retirement somewhere—but well worth it to the madraga who hired him.”


  He nodded, smiling to himself, as if his understanding was deepening even as he spoke.

  “You two are assigned to catch the Federation’s liaison and to recover Fortune’s Light. At some point you find a homing device and wonder if you can use it to find the seal. It leads you here, to the grounds of Madraga Terrin. Something of a surprise, I expect. And while you’re digging for your buried treasure, you find something else you don’t expect—a Ferengi in the estate house.” He paused. “Close enough?”

  He didn’t get an answer, but by this time he probably didn’t expect one.

  Larrak made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Really. Did you think no one would notice your footprints? At least the liaison had the sense to do his dirty work during a snowstorm.” He grunted. “Not that it did him much good. He, too, you see, was fascinated by Ralk. Otherwise he might not have come closer to the house—and we might not have noticed him.”

  The Ferengi laughed again. The sound grated on Riker’s ears, but Larrak appeared to appreciate it. Birds of a feather, the Starfleet officer mused.

  Larrak snapped his fingers, and one of his guards left the room. “I must confess,” he said, “I was concerned when I found a Federation liaison snooping around my grounds. I wondered how word of my association with Ralk had leaked out. Now, of course, I see that I can set my mind at ease. He wasn’t here about Ralk. He was here to bury the seal, wasn’t he?”

  Reminded of Fortune’s Light, he retrieved it, along with the homing device that lay beside it. For a moment he held them both in his hands, considering them, as if weighing one against the other. Then he dropped the homing device and crushed it beneath his boot.

  “Fortunately,” said Larrak, “it’s carnival time, and there’s a ban on modern communications systems. Or you could have contacted Criathis once you realized where the seal was hidden.”

  Riker tried not to wince. He could have kept the Enterprise up to date on their progress, but in his eagerness, he’d chosen not to.

  A moment later, Larrak’s retainer returned with a long, flowing garment in his hands. It was precisely the color of human blood.

  “Ah,” said Terrin’s first official. “My ceremonial robe.” As he accepted it, he gave the retainer the seal. Once again, the man left the room.

  “Just for the record,” said Riker, “you did kill Teller Conlon, didn’t you?”

  Larrak donned his robe with a flourish. “For the record, yes.” Smoothing the front of the brocaded garment, he turned to Lyneea. “How do I look, my dear? Fit to lead this world’s newest and most powerful madraga into a golden age of prosperity?”

  Larrak smiled. Lyneea spat at him. For a second or two his good humor fell away and he looked as if he might strike her. Then his smile returned.

  “Tut, tut,” he said. “I expected better breeding from a retainer of Madraga Criathis.”

  And with that he made his exit.

  The captain stayed for the uneventful balance of the sixth inning and then excused himself. He had never been a real devotee of the game, he explained. And his concern about Data had been laid to rest.

  In the top half of the seventh, the Phoenix hitters went down in order. It might have been otherwise but for a spectacular play in right field, in which Augustyn climbed the wall to rob the batter of a home run.

  As Data took his seat in the dugout, he recalled the computer’s verdict on Bobo Bogdonovich: three official at-bats, one single, and one run batted in. Of course, he had already had two of those at-bats, plus one that didn’t count statistically—the one in which he got hit with the pitch.

  And history had already nailed down the outcome of his last time at bat—when he would end the game by flying out to deep center field. But somewhere in between, he would have to get up again.

  After all, he was the sixth hitter scheduled. That meant that even if all three Icebreaker batters failed to reach first base in the seventh, he would still come up in the eighth. It would work out for him to be the last out of the game only if the Icebreakers batted around—and he came up twice in the process.

  However, the computer had been specific: only three official at-bats. And his fly out would be the third. So whatever he did in the seventh or eighth inning would have to constitute an unofficial at-bat.

  Data rifled through his memory for the circumstances that would make a time at bat unofficial: a walk, a hit batsman, a run-scoring sacrifice via a fly out or a bunt . . .

  The Icebreakers’ first batter, Maggin, hit a line drive single through the middle.

  The following batter, Denyabe, got a base hit as well—this one a grounder between the first and second basemen—and on the play, Maggin made it to third.

  Things were looking up for the Fairbanks team—a fact that was reflected in Terwilliger’s expression, which was decidedly less hostile than usual as he watched from the shadows. With two men on and no one out, it seemed they might win this game after all.

  Of course, Data knew better. If history had its way, his teammates would find a way to leave those runners on base.

  The next two batters managed to do just that. Sakahara hit a pop-up to the first baseman, too shallow to score Maggin from third. And Galanti could only produce another dribbler to the pitcher, who was able to freeze Maggin with a glance before throwing to first for the out.

  There were men on second and third now, but with two outs. Worse, Galanti had pulled a hamstring trying to beat the throw to first. He had to be helped off the field by a couple of coaches, the trainer following solemnly in his wake.

  If Data had wondered when he’d get a chance to bat again, he wondered no longer. He’d been watching Galanti’s efforts from the on-deck circle. And as the first baseman was helped into the dugout, he approached the batter’s box, spurred by the encouragement of his teammates. And, of course, the muffled curses that came from the clubhouse stairs.

  As Commander Riker would have put it, the deck was stacked against him. But if there was a way to thwart history, to drive in Maggin and perhaps Denyabe as well, Data vowed to find it.

  Unfortunately he never got the chance. The Sunset manager, no doubt wary of Bobo after his performance in the first inning, opted to walk him intentionally—and thereby fill the bases for Cordoban, who had had better days with the bat.

  Nor did the manager end up regretting the move. For on a two-and-oh pitch, Cordoban hit a soft fly to right field.

  Three outs. End of threat.

  In the dugout, at the top of the clubhouse stairs, Terwilliger didn’t say a word. It was as if all the fire had gone out of him. As if he could read his future and it was no different from his past.

  After all, there were only two innings left. And scoring opportunities like that one didn’t materialize very often.

  Noting that it was time for him to return to duty, Data saved the program and left the holodeck.

  “You won’t get away with it,” said Lyneea.

  “Of course we will,” returned Ralk. He turned away from them as he crossed the room, casually considering its decor.

  Probably estimating the value of the furnishings, Riker mused. It had been some time—a few hours at least—since Larrak had left them to proceed with his plans for the merger ceremony.

  Lyneea pressed her case. “Criathis will become suspicious when the seal turns up at the last minute. They’ll put a stop to the merger.”

  The Ferengi shook his head, standing with his back to them as he regarded an Impriman globe. “No. They won’t.” He spun the globe, sending the continents flying by with dizzying speed, and glanced at the captives over his shoulder. “They will be happy to see it and relieved to avoid the disaster they anticipated.” He smiled, exposing his short, sharp teeth. “It will not be a problem.” He stopped the globe’s rotation with a long, knobby finger. “Besides, you need not concern yourselves with the outcome. Either way, you will die.”

  Riker laughed—the loudest and most obnoxious laugh he could muster.

  Obviou
sly it was not what Ralk had expected. His brow furrowed, displaying his irritation.

  “Do not make that sound,” said the Ferengi. “It offends my sensibilities.”

  Now that was a switch.

  “I can’t help it,” said Riker. “You think you’ve thought of everything, but you’re in for a surprise.”

  That got Ralk’s interest, though he tried not to show it. “Oh? What sort of surprise?”

  Riker looked at Lyneea. “Should I tell him?”

  She looked back. “Why not?” she said.

  He turned back to Ralk. “Larrak’s a businessman, just as you are. And just like you, he’d drop out of your mutual admiration society if he thought it was curtailing his profits. Right?”

  The Ferengi’s eyes had become slits. “Go on.” “

  Well, as soon as the merger goes through, Larrak’s going to be privy to Criathis’s records. And as a member of the team that put together the agreement . . .”

  The slits suddenly opened wide.

  “That’s right. I helped take Imprima away from you. And I can tell you that Madraga Criathis has profited immensely from the deal—more than anyone on this world can possibly imagine. In fact, I’d call their profits obscene—though you might have another name for it.” Riker smiled, giving himself some time to formulate his next statement. After all, he was making it up as he went along.

  “How good is the deal you offered Larrak?” he asked.

  “Very good,” said Ralk.

  “No doubt. But trust me on this—it pales by comparison to what he can make with the Federation, now that Criathis is becoming his plaything. Add to that the difficulties and the dangers involved in upsetting the status quo, the concessions and compromises Larrak will have to make to reinstate trade with the Ferengi, and then you tell me: which way do you think Larrak is going to go?”

  There. That sounded pretty plausible, if he said so himself—even though he was lying through his teeth. Criathis wasn’t benefiting from the trade agreement that much.

  More to the point, Ralk seemed to have swallowed it. He took a couple of steps toward Riker and backhanded him across the mouth. For a moment the human forgot about his wound.