Fortune's Light Part 2

"But their use may be frowned upon."

"Yes."

"Still, you will carry one. Won't you?"

"Of course Why?"

It was hard to tell what kinds of thoughts were taking shape behind those void-black Klingon eyes. Worf seemed to straighten a little in preparation for his next remark.

"There are few situations that do not have at least the potential to become dangerous. An ally-one who is immediately accessible-may prove quite valuable should trouble arise."

Riker was touched by the offer. But he didn't say so. It would only have embarra.s.sed Worf, and to a Klingon, being embarra.s.sed was worse than being flayed alive. The latter situation, at least, was something they were emotionally equipped for.

"I don't think the Federation had it in mind for anyone besides me to go. Besides, I'm in good hands. I've been a.s.signed someone who works for Criathis, the madraga from which the seal was stolen."

"Someone who works there?" said Worf, his voice dripping with disdain.

"We're not talking about a bureaucrat," advised Riker. "He's a retainer-a lifelong employee of the madraga, specially trained to protect the house, its officers, and its interests in any way necessary. That includes hand-to-hand combat, the use of weapons, clandestine operations ... Come to think of it, these retainers have a lot in common with security officers."

The Klingon grunted at the gibe. "But they are not security officers." Obviously he was unimpressed.

"No," agreed the first officer. "They're not. Nor do they operate by the same set of rules. But from what I saw during my last visit to Imprima, they are quite effective."

Worf did not belabor the point. He rose, considering Riker past the high bony ridge of his nose.

"If you find this retainer is insufficient ..." He shrugged again. "I do not expect that I will be otherwise occupied."

The human stood, too. This time, he had to say something. "I appreciate that, Mr. Worf."

Without another word, the Klingon turned and walked out of the cabin. The door yielded at his approach and remained open for a second or two after he was gone. That's how brisk his exit was.

Riker marveled at his luck. What had he done to deserve a friends.h.i.+p like Worf's?

Or for that matter, like Teller Conlon's?

Perhaps, in Teller's case, not enough. He hoped it wasn't too late to make up for that deficit.

"We did it, Will. We actually did it."

"Looks that way, doesn't it?"

"I mean we honest-to-G.o.d did it!"

"I think you said that already."

Teller grinned that grin that drove women wild. He set his gla.s.s down, leaned back in his chair and ran freckled fingers through thick reddish blond hair. "I wish I could see the faces of the Ferengi when they get the news. Are they going to be fuming or what?"

"Fuming? You think so? Just because they lost one of their primary sources of hydranium and dolacite? You think that's going to bother a philosophical bunch like the Ferengi?"

They laughed. And laughed again.

Heads turned. A couple of women, one in the red of Terrin and another in the green of Ekariah, seemed to share in their amus.e.m.e.nt.

Riker lifted his gla.s.s to them. "Terrin and Ekariah on friendly terms. What does that tell you?"

"It tells me that now Terrin 's got more influence than Rhurig has. At least with Ekariah."

A small s.p.a.ce in time, filled with music and the sound of someone singing. Riker took it all in.

"You know, Teller, I've enjoyed this. I really have. But it'll be good to get back to the Yorktown."

"Sure, real good. I'll bet you've missed the h.e.l.l out of Captain Leadbelly."

"That's Ledbetter to you, Lieutenant. And maybe I haven't missed him, but I've missed a lot of other things. You know what I mean-being out there. "Riker blushed. "You know what I mean."

Teller nodded. "Yes. You can spare me the John Masefield bit. I've been there, just as you have. I've whispered my share of secrets to the stars." He seemed to withdraw a little; his eyes sought the table between them. "Naturally that makes it a bit more difficult ..."

Riker looked at him. "Makes what a bit more difficult?"

His friend met his gaze. "I'm staying, Will. I've signed on as permanent trade liaison to Imprima."

"What?"

"It's true. Everything's been approved, top to bottom." A pause. "You knew they were looking for somebody; I just threw my name in the hat." Another pause. "Who'd have believed they'd actually give it to me?"

Riker felt empty inside, as if he'd been betrayed somehow.

"I don't get it, Teller. Aren't you the one who said to throttle you if you even thought of becoming a diplomat? What happened to all that?"

For once his friend was at a loss for words. He shook his head. "I don't know, Will. It's just that ... d.a.m.n, I feel as if I belong here. Like these people are my people." He shook his head again. "And maybe I can do the Federation some good as a liaison. Lord knows, I won't do that serving on a stars.h.i.+p-not the way you will."

"Come on, Teller. They didn 't make you a lieutenant for the h.e.l.l of it."

"We both know why they made me a lieutenant, my friend. So let's not use that as an argument."

"I'm not talking about Gamma Tobin. I'm talking about your whole career. You've shown as much promise as anyone."

Teller smiled ruefully. "No, I haven't. But that's not even the point. I'm not running away from Starfleet by taking this post. Dammit, I was happy in Starfleet. But now I've found something that makes me happier. A lot happier."

Silence.

"Give me a break, Will. Can't a man want a change? Can't he love something that doesn't move at the speed of light?"

Not this man, Riker told himself. But then, he and Teller weren't Siamese twins. They were two different people-more different, perhaps, than he'd allowed himself to admit.

"All right," he said finally. "If that's what you really want ... h.e.l.l, do it."

More silence.

"Hey, don't give me the cold shoulder, all right? I wanted to tell you about this sooner. But I was ... well, I was scared. I thought you might talk me out of it." A pause. "Don't hold that against me, for G.o.d's sake."

Riker grunted. He looked into his friend's eyes, and the anger left him. "I've got enough to hold against you, you slimy b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You think I need something else to add to the list?"

"Then you're not mad?"

"I'm not mad."

Teller blinked. His eyes seemed bluer than ever. "Good. d.a.m.n good. But I want you to prove it. Drink a toast to the new trade liaison to the planetary government of Imprima. "

They raised their gla.s.ses and drank.

"Not as good as that stuff you brought up from Dibdina. "

Teller smiled. "Nope. Nothing was as good as that stuff."

"What was that toast you made, then? To the art of the ... something. I forget."

"Me, too. But what the h.e.l.l, it was just a toast. There's plenty more where that came from." Teller looked at him. "Keep in touch, Will. Don't be a stranger."

"I promise."

"I'll hold you to it."

"Listen-give these Impriman ladies a break, all right? Without me to chaperon you, you might get into all kinds of trouble."

"I'm looking forward to it, son. Looking forward to it indeed."

As the holodeck doors slid away, the android stepped inside. He found himself in a roomful of lockers.

At one end of the room a man sat watching two other men converse on a primitive video monitor. The watcher had his feet up on a chair.

"Sure," he said. "A beautiful day for baseball. And if it stays that way, I'll eat my shorts. h.e.l.l, I'll eat your shorts."

Data approached, took up a position to one side of the fellow. It wasn't long before his presence was noted.

The man turned a pinched face to him, looked at the android through squinty eyes. "You the new kid?" he asked. "What's his name-Bogdonovich?"

Was that a persona that Commander Riker had picked out for himself? There was only one way to be certain.

"Stop program," he said. Suddenly the man with the pinched face came to a dead stop-not that he had been moving that much to begin with. "Query," said Data. "An individual named Bogdonovich-is this the role Commander Riker had intended to play?"

"Affirmative," responded the computer in its pleasant female voice. "Bobo Bogdonovich. No other information included in program. Shall I access main data banks?"

"No," said the android. "That will not be necessary." For the time being he knew all he needed to know. "Resume program."

The man came to life again. He had asked a question; he was expecting an answer.

"Yes," said Data. "I am Bogdonovich. But you may call me Bobo."

The man pointed past the android to one of the lockers along the wall. "There ya go, Bogdonovich. Nice fresh uniform-Tonelli's old number. Hope it's as lucky for you as it was for him." He glanced up beyond a flight of stairs at a rectangle of pale blue sky framed in a doorway. "We're gonna need all the luck we can get."

Data walked over to the indicated locker. The uniform hanging inside it was red and blue; the word "Icebreakers" was emblazoned on the s.h.i.+rt in flowing letters.

The android gathered that he was supposed to exchange his own clothes for these. Of course. One often wore specialized attire when partic.i.p.ating in sports.

"You'd better get a move on," said the man in front of the video monitor. "They're already halfway through batting practice, and Terwilliger doesn't take kindly to rookies who waltz in late. Even if they did just get off the red-eye."

Data frowned. Rookie? Red-eye? He was unfamiliar with the terminology. But he sensed that it was not essential for him to understand these terms-not yet, at any rate.

On the other hand, he had a feeling that he should learn more about Terwilliger, who seemed to be in a position of some authority here. As he pulled off his Starfleet garb, Data decided that it might be more challenging to glean the information from his companion than to query the computer again.

The android tried to effect a casual manner. "Is this Terwilliger the kind of man they say he is?"

The videoscreen watcher grunted loudly. "You bet he is. Tough as nails. Mean as they come." He shrugged. "'Course, I'm no player. I'm just the clubhouse man. I never get chewed out by Terwilliger. But I've seen plenty of those who have been."

Data didn't understand all the colloquialisms, but he got the gist of it. Apparently Terwilliger's management style was a bit different from that of Captain Picard.

"It's really too bad," added the self-professed clubhouse man. "After all he's been through, all those seasons of finis.h.i.+ng in the cellar, he finally had a shot this year. Prob'ly his only shot. Put together a d.a.m.ned fine team-Sakahara, Kilkenney, Gilderbaum. Built up an eight-game lead. But he had too many veterans; I could see that from the start. Came August, they started to drop like flies-a hamstring here, a busted Wrist there. Before you know it, that lead starts to dwindle and ..." He stopped himself, grinned a little sheepishly. "h.e.l.l, I don't have to tell you. You know the rest."

For a moment, Data thought he would have to ask another question to learn any more. But it turned out not to be necessary. The man resumed of his own accord.

"So now the whole season-all hundred sixty-two games-comes down to one measly playoff. And with the walking wounded Terwilliger's got out there today, it'll be a wonder if we even finish the thing-much less win it."

The android had just slipped on the s.h.i.+rt with "Icebreakers" scrawled across the front of it. He reached into the locker for his shoes and socks, all the while piecing the scenario together.

"Then again, Bogdonovich, maybe you'll make a difference. Maybe you'll live up to those Triple A clippings of yours and put a jolt in this team-and give Terwilliger a champions.h.i.+p before he retires." The man made a dry, cackling sound. "Yeah. Maybe."

"You do not seem hopeful," observed Data.

His source of information turned to look at him. "You could say that."

"But in any game, there is always an element of unpredictability. If there were not, there would be no point in playing it."

A smile crept slowly over the clubhouse man's face. "I didn't know you were a philosopher, kid. I kind of like philosophers-all flakes, in fact. They liven things up a little." Abruptly the smile vanished. "Just don't go spouting any philosophy in front of Terwilliger. He hates that stuff."

The android finished dressing and considered himself in the mirror. Actually, the uniform fit quite well. But that was no surprise-the computer would have automatically tailored it to his physique.

"If I were you," said the man, "I wouldn't stand there admiring myself. You-know-who could come down here any moment. And if he catches you preening like that, you'll be riding the pines today, no matter how bad he needs a third baseman."

"Yes," said Data. "Of course." Observing the clubhouse man's urgency, he headed for the wedge of blue sky, which he gathered was in the direction of the playing field. As he got closer, he could hear what sounded like surf on an ocean beach. It took him a moment to realize that it was an amalgamation of human voices-a great many human voices.

"Bogdonovich! Hey, Bobo!"

The android stopped just shy of the threshold and turned around. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

Grumbling, the clubhouse man got to his feet. He walked over to Data's locker, took out something brown and leathery-looking, and with a quick flip of his wrist sent it whirling in the android's direction.

Data s.n.a.t.c.hed it in midair. It was some sort of glove, though it looked far too big for him. He looked at the clubhouse man.