Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [10]
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 snatched it in midair. It was some sort of glove, though it looked far too big for him. He looked at the clubhouse man.
“And that’s the last time I’m gonna fetch yet damned leather for ya. I don’t care who you are.”
“My apologies,” said the android. “It will not happen again.”
Then he turned around and followed the voices to their source.
Chapter Three
RIKER MATERIALIZED in a large but seedy-looking hotel room. Long, open shutters on his right let in shafts of ruddy sunlight and the sounds of a street clown show—not to mention a good cold breeze, which turned his first planetside breath into a shivering wisp of frost vapor. The fireplace on his left was stocked with wood, but unused—and had been for some months, judging by the rakannad webs that had proliferated inside it.
He had forgotten how cold-blooded these Imprimans were.
Riker went to the window. Outside, there was snow on the ground, churned into mud around the clown show. A couple of ascetics sat against a wall, apart from the festivity and the laughter, dressed in their brown robes. Brightly colored balls rose into the iron gray sky and fell again. Everyone cheered except the ascetics.
Nothing had changed.
Just as he thought that, he heard the scrape of footsteps in the next room. His partner, of course. The retainer who would be working with him.
A figure emerged. He glanced at it over his shoulder.
And did a double take.
The newcomer was female.
That was evident from her smooth, pale skin, her sea green eyes and exotic cheekbones. It was evident in her blue-black hair, pulled back to reveal ears like delicate little half-crowns.
She was not only female, but beautiful—in a way that transcended Impriman standards.
Had O’Brien screwed up the transport somehow? Was he in the wrong suite—or even the wrong hotel?
That was possible, but not probable. They’d gotten the coordinates directly from Starfleet. And O’Brien’s performance had been impeccable up until now.
Was this female his partner, then? Perhaps things had changed around here.
She looked at him, placing her hands on her hips. She was dressed in rather unremarkable Besidian street garb, just as he was—low boots, a belted tunic, a hooded cloak with the hood pulled down for now. Her bare legs, he couldn’t help but notice, were slender and shapely at the same time.
“You’re staring,” she said.
He felt his cheeks grow hot. “Sorry,” he said. “
You didn’t expect to see a woman, did you?”
Riker’s first inclination was to deny his surprise. But that would only have made things worse.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”
“That’s all right,” she told him, but there was a stiffness in her voice that belied the assurance. “No one expects a female retainer. That’s what makes me so effective. I can go places where Criathis’s other retainers can’t. Or, as in this case, work on an investigation without drawing attention