Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [102]
“Trust me,” said Data. He fashioned a smile. “Unless you would rather trust the goddess.”
The second baseman chuckled. “No,” he said, “never that.” And as the android retreated to the dugout, Denyabe approached the plate with renewed purpose.
“Finished?” asked the pitching coach, once Data had returned.
“Finished.”
“Think it’ll help?”
The android shook his head. “I hope so.”
A moment later Castle went into his windup. And a moment after that, the ball was on its way to the plate.
The pitch looked good. It appeared that it would find a piece of the strike zone. Denyabe tensed, as if every instinct was telling him to swing.
But he didn’t.
“Ball,” called the umpire.
Data felt gratified. However, Denyabe still had two strikes on him.
The next pitch was a ball as well. Again, Denyabe found the wherewithal to keep from swinging at it. Likewise, the pitch after that.
And finally, with the count full, Castle missed a fourth time. Denyabe tossed his bat aside and trotted to first base.
“Looks like you knew what you were talking about,” observed the pitching coach.
Data nodded. “It does look that way, does it not?” And removing his bat from the rack, he advanced to the top step of the dugout.
“What the hell did he tell him?” rasped Terwilliger. The android could hear his voice coming from the stairwell.
“Beats me,” said the coach.
As Sakahara took his place at the plate, Data hoped he would benefit from Denyabe’s example. As a veteran hitter, he would certainly have been watching the confrontation with great interest.
However, Castle crossed him up on the first pitch. Instead of serving up another curveball, he tried to sneak by a fastball.
Surprised, and therefore swinging a bit too late, Sakahara popped the ball up. The android watched as the ball landed in the shortstop’s mitt.
And realized abruptly that it had to have been that way. After all, Denyabe had gotten on base. That meant that neither Sakahara nor the next batter could do so. Otherwise, Bobo would never have the opportunity to make the game’s last out, as history demanded.
Simple mathematics. A formula worked out three hundred years before, on the field after which this holodeck simulation was modeled.
No doubt, even Denyabe’s base on balls had been part of that pattern. As much as Data had wanted to believe it was his doing, he knew it must have been preordained.
At the end of the dugout, hardly bothering to conceal himself anymore, Terwilliger looked miserable. And why not? He was watching his last chance at success slowly slip away from him.
If he had been human, Data would have sighed.
The android came out to the on-deck circle just as Galanti’s replacement—a squarish, stolid man named Houlihan—took his place at the plate. Castle started him off with a couple of curveballs, and he was patient enough to lay off them. But after working the count to two and one, he hit a high chopper to third base.
It was too late to throw to second—Denyabe had been running on the pitch—so the third baseman fired the ball to first. But the throw was low and the first baseman couldn’t quite dig it out. What was more, as the ball dribbled away, Denyabe was able to scoot into third.
The crowd roared its approval. There were runners on the corners, with only one out.
And in the on-deck circle, Data stood as if rooted to the spot, rapidly trying to make sense of what had just transpired.
“Stop program,” he called.
Everyone and everything ground to a halt. It was strangely quiet in the cavernous stadium.
“Computer,” he said, “describe the historical performances of Icebreakers Denyabe, Sakahara, and Houlihan in their ninth-inning at-bats.”
The computer didn’t hesitate. “Noah Denyabe struck out swinging. Muri Sakahara popped up to the shortstop. Kevin Houlihan reached base on a throwing error by the third baseman.”
Data considered the information. Apparently Sakahara and Houlihan had done exactly what history demanded of them.
But Denyabe had not.
Hundreds of years ago the second baseman had not had Data to advise