Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [103]
Data shook his head. Without realizing it, he had changed history.
It was a refreshing thought. A liberating thought.
And what was even better, Denyabe was on third base. Now, when Data hit his long fly ball to center field, it would mean something. Denyabe would tag up on the play and tie the game, keeping the Icebreakers’ hopes alive.
The notion was immensely satisfying.
“Resume program,” said the android.
The computer complied. Everything started up again.
Data approached the plate. He took a few practice swings and dug in. The pitcher eyed him, perhaps a little shaken after the latest turn of events.
The first pitch to Data was a fastball, but it was in the dirt. No chance to hit it.
The next pitch was a curveball, but not one of those tantalizing Number Twos of the sort that Castle had thrown Denyabe. This one was right down the middle—right down Broadway, as Denyabe had said.
A mistake. And maybe Bobo’s best opportunity to hit the ball deep.
He waited, as Geordi had advised. Concentrated on the flight of the ball, trying to anticipate when it might break. And then he swung.
As soon as he made contact, Data knew he had done his job. The ball fairly leapt off his bat. Making his way down the first base line, he watched it take to the air.
It seemed that there was a hush in the big stadium. As if everyone was too preoccupied with the flight of the baseball to remember to breathe.
Out of the corner of his eye, the android saw his teammates in the dugout. They were rising out of their seats. And Terwilliger was among them, his expression one of open-mouthed disbelief.
Out in center field, the Sunset player named Clemmons started to backpedal. Then, realizing that the ball had been hit harder than he thought, he turned his back on it and gave chase.
Data paid little attention to him. After all, history had decided that the ball would be caught. The real Clemmons had made the same mistake and corrected it the same way some three hundred years before.
But he had changed history, hadn’t he? He had interrupted the sequence of events, opening up a world of new possibilities… .
As he approached first base, pursuing this line of reasoning, he saw the ball sail over Clemmons’s head, unrelenting in its progress, and a moment later, clear the outfield wall with inches to spare.
Data couldn’t believe it. He knew he had hit it hard—but not that hard. Directly in front of him, Houlihan was pumping his fist in the air, unable to contain his jubilation.
The android rounded the bases behind him, feeling more mechanical than he had ever felt before—as if his body were moving of its own volition.
All about him the stands were erupting with a mighty sound. People were throwing things in the air and hugging one another. The entire stadium seemed to be vibrating with the force of their exhilaration.
By the time he rounded third and was heading for home, the whole team had come out to meet him. Denyabe, who had scored the tying run just seconds before, was foremost among them. Sakahara and Jackson and Cordoban stood behind him, and Galanti had limped out as well.
Houlihan vanished into their midst, slapping hands and whooping for joy. And Data came next, absorbed into the artificial mass of humanity that was the Fairbanks Icebreakers. Arms were flung about his shoulders, words of praise and exultation shouted in his ears.
Abruptly, without warning, the android found himself being raised up off the ground—lifted onto the shoulders of his teammates. And only then was he able to discern the chant that the crowd had embraced: “Bo-bo! Bo-bo! Bo-bo!”
But one face was missing from the celebration. One very important face.
Data searched for it—and finally found it back at the dugout. Slipping down from his perch, slipping out of their midst entirely, he approached Terwilliger.
The man was just standing on the dugout’s top step, tears welling in his eyes. He wasn’t quite smiling. He just looked dumbfounded.
“Congratulations,” said the android, once