Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [12]
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then know this,” she said, the edge in her voice becoming even sharper. “The theft of Fortune’s Light is an Impriman affair. It should be dealt with by Imprimans, not by offworlders who have passed through on their way from one place to another. We are your allies, not your puppets.” The muscles in her temples rippled. “The mere suggestion that we need the help of the Federation in this instance is … irksome to me. More than that—it’s hateful.” Her delicate nostrils flared. “However,” she said, and her voice was calm again suddenly, “as I told you, I’m a professional, a retainer of Madraga Criathis. I will carry out my assignment to the letter, no matter whom I must ally myself with.”
Her declaration caught him a little off-balance. “I see” was all he could get out.
“No doubt you’re glad you asked.”
Riker shrugged. “Actually, I am. It’s important for us to know each other, at least a little bit.” He managed a smile. “What our names are, for instance.”
Her features seemed to soften a bit.
He held out his hand. She took it, and her grip was stronger than he’d anticipated. No shortage of surprises in this retainer, no matter what her name was.
“I’m Riker,” he said. “Will Riker.”
“Yes,” she told him. “I know that. It was in my briefing. I’m Lyneea Tal.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
She took back her hand. “Are you? I wouldn’t have thought so, under the circumstances.”
“The circumstances—meaning our apparent inability to agree on anything substantial?”
She nodded. “More or less, yes.”
He grunted. “So it’s not the most congenial of partnerships. We don’t have to get along—we just have to do our jobs.”
Lyneea eyed him. “You make sense—for an offworlder.”
Riker didn’t take offense. He’d been called a lot worse. “Thank you,” he told her.
Troi sat in Beverly Crusher’s office going over her patient logs on the chief medical officer’s desk monitor. Not, of course, that she needed to remind herself of anything—she’d reviewed her notes as recently as a few hours before. However, since the alternative was to sit and watch the med techs continue their routine maintenance checks on the biobeds …
“Deanna?”
Troi looked up and saw her friend breeze into the room. Plunking herself down behind her desk, Crusher took a deep breath and smiled.
“Sorry,” she said.
Troi smiled back. “That’s all right. I had a lovely time gazing at the naked mechanisms of your biobeds. Who would have thought that they’d be as fascinating inside as out?”
Crusher’s hand shot to her chest, as if she’d been stabbed. “I stand accused,” she said.
Troi looked forward to these periodic meetings with Crusher—these note-comparing sessions based on the long-ago-accepted belief that maladies of the body and those of the mind were inextricably entwined. Nor did she really mind that she’d been kept waiting.
But the doctor would have been disappointed if she hadn’t given her at least one friendly jab. After all, what were friends for?
“You weren’t delayed by anything serious, I trust?”
Crusher sighed. “That all depends. Is an obsessed teenager something serious?”
The Betazoid pretended to ponder the question. “Could be,” she decided. Then: “What is Wesley obsessed with now?”
“Well,” said her colleague, “it all started when he was sitting on the bridge, watching Captain Picard subtly maneuver Will Riker into telling him about his Priority One mission.”
“Oh, yes,” said the counselor. “The one Will didn’t even confide in me about.”
Crusher chuckled. “As if he’s going to make a Priority One mission common knowledge! Of course, it’s that very secrecy that piqued Wesley’s interest.”
“Ah,” said Troi. “So that is his obsession.”
Crusher nodded. “He was so wrapped up in the human interactions on the bridge, he overlooked the substance of Will’s summons—but not for long. And when my son sinks his teeth into a mystery …”
“I understand,” said the counselor. “So it was difficult to tear yourself away.”
“Quite. Before I left the ship for Starfleet Medical, I might’ve had an easier