Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [31]
The computer stopped there, its summary complete. But having been supplied with a perspective on the matter, Data now had other questions.
“Tell me about the game played on October 7, 2026, between the Phoenix Sunsets and the Fairbanks Icebreakers.”
“The game was a playoff,” said the computer, “to determine the champion team of the American League, which would go on to face the National League’s San Diego Padres in the World Series. The contest was decided in the seventh inning when Sunset center fielder Rob Clemmons hit a home run with the bases empty. The final score was four to three.”
It took a moment for the information to sink in. “The Icebreakers lost?” asked Data.
“That is correct.”
He digested that. Terwilliger had failed—again. “Interesting,” he said out loud.
But it was more than interesting. It was disconcerting, somehow.
Data had just assumed the Fairbanks team had won. After all, it was Commander Riker’s program, and he had placed himself in the role of an Icebreaker. It stood to reason that he would have preferred to experience a positive result.
“Do you require additional information?” asked the computer.
“Yes,” said the android, straightening in his seat. “Describe the role played in the game by Bobo Bogdonovich.”
“Miroslav ‘Bobo’ Bogdonovich was a minor league player called up to replace George Kilkenny, the Icebreakers’ regular third baseman. Bogdonovich hit safely once in three official times at bat, with one run batted in. His fly ball to deep center field was the final out of the game.”
Data experienced a pang of disappointment. The knowledge of the Icebreakers’ loss—of Terwilliger’s loss —bothered him even more.
But why? He wasn’t Bobo Bogdonovich, any more than he was Sherlock Holmes or Henry IV or any of the other guises he had assumed in the holodecks. He bore no responsibility for Bogdonovich’s performance on October 7, 2026.
The Icebreakers had played that game more than three hundred years ago. It was a matter of historical record.
Terwilliger and Denyabe and the clubhouse man were long gone. He had never become acquainted with any of them, only with their holographic replicas.
It seemed that the outcome of the contest was still in the future, still to be determined, but that was an illusion, of course. Only the outcome of the program might be malleable, depending on how Riker had structured it; the reality certainly was not.
And yet Data still felt troubled, as if he had left something incomplete.
Something—or someone?
Did that make sense? The android wasn’t entirely sure. But he knew one thing: he was obliged to finish the program. And to try to succeed, if he could, where the historical Bogdonovich had fallen short.
One last question occurred to him, and he posed it to the computer. The answer was appallingly concise.
“Professional baseball finally succumbed to mounting losses in the year 2059. At that point only eight franchises remained of the thirty-two that had populated the American and National Leagues at the peak of their prosperity.
“In the twenty-second century, entrepreneurs attempted to resurrect the sport with a ten-team intraplanetary league. However, their enterprise folded after less than two seasons.”
“Thank you,” said Data, though a part of him was sorry he’d asked.
Chapter Six
THE FIRE FELT GOOD. Riker nudged his chair a little closer to it.
Lyneea stood on the other side of the room, disdaining the warmth of the hearth. After all, as she had reminded him, it wasn’t even the coldest part of the winter yet.
For the last half-hour or so they had been examining their options. There were precious few.
No one at the tavern would talk to them now—that was for sure. The Pandrilite was in the custody of the Besidian authorities, but he’d probably told them all he knew. Likewise for Bosch.
“We could tail him,” suggested Riker. “Maybe we were wrong. Maybe he was lying.”
Lyneea shook her head. Brittle light slanted