Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [44]
“Captain Picard?”
The voice sounded eerie here, out of place. It broke Picard’s concentration; he frowned.
“Yes, Mr. Aquino?”
“It’s Commander Riker. He’d like to speak with you.” Picard took off his mask. He planted his point on the deck, which he’d programmed to simulate the hard cork floor of Salle Guillaume.
“Put him through, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir.”
The ball’s arcs were getting smaller and smaller, thanks to the ship’s artificial gravity. His programming, he told himself once again, had been impeccable; the place even smelled right—like wood soap and well-earned perspiration.
“Captain?”
“Good to hear from you, Number One. How are things progressing down there?”
Riker’s grunt was audible. “They could be progressing better.”
“How so?”
“For one thing, we’ve found my friend.”
That piqued the captain’s interest. “Have you?”
“Yes. But if he’s guilty of the theft, he has more than paid the price.”
“More than … What are you saying, Number One? Not that he’s dead?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, sir.”
Had they been face to face, Picard might have found a way to adequately express the sympathy he felt for his first officer. The grief he shared.
As it was, he had only words. “I’m sorry, Will. Damned sorry.”
“So am I.”
“How did it happen?”
Riker told him. It seemed that this affair was a good deal more complicated than anyone had expected. More complicated and more dangerous.
“So now,” Picard extrapolated, “you’re trying to identify the one whose emblem you found in the maze?”
“That’s right. Lyneea has gone to the tailor Madraga Rhurig retains in Besidia. She’s posing as a servant for Rhurig, hoping that she can get the tailor to mention the name of the emblem’s owner.”
“Very clever. And if she’s successful?”
“We’ll trail the party in question. See if he’ll lead us to the seal—or at least give us some clue to its whereabouts.”
“I see,” said the captain. “You know, Number One, time is running out.”
A pause. “No one knows that better than I do, sir.” Was that a hint of resentment in Riker’s tone?
“Of course not,” said Picard. “Forgive me.”
“I think I’d better go now,” said his first officer. “But I’ll contact you again next chance I get.”
Silence.
Picard took a deep breath, exhaled. He knew what Riker was going through. After all, he’d lost his share of friends over the years. And in at least one case he’d felt responsible for the loss, though a court-martial had concluded that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.
Suddenly he didn’t feel like hitting the little black ball anymore. Or looking at Salle Guillaume.
At times like this he was more comfortable on the bridge, ensconced in the present rather than the past.
“Terminate program,” he called out.
And in the wink of an eye his old fencing den vanished —in its place, the stark, gridlike pattern of a naked holodeck.
He had been testy with the captain—Riker knew that. A less understanding superior would have given him hell for it. What was the matter with him, letting his emotions get in the way of his job? They’d better not. Not now, when things were starting to heat up.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside his room. Opening his tunic, he slipped the communicator back inside.
Not that using it to contact the ship was wrong. As he’d explained to Worf, Federation-issue communicators weren’t specifically listed among the high-tech items prohibited during the carnival. Technically he should be allowed to use it.
It was a fine point, however, and one he didn’t care to argue with Lyneea. At some point, a link with the Enterprise might come in handy.
A key rattled in the lock. The door opened and Lyneea came in. She looked at him.
She smiled.
“You’ve got a name,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Indeed I have,” she told him. “Kobar. Third official of Madraga Rhurig—the first official’s son.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I’m surprised. He’s a real firebrand. And he’s got designs on Norayan, if half the stories are true. If he suspected that she was having an affair with the