Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [45]
Riker nodded, not bothering to hide his admiration. “Good work,” he told her.
“I don’t do any other kind.”
“The tailor didn’t give you any trouble?”
“Far from it. He was so proud of being associated with a madraga like Rhurig, he would have recited Kobar’s genealogy if I’d let him.” She indicated the street outside with a jerk of her thumb. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find this Rhurig whelp.”
He got up. “I’m with you. Sitting in hotel rooms gives me too much time to think.” In a couple of strides, Riker joined her in the corridor, then closed the door and made sure it was locked. “Where do we start? At Rhurig’s estate in Besidia?”
Lyneea shook her head. “According to the tailor, Kobar prefers to stay in town during the carnival, with a friend or two.”
“That makes it more difficult,” Riker noted.
“Not necessarily. Our informant also told me that the third official is a collector. Ancient weapons. Knives, mostly.”
Something hardened in the pit of Riker’s stomach. “Knives,” he echoed.
“Yes. And if I’m not mistaken, there’s a rather well known antique-weapons merchant in the marketplace.”
Data could have entered the holodeck back in the first inning and tried to hit a home run this time instead of a single or, at the very least, used his speed to beat the throw to second base.
But somehow, it wouldn’t have seemed right. If he was going to thwart history, it would have to be on history’s terms. And history proceeded one step at a time, in a linear fashion.
As a result, he came in exactly where he’d left off, joining his teammates as they stood in the field, defending against the Sunsets’ second turn at bat. There were runners on first and second and no one out.
As the next batter stepped up to home plate, Data saw him glance in the direction of third base. Did that mean he would try to hit the ball to Bobo? It seemed a fair assumption.
Meanwhile, in the Icebreaker dugout across the field, Terwilliger was behaving strangely—touching the top of his head, his belt, his shoulder, elbow and wrist in a rapid, apparently random series of gestures. The android wondered if it was some sort of nervous condition brought on by the stress of the moment. After all, having put their first two batters on base, the Sunsets had an opportunity to tie the score and perhaps even go ahead.
Then Data saw Terwilliger ascend to the top of the dugout, stare at him, and repeat the gestures—this time more slowly and deliberately. The android had no idea what it meant, but he resolved to remain alert. If both the batter and his own manager were directing their attention to him, there was obviously a good chance that he would be involved in the next play.
Data crouched as he’d seen the other players crouch. He picked up some loose dirt and pounded it into his mitt, again in imitation of the others.
“Hey, Bobo!”
Data looked up and found the source of the greeting. It was Jackson, the rangy fellow at shortstop. He was calling to the android from behind his glove.
“You look a little confused,” observed Jackson. “You know what’s going on, man? You know the score?”
Data nodded. Was this one of the rituals of the game? “One to nothing,” he called back.
The shortstop stared at him from beneath the bill of his cap. Then he laughed.
“Right, Bobo. One to nothing. Funny guy.”
Then there was no more time for banter. The pitcher eyed the runners, breathed in and out, and went into his windup.
That was when the first baseman charged toward home plate, Denyabe took off for first, and Jackson shuffled toward third—all at the same time, as if by prearranged design.
Data realized he’d seen this maneuver before. And a moment later he remembered the circumstances. It was when Sakahara had laid down his bunt.
There was the sound of ball meeting bat—but gently. And as Data turned back toward home plate, he saw the ball dribbling slowly up the third base line—while all of the Sunset runners advanced.
Suddenly the android knew what he had to do. Making good