Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [69]
Denyabe stopped him with a shake of his head. “No. It’s a lie. The goddess Fortune, the Light, the promise of wealth—all lies.” He smiled at the android. “Fortune doesn’t turn double plays. She doesn’t knock me in from second base. And she sure as hell doesn’t grow crops.” He hawked and spat. “Wealth? I’ll tell you what wealth is. It’s you and me, here and now. It’s people working on something together—something they can be proud off.” He grunted. “People can’t depend on Fortune, Bobo. They’ve got to depend on one another.” A pause. “You understand?”
Data nodded—slowly at first, tentatively, and then with more assurance. He hadn’t comprehended all of it, to be sure. There was still much for him to ponder. But he had grasped the essence of it.
The second baseman winked. “All right, then. You remember all that and maybe you’ll hit a home run today.”
The android winked back—it seemed to be the appropriate response. “I certainly hope so,” he said, as the ground crew trotted out to uncover the playing field.
Even though Riker had some idea of where he was going this time, the passageways were still narrow and confusing, and he needed his wits about him. The color codes wouldn’t help him much if he read them incorrectly.
“How’s the arm?” asked Crusher, a few steps behind him.
“It isn’t throbbing as much as it did before,” he told her. “The effect of the cold, maybe?”
“Or else your regenerated nerves are deteriorating. But more likely it is the cold.” She looked around. “You know,” she said, “this place seemed a lot more romantic when I was listening to Wesley describe it. It’s hard to be enchanted when you’re so concerned with staying alive.”
Riker was concerned, too. He’d been looking over his shoulder since the moment they left their hotel suite. There had been no sign that anyone was following them—but then, a real professional would have been sure not to leave one.
And now that they were in the maze, it would have been easy to kill them as Teller was killed—and just dump their bodies in the hole beside his.
“Are we getting close?” asked the doctor.
“Very close,” he told her. “In fact, if memory serves … ” They negotiated a sharp bend in the passage and there it was—the pit created by the cave-in. “We’re here,” he said.
It was no different from a dozen other pits they’d passed on the way—at least, at first glance. Crusher said so as they approached.
“Nonetheless,” Riker insisted, “this is the one.”
They shone their beamlights down into the darkness. To her credit, the doctor didn’t gasp at what she saw within. She didn’t make a sound. In fact, her only overt reaction was a flaring of her chiseled nostrils.
Teller was just as he and Lyneea had left him. Perfectly preserved by the cold, more like an ivory statue than the remains of a man.
“I’ll go first,” said Crusher. “You’re going to need some help getting down.”
Nor was the irony of role reversal lost on the first officer. Normally Riker, with his greater strength and agility, would have been giving the doctor a hand. But this was no time for machismo.
“You’ve got to hang on to that flat rock,” he instructed, indicating the stone with his beam. “Then drop. There’s a slope below it.”
She walked around the hole until she had a better view. “I see it,” she told him. Then, stashing the beamlight in her tunic, she latched on to the rock and lowered herself over the brink. A moment later he heard the crunch of her boots on the gravel.
“All right,” she called softly—out of deference for the dead man? “Do your best. I’ll try to keep you from hitting anything.”
Riker stowed his own beamlight. He sat carefully on the edge of the cave-in and took hold of the rock with one hand. Then he let himself slip in and down.
His purchase on the rock was tenuous at best; he couldn’t hang on for very long, and he wound up dropping at an awkward angle. But Crusher was there to help straighten him out when he landed.
Together they slid down the incline. Somehow they managed to keep their feet.
“Thanks,” he told her.
“Don