Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [74]
“No, sir,” responded the Klingon. “Commander Data’s shift ended twenty minutes ago. He is presently”—Worf punched up the information—”in Holodeck One.”
The captain noted that. “Mr. Worf, I would like Commander Data to be ready to help out as well. Please convey this to him. In person.”
The security chief must have wondered at the order, but he didn’t hesitate to obey it. Before Picard could make himself comfortable in the command center, Worf had disappeared into the turbolift.
After the rain delay the Icebreakers put a new pitcher on the mound. As Data understood it, the first pitcher’s arm had tightened up, and it was feared he would no longer be effective. Or that he would strain his arm if he continued to pitch. Or both. The answer depended on which infielder he consulted in his search for insight.
As luck would have it, the new pitcher threw to only two batters. The first one walked. The second one tripled into the gap in left center field.
The Icebreakers’ third pitcher was a little more stingy. But with two outs, he allowed a single over second base. The Sunset runner came in from third with the go-ahead run, making the score three to one in favor of the Phoenix team.
Terwilliger sat and fumed in one corner of the dugout. No one went near him—neither players nor coaches. No one dared. For as Jackson explained to Data while the fourth Icebreaker pitcher was warming up, Terwilliger felt responsible for the unfortunate turn of events.
“Why should that be?” asked the android. “He was not on the field. We were. If anyone is to blame, we are.”
Jackson shook his head. “He’s the manager.” He frowned at the sky and its tattered clouds, perhaps wondering why the rain had to come when it did. “If he had put in somebody else, the game might still be tied. Who’s he going to blame—the public address announcer?”
The last out for the Sunsets came on a curveball, Data noted. A curveball that was popped up to Galanti at first.
The android sympathized with the batter.
The pitching coach, a large, red-faced man, stood and clapped his hands as the players came in from the field. “All right,” he roared. “Let’s get ‘em back. Let’s get something started here.”
Data was only too glad to comply. As the leadoff hitter, he lingered in the dugout only long enough to deposit his glove and secure a bat. Then he bounced back out and headed for home plate.
The Sunset pitcher was in back of the mound, already twirling the ball in his bare hand while he waited for his teammates to find their positions. By the time the android took his place in the batter’s box, the infielders were already set. A few seconds later the outfielders reached their destinations as well, and the pitcher ascended to the rubber.
“Play ball,” called the umpire.
The pitcher went into his motion. Data crouched slightly and drew the bat back. The first time the ball became visible, whipping around from behind the pitcher’s back, the android riveted his attention to it. It flew straight and true.
Not a curveball, he observed—and was pleased by the fact. Keeping his eye on it, he prepared to drive it over the fence. After all, he had no trouble hitting fastballs.
The ball came whizzing toward him. Data began to step forward, to put his weight into his swing.
There was only one possibility he wasn’t prepared for. And of course, that was the one that presented itself.
Instead of hurtling over home plate, or at least in that general direction, the ball came right at Data. Before he could avoid it, it had plunked him on the shoulder.
Out on the mound, the pitcher kicked at the dirt. “Take yer base,” barked the home plate umpire.
For a moment, Data just stood there. He felt as if he’d been cheated somehow, as if that fastball should have been sailing out of the stadium now, instead of lying motionless at his feet.
But rules were rules. A batter hit by a pitch had no option but to go to first base. Reconciling himself to that reality, the android dropped his bat and started down the base path.
“Wait a minute,” stormed Terwilliger, charging out of the dugout. The