Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [79]
“Data wants to help them win the game, sir. That’s something they didn’t do historically. But he seems to feel they have a victory coming to them.” He stopped, stroked his chin. “One of them in particular—the manager, a fellow named Terwilliger.”
“The manager?”
“An administrative position. He’s like … well, like a captain, if you want to stretch it a little.”
Picard digested that. “So Data wants simply to do a good deed. To rectify, in some sense, the way history has maltreated this individual. And the rest of the team as well.”
“That’s it in a nutshell,” Geordi agreed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know if he has a prayer. History can be a pretty tough opponent. But he’s got to try. If he just gives it his best shot, I think he’ll feel he’s done his bit for his teammates. He’ll feel he’s earned their respect.”
The captain leaned forward again. “Well,” he said, “one certainly can’t fault him for that. Particularly when he’s got his superior’s reputation at heart, eh?”
Geordi chuckled. Worf’s scowl deepened.
“Tell me,” said the captain. “Would I like this … what did you say his name was? Terwilliger?”
“That’s right, sir,” said the engineering chief. “Terwilliger. But as for liking him … I don’t think so. Not from what Data told me.”
Picard had expected otherwise, but he refrained from saying so. “Very well then, gentlemen. Carry on.”
As his officers departed, the captain stood. Perhaps it was time to pay a visit to Holodeck One himself.
Chapter Thirteen
“HEY—YOU! How the hellja get in here?”
Picard considered the smallish, wiry man in front of the primitive viewscreen. What was that technology called again? Television? Yes, television.
“Actually,” said the captain, holding out his hands in a gesture of helplessness, “I dropped in to visit an associate. Perhaps you know him—Bobo Bogdonovich?”
He was glad he had obtained some details from the computer before entering the holodeck. Fortunately, the program was an open one, neither Riker nor Data having been inclined to close it.
“Bogdonovich?” echoed the wiry man, his anger and surprise giving way to curiosity. “He give you a pass or something?”
“Why, yes,” said Picard. “As a matter of fact, he did.” He pointed to a rectangle of blue sky balanced at the top of a short flight of steps. “He’s not up there, is he?”
The man screwed up his face. “Of course he’s up there. What didja think? They’re playin’ a damned game, right? And he’s one of the players, so where the devil else would he be?”
The captain smiled. “Thank you,” he said, and started for the patch of blue.
“Just hold on there a second, buddy.” The man interposed himself between Picard and the exit. “You can’t just go out there, no matter what kind of pass you have. That’s the dugout, fer cryin’ out loud.”
The captain took stock of the situation and realized it might be a difficult one. “Suspend program,” he said. Abruptly the wiry man fell silent, though his mouth remained open, in mid-argument.
As he straightened his linen sport jacket, Picard walked past the frozen figure and up the stairs. Shading his eyes against the brightness of that blue sky, he almost bumped into someone huddled on the topmost step—someone apparently trying to peek out of the aperture without being seen himself.
The man was in a uniform; logic dictated that he was part of a team. But he was certainly no athlete—not with that belly hanging over his belt. A suggestion bobbed up from the depths of Picard’s memories. Wasn’t there something called a batboy in these baseball games? Maybe that was this one’s function.
No. Batboys were youngsters, weren’t they? And this grizzled specimen was anything but young.
Negotiating a path around the man, the captain came out on the dugout level. From here he could see the playing field—a stretch of green that, from his eye-level perspective, seemed to go on forever.
“Greetings, sir.”
Picard looked up and saw Data standing to one side of the dugout. He was dressed in the same uniform as the man on the stairs. One hand held a leather mitt;