Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [87]
Larrak snapped his fingers, and one of his guards left the room. “I must confess,” he said, “I was concerned when I found a Federation liaison snooping around my grounds. I wondered how word of my association with Ralk had leaked out. Now, of course, I see that I can set my mind at ease. He wasn’t here about Ralk. He was here to bury the seal, wasn’t he?”
Reminded of Fortune’s Light, he retrieved it, along with the homing device that lay beside it. For a moment he held them both in his hands, considering them, as if weighing one against the other. Then he dropped the homing device and crushed it beneath his boot.
“Fortunately,” said Larrak, “it’s carnival time, and there’s a ban on modern communications systems. Or you could have contacted Criathis once you realized where the seal was hidden.”
Riker tried not to wince. He could have kept the Enterprise up to date on their progress, but in his eagerness, he’d chosen not to.
A moment later, Larrak’s retainer returned with a long, flowing garment in his hands. It was precisely the color of human blood.
“Ah,” said Terrin’s first official. “My ceremonial robe.” As he accepted it, he gave the retainer the seal. Once again, the man left the room.
“Just for the record,” said Riker, “you did kill Teller Conlon, didn’t you?”
Larrak donned his robe with a flourish. “For the record, yes.” Smoothing the front of the brocaded garment, he turned to Lyneea. “How do I look, my dear? Fit to lead this world’s newest and most powerful madraga into a golden age of prosperity?”
Larrak smiled. Lyneea spat at him. For a second or two his good humor fell away and he looked as if he might strike her. Then his smile returned.
“Tut, tut,” he said. “I expected better breeding from a retainer of Madraga Criathis.”
And with that he made his exit.
The captain stayed for the uneventful balance of the sixth inning and then excused himself. He had never been a real devotee of the game, he explained. And his concern about Data had been laid to rest.
In the top half of the seventh, the Phoenix hitters went down in order. It might have been otherwise but for a spectacular play in right field, in which Augustyn climbed the wall to rob the batter of a home run.
As Data took his seat in the dugout, he recalled the computer’s verdict on Bobo Bogdonovich: three official at-bats, one single, and one run batted in. Of course, he had already had two of those at-bats, plus one that didn’t count statistically—the one in which he got hit with the pitch.
And history had already nailed down the outcome of his last time at bat—when he would end the game by flying out to deep center field. But somewhere in between, he would have to get up again.
After all, he was the sixth hitter scheduled. That meant that even if all three Icebreaker batters failed to reach first base in the seventh, he would still come up in the eighth. It would work out for him to be the last out of the game only if the Icebreakers batted around—and he came up twice in the process.
However, the computer had been specific: only three official at-bats. And his fly out would be the third. So whatever he did in the seventh or eighth inning would have to constitute an unofficial at-bat.
Data rifled through his memory for the circumstances that would make a time at bat unofficial: a walk, a hit batsman, a run-scoring sacrifice via a fly out or a bunt …
The Icebreakers’ first batter, Maggin, hit a line drive single through the middle.
The following batter, Denyabe, got a base hit as well—this one a grounder between the first and second basemen—and on the play, Maggin made it to third.
Things were looking up for the Fairbanks team—a fact that was reflected in Terwilliger’s expression, which was decidedly less hostile than usual as he watched from the shadows. With two men on and no one out, it seemed they might win this game after all.
Of course, Data knew better. If history had its way, his teammates would find a way to leave those runners on base.
The next two batters managed to do just that. Sakahara