Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [90]
“What gets me,” Riker went on, “is Larrak’s audacity. To even consider hoodwinking Criathis like that, making them believe the merger was honorable, when all the time he intended to overturn the agreement with the Federation and restore trade with the Ferengi.”
“Business is business,” said Ralk. “And despite what you say, Larrak will see that we offer the greater profit.”
How far could he push it? He’d soon find out.
“Exactly how did Larrak spirit you in here, anyway? Did he pay someone to lower the transport barrier? Or have you been hiding here since before the carnival began?”
The Ferengi started to answer and then stopped himself. He eyed Riker suspiciously. “Something is going on,” he decided. His mouth twisted as apprehension dawned. “He’s got a communicator! He’s talking to his ship!”
It didn’t take Riker’s guards long to reach him. Before they did, he blurted out the name of the madraga holding them and their location in the house.
Not that O’Brien would need it—by now, he’d certainly have logged their coordinates. But it might help Worf in planning his arrival.
A retainer—the one who’d stopped Ralk a few moments earlier—grabbed Riker by the front of his tunic. “Damn you,” he said, “what was the point? You’re only going to die that much quicker.”
And stepping back, he leveled his blaster at the human’s face.
Where the hell was Worf? Where was the familiar shimmer of coalescing molecules?
Suddenly, a blue-white phaser beam came out of nowhere. It slammed into the retainer just before he’d have pressed his trigger, sending him flying across the room.
Riker wrestled around in his chair—just far enough to see Worf and Data standing in the doorway, dressed in Impriman tunics. The two remaining guards noticed them at the same time.
Blaster rays and phaser beams crisscrossed in midair. Another retainer was propelled into the wall behind him.
The last one must have known he didn’t have a chance. So rather than return the newcomers’ fire, he opted to take out the captives.
As he took aim, Riker saw that he meant to kill Lyneea first. Frantically, he rocked forward and tipped his chair; when it fell, it took his partner’s with it.
The two of them went over in an ungainly tangle of legs, living and otherwise. Before they hit the floor, Riker saw a shaft of blasterlight sizzle past his good shoulder.
Then someone—either Worf or Data—nailed the retainer with a phaser bolt. The man was knocked off his feet, landing heavily on one of his unconscious comrades.
“Ferengi,” called Riker, even before he’d gotten his bearings. “Maybe armed.”
A fraction of a second later, he heard a frenetic shuffle, as of escaping footsteps—followed by a scream and a triumphant Klingon snarl.
“Not armed,” announced Worf. “But definitely Ferengi.”
“Let me go,” complained Ralk.
“Then cooperate,” advised Worf. And so saying, he thrust the Ferengi into a vacant chair—at least that was how it sounded.
Of course Riker could see neither the Ferengi nor his fellow officers. Lying on his back, still bound to his chair, all he could see was Lyneea, who had fallen on her side with her face mere inches from his.
Without meaning to, he looked into her eyes, something he’d never had the opportunity to do before, at least not so close up.
“Thanks,” she told him, aware of the awkwardness of the moment. But a lot less ruffled by it than he would have expected.
“Don’t mention it,” he said.
Abruptly Data’s face loomed above them. “I trust,” he said, “that you are not hurt.”
The first officer shook his head. “No, Data. But I’d appreciate it if you could untie us. I can remember being in more comfortable positions.”
“As you wish,” said the android. And replacing his phaser on his Impriman belt, he knelt to free Lyneea.
A coincidence that he was taking care of the female first? Or was Data developing a code of chivalry? Riker pondered the question as his partner’s bonds were loosened.
Lyneea glanced at the android’s phaser. “I suppose,” she said, “there is a loophole