Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [91]
Data looked puzzled. But Worf knew what she was talking about.
“Perhaps we stretched the rule,” he offered. “But if we had not, you would be in no position to raise the question.”
She frowned at the Klingon’s answer, but seemed to accept it. Riker marveled at the change in her; a couple of days ago, she would have made a point of confiscating the phasers. Would wonders never cease?
After loosening the last of Lyneea’s bonds, the android moved to free the first officer. “Hurry,” urged Riker. “We’ve got to get out of here in time to stop the merger ceremony.”
Normally they could have made it to the ceremony site in no time—by beaming over. But direct beaming required them to be transported up to the ship first and then sent on to their ultimate destination. And with the transport barrier preventing anyone from leaving Besidia, that was currently impossible. Besides, Riker still had to come up with a plan to stop the merger, though the seeds of one were already germinating in his head.
“I am doing my best,” said Data. “If I work any faster, I fear I may injure you in the process.”
“It’s all right,” said the human. “After what I’ve been through, I think I can stand a few friction burns.”
Obediently the android worked faster. But such was his skill that, despite Data’s apprehension, Riker felt no discomfort except for the throbbing of his wound.
“What are you going to do with me?” asked Ralk.
“Nothing like what we should do,” said Lyneea.
Worf looked to Riker. “Commander?”
“We can’t just tie him up,” he said, thinking out loud. “One of these retainers is bound to wake up soon and free him. And we still need him as proof of what Larrak was up to.” He smiled at the Ferengi, noting how much Ralk looked like a fish on a hook. “I guess we’ll just have to take him with us.”
Chapter Fifteen
THE AMPHITHEATER was a plain brick building with a green-stained copper roof. It wasn’t nearly as old as the Maze of Zondrolla or as elaborate as the estate house of Terrin. But its round shape, high walls, and considerable size made it imposing in its own way.
The single entrance to the place was guarded by retainers. Fortunately, Riker noted, they were in the employ of Madraga Criathis.
“There’s no time to explain,” Lyneea told them. “We’ve got to get in. Now.”
The retainer in charge indicated the unconscious figure slung over Data’s shoulder. “But … that’s a Ferengi.”
“I know what he is. And you know that my assignment is top priority. Now, are you going to let us through?”
The retainer cursed. But in the end, he had to trust Lyneea’s judgment.
They followed a passageway that led underneath the first level of seats—all five of them, including the phaser-stunned Ralk, who had made the mistake of testing Worf’s vigilance. The Ferengi was still deadweight when they arrived at an opening that led into the seating area.
Every madraga seemed to be represented in the crowd. Riker saw the yellow robes of Alionis, the black of Rhurig, the rich green of Ekariah. The blue, almost violet hue of Criathis. And of course, the red of Terrin.
As they emerged from the opening, heads turned—to see who had come so unpardonably late. There were retainers situated strategically at intervals, and not all of them belonged to Lyneea’s madraga. Their heads turned as well.
In the center of the arena, on a massive white-silk-draped platform perhaps ten meters high, the officials of the two merging madraggi had begun their ceremony. They were ensconced at a semicircular table, at either end of which was an ornate brass stand supporting a purple velvet pillow. And resting on each pillow was an object difficult to see from this distance, except for a point of splendor where it caught the artificial radiance emanating from fixtures in the ceiling.
The seals of the two respective madraggi, one of them—the one near the twilight-blue robes—the newly restored Fortune’s Light.
Riker’s group headed down an aisle toward the first row of seats. There were stirrings among the onlookers—murmurs of curiosity