Fortune's Light Part 23

Kicking and smas.h.i.+ng, tearing and slithering, he did his best to work free of the tangle. Anyone else would have acknowledged that he was fighting a losing battle-but Worf was not anyone.

"d.a.m.n you, hold still," yelled an adversary.

"Hey, George ... I don't think that's a mask."

"Of course it's a mask. n.o.body's that ugly."

Worf struggled with renewed fury. Ugly, was it? He would show these slugs how ugly a Klingon could ...

"Pause," said a voice-one that Worf recognized.

Suddenly the comments stopped. And so did his adversaries' attempts to subdue him. With as much dignity as possible, the Klingon climbed out from under the pile.

He found Data waiting for him with an outstretched hand. The android looked more than a little apologetic.

"I hope you are not injured," he said. "I would have stopped the program sooner, but you appeared to be enjoying yourself."

Worf ignored the hand and got to his feet. "Who are they?" he asked, looking back at the mound of simulated humanity. "I did not know you were partial to combat programs."

"I am not," answered Data. "The main activity here is something called a baseball game, a spectator sport of the twenty-first century." He indicated the uniformed ones. "These security guards are present to keep the crowd from endangering the players and, of course, one another."

Worf couldn't believe his ears. "These," he said, "are security guards?" He grunted-a sound that another Klingon would have recognized as an expression of disdain. "They dishonor the t.i.tle. A dozen of them could not subdue a lone intruder."

"To be fair," said the android, "they were unaccustomed to dealing with an intruder like you."

The Klingon allowed the truth of that, but it did not raise the guards in his esteem. He believed that security personnel should be prepared for anything. Then another question occurred to him.

"Why did they attack me," he asked, "and not you?"

"I am disguised by a persona function," explained Data. "When the simulacrums look at me, they see someone called Bobo Bogdonovich-the role Commander Riker intended to play when he created this program. You, on the other hand, are extraneous to this milieu. Since the security guards did not recognize you, they attempted to remove you from the field." A pause. "Nor could your Klingon appearance have helped matters any. In the twenty-first century, mankind had not yet seen a Klingon."

Mankind's loss, mused Worf. As for the persona function, he probably should have thought of that himself-though in his own holodeck programs, he wove in no such protection. After all, it was essential that his enemies recognize him if they were to engage one another in battle.

But this was all beside the point. He had come here for a reason, and he apprised Data of the fact. Without any further pleasantries.

"The captain sent me. He wants you to be ready in case it becomes necessary to join Commander Riker in Besidia."

That seemed to pique the android's curiosity. "I thought Commander Riker was incapacitated."

"He is. Apparently, he has decided to forge ahead anyway."

Worf did not disguise his admiration, though he would have expected no less of Riker. The first officer was not easily daunted.

Data nodded. "I see. You may consider me alerted."

The Klingon rumbled his acknowledgment of the fact and turned to leave.

"Lieutenant?"

Worf looked back, saw the inquisitive expression on the android's face. He hoped that the question would not be a long one, though experience had taught him to expect otherwise.

"Certainly you could have contacted me via the s.h.i.+p's intercom," said Data. "Is there some reason you chose to deliver your message in person?"

"Yes," said the Klingon. "I was ordered to do so." Then, before he could be interrogated any further, he exited the holodeck.

As soon as Worf was gone, Data commanded the computer to resume the program-but at the point just prior to the Klingon's unannounced visit. At once the stadium came back to life.

"It's moments like these," said the trainer, "that make me put off retirement."

"Indeed," replied the android.

On the playing field, things were beginning to settle down again. The Sunset pitcher was back on the mound, the defensive players had taken up their positions, and Cordoban was approaching the plate.

The trainer was still descending the dugout steps when the pitch came. Cordoban hit it hard to the right of the shortstop, who dove to knock the ball down. Then, after picking it up with his bare hand, he threw it to second base-just in time to beat the sliding Bobo.

However, Cordoban reached first base before the relay throw. So the Icebreakers still had a runner at first-just a different runner. And, of course, there was one out.

As Data returned to the Icebreaker dugout, he was surprised to see Terwilliger's face peering out of the stairwell that led to the clubhouse. Hadn't the manager been ejected from the contest?

He asked Denyabe about it. "Come on," said the second baseman. "You're kidding, right? Even in the minors, managers don't leave when they're ejected. At least they didn't when I was in the minors."

It was another nuance of the game that Data had been unprepared for. He filed it away with all the others.

The next batter up was Augustyn. To the delight of the fans as well as his teammates on the bench, he doubled down the right field line. That put runners on second and third with only one man out.

Jackson batted after Augustyn. He worked the count to three b.a.l.l.s and two strikes before lofting the next pitch deep to center field. Data judged by the accolades all around him that it was deep enough for Cordoban, the runner on third, to tag up and score.

In the end it accomplished more than that. When Augustyn tried to tag up as well, the Sunset center fielder made a poor throw to third. The ball squibbed into the Sunset dugout, and Augustyn was waved home.

Once again, the score was tied. It made for a jubilant moment in the Icebreaker dugout when Cordoban and Augustyn came trotting down the steps, with Jackson on their heels.

No one even seemed to care when Cherry struck out to end the inning.

The turbodoors opened, admitting Worf back onto the bridge. Picard turned and their eyes met.

"All is in readiness," said the chief of security, in response to the unspoken question. "Commander Data has been briefed."

Picard nodded. "Thank you, Lieutenant." He paused, and the Klingon remained where he was, perceiving that the captain required something else. How well you have come to know me, Worf. "I would like a word with you. In my ready room."

Rising out of his command chair, Picard headed for his private office. He strode past the Klingon; the doors slid aside and they entered.

As he rounded his desk, the captain gestured to the seat on the other side of it. "Please," he said. "Sit."

Worf sat. He regarded Picard with hooded eyes, but said nothing. It was the human's prerogative to speak first in this situation, and they both knew it.

The captain leaned back in his chair. "I must confess," he said, "I am more than a little curious as to what Data is doing in that holodeck. Which is why I had you relay my orders in person ..."

Suddenly a soft beeping came from the vicinity of the door. Sighing, Picard responded: "Come."

When the doors parted, Geordi came striding in, as full of energy and enthusiasm as ever. "Just wanted you to know," he said, "that those enhancements are already paying dividends. I just-"

He was halfway inside the cabin before he noticed the captain wasn't alone.

"Oops," blurted Geordi. "Sorry, sir. I didn't know you had company."

"That is all right, Commander. Actually I was going to call you as soon as Worf and I were finished. You might as well pull up a chair and join us."

Geordi glanced at the Klingon, shrugged. "If I'm not interrupting, sure." And with that, he slipped agreeably into the chair next to Worf's.

"We were talking about Mr. Data," remarked Picard. "And his fascination with that holodeck program." He indicated his security chief. "I just sent Worf to visit him in the holodeck-to alert him to the possibility that he may be needed on an away team."

"In support of Commander Riker," supplied Geordi.

"Precisely. Of course, I could have sent the order via s.h.i.+p's intercom ..."

The engineering officer nodded. "But you wondered what Data was up to."

The captain made a steeple of his fingers, taking the time to choose his words carefully. "I am not a busybody," he said finally. "Normally, what people do in their off-duty hours is their own business. However, the last time Mr. Data spent so much time in a holodeck, he was helping his android prodigy to select a species and a gender. I do not want something like that happening again without my knowing it."

Geordi waved away even the suggestion of it. "Not to worry," he said. "First of all, this program wasn't even Data's idea."

Picard looked at him. "Then whose idea was it?"

"Commander Riker's. It's a baseball game he plucked out of the history books. Data just adopted it-with permission, of course."

The captain smiled. "Baseball, eh?"

Geordi tilted his head. "You're familiar with the sport, sir?"

"I have a nodding acquaintance with it," Picard said. He thought for a moment. "But why has Data become so absorbed in it?"

"You know," replied Geordi, "I asked him the same question, more or less. He said he'd thought about it a lot, but didn't have an answer."

Picard grunted. "Care to venture a guess-either of you?"

Worf just scowled. Apparently, the experience had been a bit too alien for him.

Geordi was somewhat more daring. "This is only a guess," he warned, "but I think Data feels ... well, a kins.h.i.+p with the characters in the program."

"Kins.h.i.+p?" echoed the captain. "How so?"

Geordi's brow wrinkled. Obviously he hadn't thought this all the way through yet. But he went on anyway, groping for the logical conclusion. "Because they're man-made," he said at last. "Because they're like him."

Picard shook his head. "Only on the surface, Commander. Mr. Data is an autonomous life-form. He is not dependent on some external mechanism for his existence."

"Isn't he?" Geordi wondered out loud. "In fact, aren't we all? Let's say the s.h.i.+p suddenly vanished out from under us. How long would we last in the vacuum of s.p.a.ce? Of all of us, Data would be the only survivor. And even he would succ.u.mb eventually-if not to cold and radiation, then to the inexorable tug of Imprima's gravity."

The captain drew a breath, let it out. "I see what you mean, Commander. And your point is well taken."

Picard was touched by a feeling of dej vu. Hadn't he had this conversation with someone once before?

Or was it a conversation he'd had with himself-sometime during the many hours he'd spent trying to define intelligent life, if not for the Federation, then at least for Jean-Luc Picard? Since the day he entered s.p.a.ce, his most heartfelt beliefs on that subject had been turned on their ear more than once. And Data had done much of the turning.

Worf was looking at Geordi with narrowed eyes. "Commander, are you suggesting that Data's loyalty may be divided?" Naturally, that would be of concern to the head of security, whether he believed it or not.

"Not at all," said Geordi. "I'm just saying that Data feels a responsibility to these characters. He doesn't want to let them down, any more than he would want to let us down."

"In what way might he do that?" asked the captain.

"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 nutsh.e.l.l," 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 h.e.l.lja 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 a.s.sociate. 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.