Fortune's Light Part 3

"And that's the last time I'm gonna fetch yet d.a.m.ned leather for ya. I don't care who you are."

"My apologies," said the android. "It will not happen again."

Then he turned around and followed the voices to their source.

Chapter Three.

RIKER MATERIALIZED in a large but seedy-looking hotel room. Long, open shutters on his right let in shafts of ruddy sunlight and the sounds of a street clown show-not to mention a good cold breeze, which turned his first planetside breath into a s.h.i.+vering wisp of frost vapor. The fireplace on his left was stocked with wood, but unused-and had been for some months, judging by the rakannad webs that had proliferated inside it.

He had forgotten how cold-blooded these Imprimans were.

Riker went to the window. Outside, there was snow on the ground, churned into mud around the clown show. A couple of ascetics sat against a wall, apart from the festivity and the laughter, dressed in their brown robes. Brightly colored b.a.l.l.s rose into the iron gray sky and fell again. Everyone cheered except the ascetics.

Nothing had changed.

Just as he thought that, he heard the sc.r.a.pe of footsteps in the next room. His partner, of course. The retainer who would be working with him.

A figure emerged. He glanced at it over his shoulder.

And did a double take.

The newcomer was female.

That was evident from her smooth, pale skin, her sea green eyes and exotic cheekbones. It was evident in her blue-black hair, pulled back to reveal ears like delicate little half-crowns.

She was not only female, but beautiful-in a way that transcended Impriman standards.

Had O'Brien screwed up the transport somehow? Was he in the wrong suite-or even the wrong hotel?

That was possible, but not probable. They'd gotten the coordinates directly from Starfleet. And O'Brien's performance had been impeccable up until now.

Was this female his partner, then? Perhaps things had changed around here.

She looked at him, placing her hands on her hips. She was dressed in rather unremarkable Besidian street garb, just as he was-low boots, a belted tunic, a hooded cloak with the hood pulled down for now. Her bare legs, he couldn't help but notice, were slender and shapely at the same time.

"You're staring," she said.

He felt his cheeks grow hot. "Sorry," he said. "

You didn't expect to see a woman, did you?"

Riker's first inclination was to deny his surprise. But that would only have made things worse.

"No," he said. "I didn't."

"That's all right," she told him, but there was a stiffness in her voice that belied the a.s.surance. "No one expects a female retainer. That's what makes me so effective. I can go places where Criathis's other retainers can't. Or, as in this case, work on an investigation without drawing attention to the fact."

"Makes sense." He nodded. "I'm-"

"I know who you are. Let's just get started, shall we?" She indicated a low-slung couch to one side of the fireplace. Riker sat and tried not to stare again as she began to pace.

"All right," said the woman, rubbing her hands together. "Here's where we stand. As you already know, if you've spent any time at all on this planet, a high-tech ban is imposed on Besidia during the Trade Carnival. That means no weapons or other devices of the sort introduced into Imprima over the last seven hundred years-in deference to the age of wisdom that sp.a.w.ned the madraggi in the first place.

"Another rule is that people can come in whenever they want-but no one can leave. That's not just a custom-it's enforced through the use of energy s.h.i.+elds. Though of course they are dropped momentarily to permit arrivals like yours."

"You're right," he said evenly. "I'm already aware of all this." Probably he should have just shut up and listened. But he had the distinct feeling that he was being talked down to. Worse, it seemed to him that she knew she was doing it-had, in fact, a.s.sumed this condescending att.i.tude to mock him.

But why? Not over the issue of her s.e.x, he hoped. He had apologized for that mistake already.

The Impriman went on as if he'd never interrupted. "Since Teller Conlon was entrusted with the seal after the beginning of the carnival, he couldn't have left Besidia with it. Therefore, it is somewhere within the city limits. When we find him, we find it-and I've already discovered a trail that may lead us to him."

"You sound certain that it was Conlon who took the seal," said Riker.

She regarded him. "Aren't you?"

"Far from it. If he's missing, it's because he was kidnapped to make it look as though he took the seal."

She grunted. "I see. And his history of petty smuggling does nothing to make you doubt that?"

He stared back at her. "What history of petty smuggling?"

The Impriman frowned slightly. "My apologies. I thought you had been better informed by your Starfleet." Pulling a leather wallet out of her tunic, she tossed it to him.

He caught it, opened it, and drew out its contents. "What's this?" he asked her.

"The details," she said, "of Teller Conlon's illegal activities, in which he used the power of his office to ama.s.s personal wealth."

Riker pored over the information, aware that she was watching him the whole time, waiting to see his reaction. Finally he replaced the material in the wallet and tossed it back to her. "I don't believe this-any of it. All it shows is that someone's gone to great lengths to set up my friend-created an elaborate trail that would eventually lead to him." He shook his head. "I just don't buy it."

The Impriman nodded. "I was warned you might feel this way."

"Whoever warned you was right. I'm here to get Teller out of this mess safe and sound. Not to partic.i.p.ate in his incrimination."

The woman eyed him. "Rest a.s.sured," she said, "that I'm a professional. I'm not here to incriminate your friend, just to conduct my investigation. Criathis will decide the question of guilt. And I think you'll agree-whether he's guilty or not, the discovery of Teller Conlon's whereabouts may be of some importance in recovering the seal."

Riker spread his hands. "No argument there. You said you had a lead?"

"Yes. We can pursue it now, if you like. Or if you have some ideas of your own, I can pursue it by myself."

Her tone was brisk, businesslike. But there was something very unbusinesslike beneath it. Something decidedly hostile.

"No," said Riker. "I think we can work on your idea. Together." He paused, seeking the right words. "You know, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot here. It's just that Teller Conlon is my friend and-"

"Yes," she interjected. "You said that."

He looked at her, trying to remain calm and reasonable. "So I did," he said. Clearing his throat, he took another stab at it. "Listen-there's obviously something about me that bothers you. If it's not my belief in my friend's innocence, then what is it? The fact that you caught me staring at your legs?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"I'm sure."

"Then know this," she said, the edge in her voice becoming even sharper. "The theft of Fortune's Light is an Impriman affair. It should be dealt with by Imprimans, not by offworlders who have pa.s.sed through on their way from one place to another. We are your allies, not your puppets." The muscles in her temples rippled. "The mere suggestion that we need the help of the Federation in this instance is ... irksome to me. More than that-it's hateful." Her delicate nostrils flared. "However," she said, and her voice was calm again suddenly, "as I told you, I'm a professional, a retainer of Madraga Criathis. I will carry out my a.s.signment to the letter, no matter whom I must ally myself with."

Her declaration caught him a little off-balance. "I see" was all he could get out.

"No doubt you're glad you asked."

Riker shrugged. "Actually, I am. It's important for us to know each other, at least a little bit." He managed a smile. "What our names are, for instance."

Her features seemed to soften a bit.

He held out his hand. She took it, and her grip was stronger than he'd antic.i.p.ated. No shortage of surprises in this retainer, no matter what her name was.

"I'm Riker," he said. "Will Riker."

"Yes," she told him. "I know that. It was in my briefing. I'm Lyneea Tal."

"Pleased to meet you."

She took back her hand. "Are you? I wouldn't have thought so, under the circ.u.mstances."

"The circ.u.mstances-meaning our apparent inability to agree on anything substantial?"

She nodded. "More or less, yes."

He grunted. "So it's not the most congenial of partners.h.i.+ps. We don't have to get along-we just have to do our jobs."

Lyneea eyed him. "You make sense-for an offworlder."

Riker didn't take offense. He'd been called a lot worse. "Thank you," he told her.

Troi sat in Beverly Crusher's office going over her patient logs on the chief medical officer's desk monitor. Not, of course, that she needed to remind herself of anything-she'd reviewed her notes as recently as a few hours before. However, since the alternative was to sit and watch the med techs continue their routine maintenance checks on the biobeds ...

"Deanna?"

Troi looked up and saw her friend breeze into the room. Plunking herself down behind her desk, Crusher took a deep breath and smiled.

"Sorry," she said.

Troi smiled back. "That's all right. I had a lovely time gazing at the naked mechanisms of your biobeds. Who would have thought that they'd be as fascinating inside as out?"

Crusher's hand shot to her chest, as if she'd been stabbed. "I stand accused," she said.

Troi looked forward to these periodic meetings with Crusher-these note-comparing sessions based on the long-ago-accepted belief that maladies of the body and those of the mind were inextricably entwined. Nor did she really mind that she'd been kept waiting.

But the doctor would have been disappointed if she hadn't given her at least one friendly jab. After all, what were friends for?

"You weren't delayed by anything serious, I trust?"

Crusher sighed. "That all depends. Is an obsessed teenager something serious?"

The Betazoid pretended to ponder the question. "Could be," she decided. Then: "What is Wesley obsessed with now?"

"Well," said her colleague, "it all started when he was sitting on the bridge, watching Captain Picard subtly maneuver Will Riker into telling him about his Priority One mission."

"Oh, yes," said the counselor. "The one Will didn't even confide in me about."

Crusher chuckled. "As if he's going to make a Priority One mission common knowledge! Of course, it's that very secrecy that piqued Wesley's interest."

"Ah," said Troi. "So that is his obsession."

Crusher nodded. "He was so wrapped up in the human interactions on the bridge, he overlooked the substance of Will's summons-but not for long. And when my son sinks his teeth into a mystery ..."

"I understand," said the counselor. "So it was difficult to tear yourself away."

"Quite. Before I left the s.h.i.+p for Starfleet Medical, I might've had an easier time of it. But he's so independent now that when he does want to share something with me, I find it hard to say no."

"Don't say another word," Troi told her. "At least not by way of apology." Her smile broadened. "If the s.h.i.+p's counselor can't be forgiving, who can?"

"Right," said Crusher, a.s.suming a somewhat more professional demeanor. "Then let's get down to business." She activated another monitor, which resided on the bulkhead nearest her. "Why don't we start with Mukhurjee in engineering? She gave birth to twins recently. I think there's a little postpartum depression setting in."

"Yes," said Troi. "I think you're right."

"What do you think?" asked Lyneea.

The dark tavern was packed full of simply dressed laborers, men and women puffing on nohnik pipes or tossing back mugs of korsch. Imprima's working cla.s.s, whether native or offworld-born, favored nothing but the gloomiest of colors in their garb, so only their faces threw back the lurid light of the hanging i'ekra lamps. Loud, wild music reverberated from wall to wall, punctuated by the cries of some rowdy patrons seated deeper inside the low-ceilinged chamber.

But the sense that took the greatest beating was that of smell. The odors of nohnik and perspiration made a potent combination, to say the least.

Back in the days when they were negotiating the trade agreement, Teller would have looked down his nose at a place like this. His taste was for amber-toned parlors where everyone dressed in the gaudy hue of his or her madraga and where power wafted on the air even thicker than the perfume.

Riker had always been a little uncomfortable in those establishments. Not that he hadn't enjoyed the soft music and the rich light and the velvety skin of the madraga-dzins' daughters-because he had.

But the power part hadn't intrigued him as it had his friend. Which was probably why Teller had been so much better at negotiation with the leaders of Imprima-he was more in tune with their way of looking at the world... .

The reception hall was Impriman through and through, right down to the thread of gold in the furnis.h.i.+ngs. The tall open windows on the east wall let in the cold, crisp air and provided a glimpse of the stars.

But even an offworlder could find warmth here. In the subtle potency of the drinks. In the gentle intimacy of the music. And in the company.

Teller stared at a trio of young ladies as they made their way across the room. They wore yellow, signifying their kins.h.i.+p with Madraga Alionis; the color seemed all the more vibrant against the paleness of their perfect skin.

"I'm in heaven," he said.