STAR TREK - TNG - 15 - Fortune's Light

For Grandma,

who let us eat sugar and apple sandwiches

until the wee hours

Chapter One

AS HE FEDthe holodeck computer all the information he had collected, First Officer William Riker

found himself smiling—grinning, in fact, like a little kid.

And why not? He had been waiting a long time for this. It had been nearly a full week since the idea

popped into his head, and half his mind had been busy working out the details while the other half saw

him through the routine functions of a starship second-in-command.

Of course, in a larger sense, it had been more than a week. He’d been waiting all his life for this moment.

Or at least since his seventh summer, when he’d taken that spill off Execution Rock and fractured his

collarbone in three places. He still remembered all those summer days spent propped up among pillows,

imprisoned in his parents’ house while his friends swam in the river or hiked up into the highlands.

At first he’d been full of bitterness and resentment. After all, he was Kyle Riker’s son. He had to be the

best at everything, the leader—even at the tender age of six.

Thank God for his mother. She had taken advantage of that sedentary time to instill a love for the quieter

pursuits in the son who was so quickly growing away from her.

First there was the music—all kinds, but mostly her beloved jazz, for her father had been a trombone

player in a place called New Orleans. Will liked the happy music best, particularly during the endless

rainy afternoons when it seemed there had never been and never would be any color in the world but

gray.

Then there were the cooking lessons. What an absurdity—a six-year-old learning to cook! But the

payoff was the privilege of eating whatever they had concocted, and his mother had a knack for making

even the humblest dish taste wickedly delicious. Perhaps the most amazing moment in his life, even

through the present day, was when he realized he could make ratatouille as good as hers.

Finally there were the books. At the beginning he had thought it kind of strange—who ever heard of

reading books? There were tapes and such if you wanted to be entertained or—heaven forfend—learn

something. The pictures came up on a monitor along with a voice that provided the narration. Simple.

Easy.

In books there were no pictures. Most of the time, anyway. You had to come up with the images on

your own, and that was a lot like work.

Still, he took to reading. It tickled his imagination, like the music. Like the cooking lessons, he had to put

something into it to get something out.

And like both those things, the books gave him a window into his mother. He could see something

incredible in her, something young and fresh and beautiful, every time she read out loud to him, and again

when he read out loud to her.

Especially when they opened that certain book—the one that had given him the idea to do what he was

doing now. It wasn’t the kind of book he would have expected her to have, or the kind of subject he’d

have expected her to take an interest in. But then, his mother had not been easy to predict.

Now he was glad that he had broken his clavicle that summer. Immeasurably glad, because it gave him

that much more to remember her by.

Not for the first time he wondered if in some way she had known that she would pass early from this life.

Maybe that was why it had been so important to her to give him these gifts. These parting gifts.

Riker sighed, gently putting the memories away like the prized possessions they were. All but one.

Tapping in the final instructions, the first officer waited for confirmation that the holodeck computer had

enough data to go on. A second or two later it indicated that it did.

Tingling with anticipation, he pressed the space on the keyboard marked Activate.

Beyond the closed composite-alloy doors, his fancy was working itself into a reality. Omnidirectional

holo diodes were coming to life; electromagnetic fields were taking on form and substance and texture.

He felt the magic beckoning, took a step toward it. The doors to the holodeck parted, revealing the

fruits of his attention to detail.

Perfect. It wasperfect —just as he had imagined it, just as it had been described in the book.

And there they were, pulling on their uniforms. The men who had once captured the hearts of all Alaska,

and then broken them again, in short order. The legendary figures who had stirred such passion in young

Will Riker that he sometimes couldn’t sleep at night.

He’d become obsessed with them. He’d learned everything he could about them. For a while he’d even

pretended to be one of them.

Which, now that he thought about it, wasn’t so very different from what he was doing now.

So what if they no longer seemed larger than life? So what if their blemishes were there for all the world

to see?

They were still his boyhood heroes, rousted from the pages of his mother’s book. And they still fired his

imagination as few things had done before or since.

He took another step into the holodeck. . . .

“Commander Riker.”

It was Captain Picard’s voice. The summons was clipped, compact, typical of the captain. But it had a

little more weightiness than usual—a certain urgency to it.

The first officer looked longingly at the world he had created. Then he took a step back and watched the

holodeck doors close.

He hit his communicator. “Riker here.”

“There’s a classified transmission for you, Number One. It is coming in from Starbase Eighty-nine.”

Riker required a moment to absorb the information. “For me, sir?”

“Yes, for you. Specifically for you.”

The first officer cleared his throat. “Really,” he said. “Well, in that case, I’ll take it in my quarters.”

“As you wish, Number One. Mr. Worf is already making the necessary arrangements.”

Riker nodded through force of habit, even though the intercom carried only audio communications.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You are quite welcome,” said Picard.

As Riker started down the corridor toward the turbolift, he wondered what kind of message could

require his attention rather than his superior’s. Judging from the undertone of curiosity in the captain’s

voice, his superior was wondering the same thing.

As Picard got up, Wesley turned to watch.

“Mr. Data,” he said, “you have the conn. I’ll be in my ready room if anyone needs me.”

The captain grasped the hem of his waist-length uniform jacket, pulled it taut with a crisp, compact

motion, and headed for his ready room.

Wesley loved that gesture—the captain’s tug on his jacket. If the bridge had been no more than a

storage bay, if there had been no computers on which to feast his intellect and no controls to measure his

skills against, he would still have aspired to it for the sake of gestures like that one.

Until recently he hadn’t known exactly why, nor for that matter had he thought about it very much. Then

he and his class had begun their course of study on Shakespeare.

“All the world’s a stage . . .” Well, maybe notall the world. But certainly the bridge of theEnterprise .

Wesley raised his eyes from his Ops panel long enough to scan the expansive two-tiered space. Itwas

like a stage, wasn’t it? Crew members entered through the forward turbolift and exited through the aft,

crossed from Science One to the coffee dispenser and back again. There was always something going

on, always something to watch. And somehow every movement—even a trip to the head —had a

theatrical feel to it, a special quality that made it seem larger than life.

Of course it was more than just the place. It was the personnel as well. “And all the people on it merely

players.”

Wesley smiled to himself. Players, yes. But not “merely.”

There was nothing “merely” about Worf, for instance, standing guard over the tactical console like . . .

like the ancient Colossus standing guard over Rhodes. Nothing insignificant about Data as he gazed at the

massive main viewscreen with a childlike innocence that sometimes seemed deeper than the deepest

wisdom.

Boy—pretty poetic, Wes. Maybe that Shakespeare stuff is contagious.

But the players who really drew Wesley’s interest were the ones at center stage, the ones who usually

occupied the now-deserted command center.

Troi, with her . . . how would the Bard have put it? With her calm, Madonna-like beauty.

Riker, with that boundless energy that seemed to reach out octopuslike into every corner of the bridge.

And the captain—most of all, the captain. It always amazed Wesley how the man could rule with a

glance, transform the mood on the bridge with the slightest change in posture. It was almost scary.

Even now, as the ready room doors closed behind him, Picard commanded. Even in his absence, he had

a presence.

Like Julius Caesar, Wesley realized, in the play he’d just finished reading. Even after his assassination,

Caesar had seemed to remain on stage, to be as much a participant in Rome’s political maneuverings as

any of his assassins.

But the captain did nothing without a reason. Why had he chosen this moment to repair to his sanctum?

“There is a tide in the affairs of men . . .” Why had Caesar picked this juncture to withdraw to his tent?

No doubt it had something to do with the transmission from Starbase 89. The one that had come in for

Commander Riker and not for the captain himself, as would normally have been the case with classified

information.

Did the captain resent being bypassed? Did his indignation compel him to sit and brood in private?

No, that wasn’t like him. Caesar . . . er, Captain Picard was not a petty man.

Then why? Was he waiting for something? For Commander Riker, maybe—to come to him and reveal

the nature of Starfleet’s message?

Of course Riker was under no obligation to do that. The message had been for him and him only.

However, the captain was giving him a chance to discuss it. He was relieving his first officer of the need

to ask for a one-on-one meeting.

Yes, that sounded right.

On the other hand, there was always the possibility that Riker would not want to talk about it, that it was

so personal he would prefer to keep it to himself.

But when he came up onto the bridge and found Picard absent, wouldn’t he have to inquire as to the

captain’s whereabouts? And then, after being told that Picard was in his ready room, wouldn’t it be

incumbent on Riker to at least check in with . . .

Suddenly Wesley could barely restrain himself from laughing out loud. It was brilliant—brilliant!

Whether the first officer wanted to share his information with the captain or not, Picard had maneuvered

him into a position where it would be difficult for Riker to keep it to himself. Alone with his commanding

officer, how could he not at least hint at the substance of Starfleet’s communication?

And Picard had created this situation with a simple departure from the command center. He had

removed himself from center stage, but not from the drama.

It was a move that would have prompted even Caesar to sit up and take notice.

Wesley was pleased with himself. Things like quantum mechanics and warp-drive engineering came

easily to him. But human nature—humandrama —was something for which he was just beginning to

develop an appreciation.

He wondered how many others on the bridge had perceived Picard’s intention the way he had. More

than likely he was the only one.

Now all that was left to be determined was what Riker would do. Having digested his message, would

he head straight for the bridge and Picard’s counsel? Or would he wait until his next shift started and then

come up to the bridge, only to find the trap that the captain had set for him?

Wesley didn’t get his answer immediately—not that he’d expected to. Like any good play, he knew, this

one would take time to unfold—hours, perhaps, if Riker decided not to cut short his rec period.

In the meantime Wesley busied himself with diagnostic checks of the various engineering functions.

Normally his position and Data’s were reversed, with the boy sitting at Conn and Data at Ops, but the

captain had wanted Wesley to become more familiar with the other stations on the bridge.

All the engineering functions checked out fine. Next, he turned his attention to the communications

system, which also came through with flying colors—and noticed that Riker’s conversation with Starbase

89 had already terminated.

The minutes passed—dragged, even. But nothing happened. Picard remained in his ready room,

updating files or polishing reports or whatever a starship captain did when he had some time to kill.

And then, maybe half an hour after Picard’s retreat from the bridge, the doors of the forward turbolift

parted to reveal the tall, straight form of theEnterprise’ s first officer. Riker wasn’t smiling.

He took the bridge in with a single glance, saw that the three seats constituting the command center were

all vacant, and seemed to know immediately what that meant. He went to the ready room doors and

stood before them to signal his presence.

A moment later they opened, and the first officer disappeared inside.

It was a quick ending but a satisfying one. And, Wesley told himself, he had been a privileged audience

of one.

Then he heard the muted conversation in the aft stations: “Itold you he’d come straight here. No way he

wouldn’t tell the captain about it.” “All right, already. Dinner’s on me, next shore leave.”

Wesley chuckled to himself. Well, maybe not an audience of one, exactly. But a privileged audience

nonetheless.

He regarded the ready room entrance, beyond which some new drama was undoubtedly taking place, if

the expression on Riker’s face had been any indication. Never a dull moment around here, Wesley told

himself.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard considered his first officer across his ready room desk. “So, Number One?

Care to tell me about it?”

Riker had been silent for some time, just staring into space. At the captain’s invitation, his eyes focused.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Of course.” He took a deep breath, let it out. “It’s hard to know where to begin.”

And then, a moment later, it seemed that he had found a propitious place. “Have I ever mentioned

someone named Conlon —Teller Conlon?”

Picard thought about it. “I believe you have,” he decided. “A friend of yours at the Academy, wasn’t

he?”

“More than a friend, sir. Mybest friend. And not just at the Academy. We shipped out on thePotemkin

together, and then on theYorktown .” Riker paused. “Five years ago, we were detached from active duty

to serve on the team that forged the Impriman Trade Agreement.”

“Ah, yes,” said the captain. “Quite impressive, the job you did there. Stole a planetful of valuable

resources out from under the noses of the Ferengi, as I recall. Or, more precisely, you recovered it, after

trade with the Federation had been cut off for twenty years.”

It had all been in Riker’s service record, a file with which Picard had become quite familiar back when

he was reviewing first officer candidates for theEnterprise . And the Impriman affair was one of the

things that had set Riker apart from the others.

“The Imprimans wanted only one trading partner—the Ferengi, or the Federation.” The first officer

grunted. “Truth be told, Teller deserved more credit for getting them to choose the Federation than I did.

He really got into the Impriman psyche—came to understand them better than anyone had before him.

Imprima seemed to hold this great . . . fascination for him. So much so, in fact, that when the Federation

established a trade liaison office there, he volunteered to oversee it.”

“And he got the post,” said Picard.

“Hands down. Hell,I didn’t want it. And Teller had the full support of the madraggi—the

political-economic entities that make up what passes for government on Imprima.”

“So your friend stayed,” observed the captain. “And you left.”

Riker shrugged, but it was less a shrug than an upheaval. It was as if his tunic had suddenly become two

sizes too small for him. Did his discomfort have something to do with the transmission from Starbase 89?

No doubt.

But Picard could wait to hear the rest of the story. For a change, he had no other pressing business. He

could afford to let the younger man proceed at his own pace. “

I left,” confirmed Riker. “Shortly after that, I was made first officer of theHood , and our assignment was

way the hell on the other side of Federation territory. I lost touch with Teller. A couple of times he sent

messages to me via subspace packet or through some mutual friend I’d be bumping into, but I never got

around to sending anything back.”

The captain smiled as forgivingly as he could. He was aware that forgiveness was not the attitude that

best suited his features. “These things happen, Number One, to all of us. It’s difficult to keep up

friendships in Starfleet.”

But his first officer wasn’t accepting absolution. Stubbornly he went on.

“Pretty soon the messages stopped on his end, too. But I knew he was doing well, because I’d see

dolacite containers listing Imprima as their point of origin. Every indication was that Teller had become a

big success there.”

A “but” was coming. Obligingly Picard supplied it: “But?”

Riker accepted the prod. “But just now I got a transmission from Starfleet—telling me that my friend is a

thief. Worse—a traitor.”

The captain eased himself back in his chair. “Serious charges. What is the basis for them?”

Riker sighed. “Criathis and Terrin are about to merge.”

“Criathis and Terrin?” Picard prompted.

“Sorry. Two of the madraggi. Criathis has been the Federation’s staunchest ally over the years. Terrin

has been a Federation proponent as well, though in a somewhat more cautious vein.

“As I understand it, Terrin has not benefited from the trade agreement as much as it had hoped. Criathis,

on the other hand, has profited handsomely. Terrin still has tremendous resources, and political influence

to match; Criathis has growth potential. From both points of view, it’s a merger made in heaven.

“What’s more, Madraga Terrin—as the larger of the two madraggi—would have the right to install its

first official as head of the newly formed entity—in this case, a man named Larrak, disputably the best

businessman on the planet. Armed with an even broader array of resources, who knows how far he can

take Terrin-Criathis?

“Needless to say, not all the madraggi see this as a good thing. The merger stands to hurt the political

enemies of both Criathis and Terrin—chief among them a madraga called Rhurig.

“But there is nothing Rhurig or anyone else can do to stop the merger—that is, as long as Criathis and

Terrin follow the traditional protocols.”

Picard nodded. “The Imprimans value tradition, do they?”

“Very much so. Before Criathis and Terrin can get together, there has to be an old-fashioned merger

ceremony. And the merger must be made official by the use of special jewel-encrusted seals.”

“Seals,” repeated Picard. “Like those used to authorize documents on ancient Earth?”

“Precisely, sir. But these are priceless—even apart from any historical value they may have. Dismantled

for its jewels, any one of the seals could buy a man an easy life in some obscure corner of the galaxy.”

The captain was beginning to understand. “And it is believed that your friend Conlon lifted one of these

seals so that he could buy himself this easy life?”

“That’s what they’re saying,” agreed Riker. “Apparently one of the seals to be used in the upcoming

ceremony has disappeared—and Teller along with it. Naturally they’re putting two and two together. All

the evidence points to Teller’s having stolen the seal, and without Fortune’s Light—”

“Fortune’s Light?”

“The seal, sir—all of these seals have names. In any case, its disappearance is going to cause that

merger to fall apart. Both madraggi will be scandalized, effectively crippling two of our biggest supporters

on Imprima. And when the other madraggi get wind of Teller’s guilt in the matter, the Federation will be

booted off Imprima so fast our heads will swim.”

“All unfortunate,” said Picard. “Quiteunfortunate. But what has this to do with you?”

Muscles tippled beneath the first officer’s bearded jaw. He leaned forward. “They want me to go to

Imprima. To find my friend and recover the seal—before the scheduled date of the merger ceremony.”

Picard absorbed the information. “I see,” he said. “And of course it makes sense. You know Imprima as

well as anyone in the Federation. What is more, you know your friend.” He measured the younger man.

“You have agreed to this assignment?”

“I had little choice, sir. It’s Priority One.”

The captain grunted. “Then I will be receiving a message myself, no doubt. And it will instruct me to

remain in the vicinity of Imprima as your backup, should you need it.” He grunted again. “Is your friend

that dangerous, Commander?”

Riker straightened. “I don’t think Teller’s the culprit, sir.”

“Really. You think the evidence is circumstantial?”

“I think it’s no evidence at all. Teller was like a brother to me. I know him better than anyone, and I

know he could never have done anything like this. Someone has framed him—set him up. And when I

find out where the seal has been hidden, I bet I’ll find Teller as well.”

Picard did not discount his first officer’s intuitive powers. He had proved himself a fine judge of

character again and again. But the fact patterndid point to Conlon.

“Are you sure,” asked the captain, “that you’re not allowing your own regrets to cloud your assessment,

Number One?”

Riker’s face went taut. “What do you mean?”

“Simply this—that you feel guilty for having allowed your close friend to go astray. You feel as though

you should have done something to prevent it.”

“My brother’s keeper?” suggested Riker.

“Something like that, yes.”

The younger man shook his head. “No. Teller is innocent, and I’m going to prove it.”

“All right,” Picard said gently. “You do that. But first, let’s get you to Imprima.” He looked up, as he

always did when addressing someone via the ship’s intercom computer. An unnecessary gesture, of

course, but one that seemed to be endemic to Starfleet personnel.

“Mr. Data, set a course for the planet Imprima in the . . . Dante Maxima system?” He looked to his first

officer for confirmation and got it in the form of a nod. Again, looking up: “Make it warp eight,

Commander.”

“Aye, sir,” said the android. “Working . . . done. Course plotted and laid in.”

“Engage,” said the captain.

As the ship surged into warp drive, Riker got up to go. He mumbled something about having to prepare

for his mission, though Picard privately wondered how much preparation could be required in this

instance.

“Good luck, Number One. I hope the facts come to bear out your beliefs.”

His first officer looked at him. “Yes, sir. I know you do.”

When the ready room doors closed behind him, they barely made a sound.

Chapter Two

DATA HADN’T STARTED OUTwith any intention of using the holodeck. He’d only been passing by

when he noticed something that piqued his curiosity.

A combination of two somethings, really. Two bits of information displayed on the holodeck computer

monitor. One indicated that the holodeck was in active use—that the program was proceeding in real

time. The other told him that there was no one inside.

Of course this was explainable in any of several ways. Most likely someone had forgotten to terminate a

program before leaving or for some reason had left before using all of it. It could also have been a sign of

a holodeck malfunction—something that happened rarely, but happened nonetheless. Or someone could

be inside, undetected by the computer.

Just to be on the safe side, Data called up the details of the programming. He scanned the identity of the

user, the nature of the program, and the projected duration.

There did not appear to be anything potentially dangerous about the environment selected. In fact, it

seemed quite benign. However, it was an environment with which Data had had no direct experience.

The best course, it seemed to him, was to find the programmer—to make sure he wasn’t trapped in the

holodeck, a prisoner of his own creation.

The android tapped his communicator, waited less than a second before it beeped in token of its

readiness. “Commander Riker,” he said out loud.

“Riker here,” came the near-immediate response. “What’s the matter, Data?”

“You are safe?” confirmed the android.

A pause. “Assuming there are no poisonous lizards under my bed, yes. Why do you ask?”

Data told him.

“Oops,” said the first officer. “Sorry about that.”

“You need not apologize,” said the android. “There has been no harm done.”

Another pause. “Say, Data, I’m not going to get the chance to use that program—not for a while, at

least. And I put quite a bit of work into it. Why don’t you give it a try?”

Data reflected on the possibility. “Me, sir?”

“Why not? You might find it interesting. And anyway, it’ll probably take a trial run or two to work out

the bugs. You can test it out and let me know what you think.”

Data glanced at the monitor and the information contained on the screen. “I do not know. I am not well

acquainted with the environment you have synthesized.”

“So what? Broaden your horizons.”

“Indeed,” said the android, unable to keep a note of skepticism out of his voice.

“Look,” said Commander Riker, “it’s up to you—I won’t twist your arm. In any case, please don’t

erase it. As I mentioned, it took me quite a while to put it together.”

“Of course,” said Data. “I will be careful to preserve it.”

“Thanks.”

The android stood alone in the silent corridor, peering at the monitor—and then at the holodeck doors.

At the monitor. At the doors.

It had been some time since he had used a holodeck, he mused. Neither pastoral settings nor comedy

nightclubs nor Sherlock Holmes’s London held much fascination for him lately.

Perhaps Commander Riker was right. Perhaps it was time for a new experience.

STAR TREK - TNG - 15 - Fortune's Light

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