Fortune's Light Part 16

Riker didn't want to accept the weapon. If he did, it would mean a fight to the death; that was the nature of street duels on Imprima.

And the advantage would almost certainly be Kobar's. Riker could tell from his comportment that he'd done this sort of thing before-obviously with success.

Of course he'd never fought Riker before. But even if the human came out on top, his victory would be a Pyrrhic one. Killing an official of Madraga Rhurig would draw attention to him, blow his cover wide open, and maybe make further investigation impossible.

Not to mention the fact that Kobar's friends would want to avenge his death. That, too, was the nature of street duels on Imprima.

"Come on," Kobar jeered. "What are you waiting for?"

Riker shook his head slowly. "No," he said evenly.

Kobar's eyes narrowed. "I always suspected you humans were cowards." He spat. "Now I've got proof."

But Riker wouldn't take the bait. He just stood there.

Not that he wouldn't have liked to take up the knife. He was itching to give Kobar a taste of what he'd done to Teller. But we can't always do as we like, can we?

"No," he said a second time, as much to confirm his own resolution as to announce it to his enemy.

What blossomed in Kobar's eyes looked like genuine anger. Coming forward, closing the rest of the gap between them, he s.h.i.+fted the knife to his left hand. Then, with his right, he dug his fingers into Riker's tunic, grabbing a fistful of the thick material.

"You'll fight me," said the third official of Madraga Rhurig. "No matter how cowardly you are, you'll fight me, or so help me I'll gut you where you stand."

They were almost nose to nose now, Kobar's gaze getting hotter and hotter. The human returned it as calmly as he could. Easy, Riker. It's still three against one. Your best chance is to wait this one out.

Then he felt the knife point in his ribs. At first there wasn't much pressure behind it. But after a couple of seconds, it began to dig in.

"Well?" said Kobar.

Would he carry out his threat or was it a bluff? The human wasn't sure.

Even in the cold of the open-air market, he could feel a drop of sweat trickling down the side of his face. Riker's mouth went dry as the knife point moved abruptly, cutting through his tunic. It must have cut flesh as well, because he felt a sharp, burning pain.

For a moment, he believed that Kobar would gut him after all, that the old Riker luck had finally given out. Then the Impriman let up on the pressure. Opening the fingers of his right hand, he let go of Riker's tunic.

Finally he turned his back on the human and walked out of the booth, wiping blood-Riker's blood-off his knife onto his trouser leg.

It's over, the human told himself. And it seems I've won.

Suddenly Kobar turned and regarded him again. He spoke to his companions without looking at them.

"Drag him out of there," he snarled. "He may think he can avoid this, but he can't."

Looks like I spoke too soon, Riker chided himself.

Without hesitation, Kobar's friends came to get him. Each of them took an arm and dragged him out of the rug merchant's booth.

Nor did he resist much. What for? It would only have postponed the inevitable.

With the crowd packed in like this, he couldn't run. Lyneea could have helped, but where was she? Hadn't she noticed yet what was happening here?

As Kobar's companions thrust Riker forward, the crowd cleared away and formed a circle around a portion of the market's winding lane. It was big enough for what Kobar had in mind, but barely.

"Last chance," the Impriman warned him. He gestured to one of his friends, who held out his knife, handle first.

Riker didn't take it. Don't give in now, he told himself. You'll find another way out of this.

"Suit yourself," said Kobar. And subtly altering his grip on his weapon, he advanced on the human.

The attack wasn't meant to be clever. It was intended to humiliate with its straightforwardness.

But Riker didn't intend to be humiliated. Or, for that matter, to be skewered on Kobar's point.

At the last moment, he sidestepped the attack and, for good measure, struck Kobar a two-handed blow that sent him staggering.

The Impriman looked at him with newfound respect. "So," he said. "You can fight."

Will didn't reply. It was more important to concentrate on staying alive.

Kobar took another swipe at him-this time, one with a little more thought behind it. Riker had to jump back quickly, using all the s.p.a.ce the crowd would give him, then shuffle sideways to avoid the real attack. For a trained duelist almost never intended his first a.s.sault to be his best one, and Kobar was obviously a trained duelist.

Sure enough the Impriman followed up with a long, hard lunge, expecting to hit flesh and bone. But with Riker already on the move, his point found nothing but empty air.

Cursing, he rounded on the human again. Riker kept dancing along the perimeter of their s.p.a.ce, brus.h.i.+ng against the ring of onlookers as he moved.

Kobar feinted. Riker refused to be deceived, refused to react and yield the advantage to his adversary.

Another feint, better than the first, but the human didn't swallow this one either. Kobar was getting impatient, Riker decided. He would be less cautious, less picky about his openings.

He was right. Kobar didn't wait long to strike again. He started his attack slowly, hoping to lull Riker into overconfidence, then put all his weight into a sudden rush.

It was a rash thing to do when time was on his side. But Riker wasn't about to tell Kobar that. Timing it so that his adversary just missed him, he whirled and chopped down on Kobar's wrist.

The Impriman cried out in pain. His weapon fell to the ground.

When he went for it, Riker kicked it between the legs of someone in the crowd. Kobar took the opportunity to slam into the human's midsection, carrying him off his feet. As they fell together, Riker grabbed his adversary's tunic and planted a heel in his solar plexus. Then, as he rolled backward, he pushed his leg out and sent Kobar flying.

In a fraction of a second Riker was on his feet, not because he feared a reprisal from Kobar-he had landed pretty hard if his grunt was any indication-but because Kobar's friends were still in the first rank of onlookers, and both still had knives.

In another fraction of a second, he'd located one of them. The Impriman was starting forward, weapon in hand. Riker braced himself.

Where was the other?

The human never saw the blow. The next thing he knew, his cheek was pressed against the frozen mud of the lane, and there was a ringing in his ears.

Someone turned him over, dropped down on top of him. The same someone pinned Riker's shoulders to the ground with his knees. Snowflakes fell into his face, big and soft and dreamy. He tasted blood as he recognized the face looming above him: it was Kobar's.

"Filthy muzza," the Impriman spat, his clenched teeth making the words hard to understand. His eyes flashed green fury. "Filthy muzza of an offworlder b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Here's what you get for putting your nose where it doesn't belong."

As if from a great distance, Riker saw him raise the knife. It occurred to him that he should try to grab it, but he couldn't seem to reach high enough. For a long time it hung there like a sickle moon, Kobar's features twisting with rage just below it.

Then the Impriman spat out a curse-and plunged the knife into the ground beside Riker's ear. The human rolled his head to look at it, barely grasping its significance.

Kobar lowered his face to Riker's. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper, but his words had a cutting edge to them.

"Go back," he said, "and tell your friend Norayan that she's wrong. I didn't kill him, no matter how many times she accuses me." He raised his lip in a sneer. "No matter how many Federation muzza she sends after me."

With a last shove, he got to his feet and walked away. His companions joined him as he made his way through the crowd.

From his vantage point in the first row, next to the Sunset dugout, Geordi looked around at the frozen ball park-the frozen fans, the frozen players, the frozen umpires and hot dog vendors and video cameramen. Even the frozen clouds in the sky.

"Data," he said, "this is great. I mean, this is some program."

"I cannot take credit for it," the android responded. "As I indicated earlier, it was conceived by Commander Riker before he went planetside."

Geordi leaned over the restraining wall and trained his gaze on the Sunset pitcher. "That's the fellow who gave you trouble, eh?"

Data nodded. "That is indeed the fellow. I propose to have him repeat the pitch he threw to me-the one I popped up."

"Popped up?"

"Propelled the ball in a more vertical than horizontal trajectory," interpreted the android. It was rare for him to have to explain jargon to Geordi; the significance of the moment did not escape him. "It is not the desired result of a swing."

The chief engineer of the Enterprise nodded. "Gotcha. Okay, let's take our positions and get a gander at this-what did you call it?"

"Curveball," said Data. "Hook. Uncle Charlie. Number Two ..."

Geordi held up his hands to signify surrender. "All right already. Whatever it's called, let's see it."

The android entered the batter's box, spread his feet, and held his bat aloft. "Ready?" he called to Geordi.

"Ready," came the answer.

"Computer-resume program."

All at once, everything came back to life. The crowd yelled and cheered, the players in the field went into their crouches, and the clouds started crawling across the blue heavens.

As before, the Sunset pitcher set himself, rocked back, and fired the ball. Data just stood there. After all, he'd already had his chance to hit this pitch. The replay was just for purposes of demonstration.

Once again, the ball seemed to come in slower than it should have. And now that he wasn't distracted by the motion of his swing, Data noticed something else: just before it reached home plate, the ball appeared to dip-rather precipitously.

"Ball two," ruled the umpire.

"Stop program," commanded the android.

The program stopped. A flock of geese, on a diagonal path high above the diamond, stuck to the sky.

Data turned to Geordi. "Was that of any help?"

His friend still seemed to be eyeing the pitch, though the ball was now frozen in the catcher's glove. After a moment or two Geordi climbed over the wall and trotted out onto the field.

"I want to see it again," he said, "from closer up. Also the pitch that preceded it-the one you said was faster."

Data issued the required instructions, and the computer complied. As Geordi looked on, the holodeck reenacted both of the pitches that Data had seen in his unproductive at-bat.

Geordi harrumphed, stroking his chin. "I think we've got two issues here," he announced. "The first one has more to do with you than with the ball."

"Me?" said the android.

"Yup. With all that whirling and twirling, you expect that pitcher to be throwing the ball as hard as he can. But he's not. He's actually releasing it a little earlier, with a little less velocity. Of course, you don't know he's going to do that-so you swing too soon."

Data thought about it. "Or perhaps just begin to stride before I have to."

"Or perhaps just that," agreed Geordi. "You should wait a little longer before reacting. That way, a slower pitch won't fool you. And with your strength and speed, you'll still be able to handle a fast pitch."

"Wait longer," repeated Data. "I will remember that."

"But that's not all there is to it," Geordi added. "Remember, I said there were two issues involved here."

"Ah," responded the android. "So you did."

"The second one," said Geordi, "has to do with the flight of the pitch. Whoever named that thing a curveball knew just what he was talking about-it really does curve. In this case, down and into the batter, although that's not to say it can't curve in other directions as well."

"I thought I saw the ball drop just before it reached me," recalled Data. "And you say it moved toward me as well?"

"That's what happened all right. And it had something to do with the way the ball was spinning."

"Spinning," repeated the android. "How interesting."

"Very interesting. And also, as far as I can tell, quite impossible."

Data looked at him. "But it happened."

Geordi shrugged. "I can think of two principles that might be at work here-but neither one would explain that curve."

"Perhaps," said the android, "if you went over them with me ..."

"Sure," said the chief engineer. "Maybe you can find something I've overlooked." He paused, frowning. "Okay, theory number one. If the weight of the ball was distributed unevenly, the spin imposed on it could create eccentricities in its trajectory. However, judging by this specimen I'm holding in my hand, there aren't any serious disparities in weight distribution, so that shouldn't be a factor."

Data pondered that. It was true-the b.a.l.l.s he had handled in the field had actually been quite well balanced. If they'd been otherwise, he certainly would have noticed.

"Theory number two," resumed Geordi. "Friction. The st.i.tches that protrude from the ball, finding resistance in the molecules that const.i.tute this atmosphere, could work to turn the object away from the straight course dictated by momentum. But for that to happen in any significant way, the air would have to be several times denser than what we're breathing. Or the st.i.tches would have to be many times larger, to invite more resistance."

Data could find no loophole in either a.n.a.lysis. And yet there had to be an explanation. He said so.

"No doubt there is," said Geordi. "And I'll think about it some more. But for now I'm stumped."

"Stumped," echoed the android. He searched his memory for the word. "Ah. Stumped. Stymied. Thwarted. Frustrated ..."