FORTUNE'S LIGHT Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

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  Copyright © 1991 Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-2095-0

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  For Grandma,

  who let us eat sugar and apple sandwiches

  until the wee hours

  Chapter One

  AS HE FED the 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 was perfect—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 turb
olift, 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 not all the world. But certainly the bridge of the Enterprise.

  Wesley raised his eyes from his Ops panel long enough to scan the expansive two-tiered space. It was 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—human drama—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 the Enterprise’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: “I told 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 i
t 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. My best friend. And not just at the Academy. We shipped out on the Potemkin together, and then on the Yorktown.” 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 the Enterprise. 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.