Dragon's Honor - Kij Johnson [88]
“That’s most of them,” Melilli declared. “But it looks like a few managed to get out of range of the mines before their drives seized up.”
Without warning, Kakkh appeared on the screen. Smoke no longer filled his cabin, presumably a symptom of mechanical distress. Seen clearly, the skin beneath Kakkh’s scales appeared rough and leathery. The pendulous dewlaps hanging from his throat had inflated dramatically; they looked ready to burst. “You—defective kung, you mutated glar—!”
“Yes, Master Kakkh,” Data said, unmoved. “May I say in return that you are the segmented portion of an underdeveloped tadpole.”
“We will listen no more to you!” Kakkh screeched. “You are too base to be heard. But know this: There are five G’kkau warships still functioning. We turn immediately to raze Pai—and ready it for the second wave of G’kkau conquerors! Despite your unforgivable trickery, you have not defeated us. Pai will fall, and the Dragon Empire with it.”
The screen blanked momentarily, then reverted to a view of the surrounding nebula.
“Warp five back to Pai,” Data ordered.
“What about what our scaly friend said?” La Forge asked. “Think we did any good?”
“We have significantly reduced the odds against us,” Data said. “Furthermore, we have delayed the remaining ships so that there is a possibility that the wedding will be completed before the G’kkau reach Pai. Fortunately, our speed exceeds the G’kkau’s, so we will have the opportunity to defend Pai, provided that the treaty is ratified in time.”
“That’s a big if,” La Forge said. “By the way, I was monitoring your conversation with Kakkh, and I have to ask you something.”
“Which is?”
“What’s a throkmelkk?”
“I must fold,” the Heir said.
“Which leaves me winning again,” Riker groaned. With something like despair, he raked the gold coins toward himself. His pile of gold pieces was now large enough that it kept collapsing of its own weight, spreading out over the floor. He had tried stacking them neatly, but he was winning so frequently he barely had the time.
Chuan-chi was doing well, too; but everyone else was losing drastically. Meng Chiao, he of the inexhaustible (and incomprehensible) aphorisms, had only a handful of coins left, and several of the others weren’t much better. At least we’ll be able to stop soon, Riker thought. He glanced around the outer harem. He’d lost track of the time hours ago, but everyone looked too tired and worn-down to start another brawl, let alone try to assassinate the Dragon-Heir. Some of the bachelors, those less intrigued by the foreign novelty of poker, had already passed out on the various cushions and divans scattered throughout the suite. Snoring, Riker had discovered, was one of those universal phenomena that required no translation. Empty goblets and plates of half-eaten snacks littered the floor, along with the rumpled remains of the silk tapestries that had once hung from the walls. Even the ubiquitous serving girls seemed to be running out of steam. They wore dark shadows under their eyes, if little else, and barely had the energy to dodge the groggy gropings of the remaining bachelors. Only the poker game was still going strong.
All those Friday nights when I couldn’t get a pair, he thought ruefully, and now I can’t lose.
Lord Li Po dealt a new hand. None of the Pai nobles were fast at it, having little experience with playing cards, but they getting the hang of it. Riker’s cards flew into his hand as if they were sentient. He picked them up and saw a natural three of a kind. Not great, he thought, but not bad enough. He wondered if he could get away with discarding one of his three jacks.
As the hand progressed, it became clear that a couple of the others had good hands. He noted that Meng Chiao appeared confident enough to bid highly; with luck, he’d lose and go out this hand. The bidding was high and fast. A pile of gold grew in the center of the exposed floor space. Meng Chiao laid down his last coin. “The weeds of a humid summer