Synthesis - James Swallow [8]
Deanna smiled, and Riker found himself mirroring her, that tiny dart of regret melting away beneath a warmth like the sun coming out.
“No problem at all,” he told the lieutenant. “Carry on.”
“This is the most bloodless game I’ve ever played.” Pava Ek’Noor sh’Aqabaa leaned back in her seat and folded her arms across her chest. The Andorian woman’s antennae tightened, curling downward in irritation.
Across the table from her, Y’lira Modan’s golden face shifted into a quizzical expression. “I thought this was a leisure pastime,” she began, glancing at the oval cards in her hand. “There’s no violence inherent in it.” The Selenean looked around Titan’s mess hall with an air of slight concern, perhaps wondering if the game would take on some combative aspect at a moment’s notice.
“Bloodless,” Pava repeated with a sniff. “As in devoid of passion or thrill.”
To her right, Torvig Bu-Kar-Nguv cocked his deerlike head and showed a slight toothy smile. “I’m quite thrilled,” he offered.
“You’d never know it,” Pava said dryly, drumming her blue fingers on the dwindling pile of coins in front of her.
The fourth player in their circle said nothing, instead resting his hand over the second of his cards, yet to be turned faceup. Tuvok’s steady, unblinking gaze remained fixed on the Andorian.
After a moment, Torvig spoke again. “Commander Tuvok is showing the Ranjen,” he explained, the mechanical manipulator in the end of his slender tail coming up to point at the turned card in front of the Vulcan. The elliptical card showed a traditional icon of a Bajoran theologian, with characteristic hood and robes. “At best, he can score an eleven-point combination, with the reveal of an Emissary.”
Pava glared down at her own hand, the turned card showing a radiant Kai on the steps of a Bantaca spire.
“Of course,” Torvig piped, “if you show the Emissary or even another Kai, you’ll have a firm win—”
“I know the rules, Ensign,” she snapped. “I’m just… considering my options.”
Y’lira shrugged. “You only have two of them, Lieutenant. Match the commander’s wager or fold. It’s quite straightforward.”
The Andorian chewed her lip. The pile of replicated lita coins in front of the Vulcan tactical officer was the largest on the table, with Torvig the only other player still showing more than a few tokens remaining; the Choblik had been losing and folding all night, retaining an annoying good humor all the while. He seemed to have absolutely no understanding of the dishonor attached to his utterly unremarkable play. Y’lira had just thrown her last stake into the pot, and Pava was in the same boat; if she matched Tuvok’s bet, she’d be cleaned out. But the idea of folding chafed on her. She felt her hands draw into fists. It was only a game, but that didn’t mean she wanted to lose it.
“In reference to your earlier comment, Lieutenant, the game of kella has quite a violent history.” The commander spoke evenly, adopting a lecturing tone. “During Bajor’s preenlightenment age, there were several matches of historical note that resulted in declarations of warfare or brutal reprisals after one tribe’s champion player lost to another.”
“I’ve always admired Bajoran passion,” Pava allowed. “But then they’re a people like mine, who react with zeal. They don’t analyze every incidence, don’t reduce everything to statistics and numbers!” Her voice rose toward the end of the statement, and she frowned at herself.
Torvig’s head bobbed. “Isn’t that the point of games like this?”
She glared at him. “I bet you’re computing the odds and probabilities of every possible combination of cards right this second, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said the Choblik easily. “I imagine Commander Tuvok has done the same, along with Ensign Y’lira. The Vulcans and the Seleneans are renowned for their analytical abilities.”
“My point,” Pava retorted. “If you turn this into a numbers game, it robs it of any excitement. Kella is about