The Red King - Michael A. Martin [55]
“I suppose survival is as much a game of skill as it is a game of chance,” Riker said.
Frane nodded. “Exactly.”
When Frane had asked to be taken aboard Titan, Riker had exulted, as though the Neyel had just formally applied for repatriation to mainline humanity. But now he was beginning to wonder whether Frane’s request had been motivated more by a desire to get away from his Romulan hosts’ “hospitality” than by a need to rejoin his terrestrial cousins.
I guess this is where I learn how much diplomatic expertise I picked up on Romulus, he thought wryly, feeling entirely inadequate as a stand-in for Deanna.
“Let’s try chess, then,” Riker said, rising. He crossed the mess hall, stepping past the Blue Table, where Cadet Torvig Bu-kar-nguv sat in quiet conversation with Melora Pazlar and Zurin Dakal. The one-meter-tall Torvig’s multijointed bionic arms were swiftly arranging piles of colorful foodstuffs into something that resembled a sandwich; this skillful multitasking apparently distracted none of the fur-covered, ostrich-like engineering trainee’s attention from whatever doubtless highly technical topic was presently being mooted about the table.
From the corner table just beyond, Riker retrieved a flat, two-dee chessboard. Moments later he had set it on the table between himself and Frane, opened it, and laid out the pieces randomly next to the board.
Riker smiled, he hoped ingratiatingly, toward his prospective opponent. “Choose a color, Mr. Frane.”
Frane eyed him speculatively for a long moment. “Red,” he said finally.
“That puts you in charge of the Red King, then.”
The Neyel appeared somewhat startled by this, then quickly settled into a task with which he was obviously familiar. He sat silently as his large but surprisingly dexterous hands moved rapidly, arranging the red pieces on his side of the board into two neat ranks. He began with the king and queen, then moved outward toward the board’s edges with his bishops, knights, and rooks, all of which soon stood behind a protective stockade of pawns. All the while, Riker studied the intricate braid of colored beads, shells, and fine chains he noticed adorning the Neyel’s right wrist.
Riker took his time setting up his white pieces, allowing his languid movements to stretch out the silence that ruled the table. “You and your friends have been aboard Titan for almost a whole day. I’m surprised you’re still being so quiet.”
Frane shrugged, staring at the red pieces before him over steepled fingers. “What is there to say?”
Riker returned the shrug. “I suppose I just expected you to be more talkative than the other Neyel we brought on board. Particularly the ones in uniform.” And a “thanks for the rescue” might have been nice, too, he thought.
“They all no doubt believe they are your prisoners.”
“I’ve asked Commander Troi to assure them otherwise.”
“She has,” Frane said, nodding. “Repeatedly. And I don’t doubt that she, at least, sincerely means us all well.”
Riker eyed the board, its sixty-four spaces pregnant with unrealized possibilities. True, chess had never seized his imagination in quite the way poker had, but the ancient game nevertheless satisfied a need for tactical one-up-manship in ways that made even fast-paced strategema tournaments pale in comparison.
Deciding that caution wasn’t likely to increase his opponent’s garrulousness, Riker decided it was best to get his “light brigade” of bishops, knights, and rooks ready for a skirmish as quickly as possible. He picked up the knight on his left and set it down again at c3.
“She told me she’s shown you our comparative genetic profiles, too,” Riker said.
“Yesterday,” Frane said evenly. “You, your first officer, your head nurse, her son, some of your bridge crew—even Commander Troi herself—all possess genes that originated on Auld Aerth, just as we Neyel do.