Read Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless for Free Online

Lance crosswise to Vrenn’s, get freedom to use the Active or false-Null tips. The two Lancers struggled for a dozen heartbeats; then Vrenn was pushed back, by incredible strength. Lances cracked against each other, and against yellow energy shields. Vrenn read his charge counter: one-fourth. He dropped the shield and used the Lance as if it were a plain metal fighting stick, striking sparks, connecting with blows to the enemy’s limbs that seemed to have no effect at all. He would have howled, but there was no breath to spare.
    He looked into the enemy’s face. Their eyes met. The Gold was clearly full Klingon, as much Imperial Race as was Vrenn; the broad dark face was scarred heavily, and there was a strange high tension in the look, like electricity in the yellow eyes.
    Vrenn knew that it was desperation that he saw, and thought the Gold must see the same. They were images in a mirror, only the colors of their clothing different.
    No, not only. The Gold had his dishonest Lance. And with his desperation, Vrenn Gensa Green had his rage.
    Vrenn struck downward to disengage, then spun full circle on the ball of his foot, extending his Lance as Zharn had swung his slender staff. The startled enemy had blocked high, and the crystal tip of Vrenn’s Lance caught him just below the right armpit.
    Vrenn fingered his controls, and the whole remaining charge in his weapon went into a single green bolt.
    The Gold player dropped his Lance. Vrenn kicked it aside, then threw away his own. And then he stopped still, and stared.
    He had been wrong. There had been no hidden weapon in the Gold player’s Lance. Not in his Lance, at all.
    The Gold’s right arm lay on the floor, twitching, its fingers spasming one-two-three-four. Above it stood its former owner, wobbling on his feet. From his right shoulder, wires dangled and sparked, and coolant and fluidic oil dripped from broken tubes.
    Vrenn drove a fist into the enemy’s body, then another. He felt tissue give beneath: only part-robot, then. Good. Very good. The enemy fell back, against a wall panel.
    “Kai!” Vrenn shouted, only half meaning it as mockery, leaped and drove both feet into the Gold-thing’s midsection.
    Plastic splintered outward, and the cyborg Lancer went out and down, down fifty meters, and hit with a sound neither fleshly or mechanical. Blood and oil ran together.
    “ Gensa, the victory!” Vrenn shouted from the apex of the grid, out the open panel. He looked at the officers watching from their gallery, across space and a little below him now. “ Gensa, a thousand times, undefeated!”
    He wondered if any of them were listening.
     
    “What an extraordinary endgame,” Manager Akten said. General Maida coughed and snuffed out his incense. One of Admiral Kezhke’s consorts turned and was sick; a servitor caught it in the hem of its robe. Kezhke said, “I should call it more than—”
    “Yes,” Margon said, and his pistol was out. Consorts and officers went for cover.
    “Tokhe straav’!” Margon shouted: Willing slave, the vilest name Klingon could call Klingon, an insult only death could redeem. Then Margon fired, a bolt of actinic blue light that starred the glass door of Force Leader Mabli’s cubicle. Mabli had just turned when the second shot blasted the panel apart, showering the player with fragments of crystal. The third shot tore apart his chest. Margon’s pistol was holstered before the last shard of glass had struck the floor. The mist overhead swirled, and there was the sharp smell of ozone. Kezhke’s left hand was tense on his leveled right forearm; slowly, he relaxed.
    Margon raised the brandy glass he still held. “ Kai, Thought Admiral. Another victory with your many.”
    Kethas stood in the open door of his cubicle. “Yes.” He looked past Margon. Servitors were already sweeping up the fragments. “And for every victory, a loss, Margon?”
    “There was nothing else for him,” Margon said plainly. “Certainly not life. What