Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless by John M. Ford Page A

were clothed or naked now. Here was his ship, then; here too was its price.
    “If the one hesitates,” Captain Kessum said formally, “for the breaking of the chain of duty, let certain terms of the negotiation be stated.”
    Kev said, “The Roms wanted some proofs of the negotiators’ intent. They wanted information on the next frontier raid. They got it.”
    Vrenn said, “Did the one—”
    “The one knew,” said Commander Koll. “The one verified it.”
    So there was only the komerex zha, Vrenn thought, and the pieces of the game were only bits of wood in the fire. “The Navy honors me,” he said, “and where I am commanded, there I shall go.”
    “Kai kassai,” Kev said softly, but his look was still steel needles.
    Vrenn said, “If I might take formal leave of Squadron Leader Kodon—”
    Captain Kessum said stiffly, “This one is here for Kodon.”
    Yes, of course, Vrenn thought. Blue Fire lived, but Death Hand was dust. And there was the question of strategy, that least Klingon of Sciences, whose practitioners made strange things happen; as Kev had said once before, If you did plan this, do not let it be known.
    “…it is of course understood that you will not operate in this part of the frontier.”
    “This need not be said,” Vrenn said.
    “Then it’s done,” Koll said, and reached for his sensor jammer.
    Commander Kev said, “You’ll have to change your name now.”
     
    Scout Captain Krenn was eighty days out on an exploratory cruise when the recordings arrived, scrambled with Krenn’s personal cipher; there was no originating label.
    He watched the taped deaths of Kethas and Rogaine twice through. They were competent kills, as the law of assassination specified: that indeed was the reason for taping at all.
    Krenn was pleased to see that Rogaine fought very well, stabbing one assassin, blinding another with her nails after her body had hypnotized him. It served the fool right for such carelessness.
    Kethas fell near his gameboards, firing back as he collapsed, upsetting the Reflective Game set that had been his favorite. Kethas’s hand closed on the green-gold Lancer, and then did not move. The camera swung away. On the second play, Krenn stopped the image, enlarged it; he realized that the epetai-Khemara had not been reaching for the game piece, but toward his consort’s body.
    Krenn stopped the tape again, thinking to rewind and watch for Kethas’s look, exactly as Rogaine died; but he did not do so.
    The record covered only two of the house kuve. Little black-furred Odise was shot from a balcony, fell, landing in a wet and messy heap. Tirian they stunned, and agonized for a time, then carried aloft in a flier. His tunic was slit down the back, and the scars of his wings shown to the camera. Then they flung him out, perhaps twelve hundred meters above the dark twisted mass of the Kartade Forest. Krenn did not rerun that scene.
    He burned the cassette, thinking, It simplifies things enormously when honor claims are absent.
    Krenn stepped out onto the Bridge. The Helmsman saluted, not too sharply, and the Science officer turned. They were enough Bridge crew; it was a small ship. But a Navy ship, and perhaps not a dead command.
    “Anything of interest?” Krenn asked Sciences.
    “Dust and smaller dust,” Specialist Akhil said. “Your message?”
    “Some bureaucratic housecleaning.”
    Akhil laughed. Then he said, “Is this a good time to ask a question, Captain?”
    “As good as any.”
    “My oldest uncle was on a ship under a Captain of the Rustazh line. Are you any—”
    “They’re all gone,” said Krenn tai-Rustazh. “The name was free for use.”
    “So you are starting a line,” the Helmsman said.
    “Why else would anyone be out here?” Krenn said. “To play the Perpetual Game?”
    Then he laughed, and the Scientist and the Helmsman joined in.

Part Two
The Naked Stars
    Negotiation may cost far less than war, or infinitely more: for war cannot cost more than one’s