Web of the Romulans

by M S Murdock

  "Lab," he barked.

  The static increased, rising in an ear-splitting crescendo.

  "Lab!" he roared at the intercom.

  Static chuckled back at him. He tried another channel, hoping the malfunction affected only the lab.

  "Medical records," said McCoy in a reasonable voice.

  "Medical records," came the reply before the connection went dead.

  "Maintenance!" McCoy snapped, slamming his hand against the receiver. Dead silence answered him.

  "Captain Kirk," snarled the doctor.

  "Kirk here," was the instant reply. "What's the matter, Bones? You sound grumpy as a bear."

  "This blasted intercom! I can't get through to the lab, medical records, anything. All I get is enough static to curl your ears or dead silence."

  "All right, Bones. I'll get maintenance on it."

  "Good luck. I couldn't get maintenance either. McCoy out."

  Kirk ran a hand through his hair, feeling groggy and tired. The intercom sounded again.

  "Spock here. The Romulan vessel has reappeared."

  "On my way. Kirk out."

  The captain hit the corridor running, fully awake to the danger confronting his ship.

  "Bridge," he told the turbo-lift controls and the erupting speed of its ascent did not seem fast enough. He thumped the walls in vexation. "Come on," he murmured and was startled by a marked increase in speed. He clung grimly to the wall and launched himself onto the bridge the moment the doors opened. Spock relinquished the command chair with the smoothness of long practice.

  "Status."

  "The Romulan ship is visible, but has made no move toward us. It would seem to be waiting."

  Kirk eyed the golden bird, devoutly wishing the situation were clearer. An awful skreaking noise sounded behind him and the captain whirled. The turbo-lift doors were opening reluctantly, one inch at a time. Doctor McCoy was barely able to force his way between them.

  "Your arrival is auspicious, Doctor," announced Spock. "We have a problem."

  The doors snapped shut, almost catching the doctor's fingers. He rubbed them absently.

  "Indeed we do, Mister Spock. You want me to help you with a problem?"

  "Gentlemen, I suggest we continue this discussion another time," said Kirk, his eyes on the viewscreen. "Right now our biggest problem is out there."

  Chapter 7

  "Our fuel supply has reached minimum security level, Commander. We have barely enough for retreat."

  Argelian's tone was icy. S'Talon felt a shiver race up his spine, but he did not move. He must retain control.

  "Deactivate the cloaking device."

  "Yes, Commander." Argelian's sigh of relief was clearly audible. "I have computed the coordinates for attack."

  "You will not fire, Argelian."

  Argelian rose from his station, white-hot anger emanating from every pore. He faced S'Talon in silence, years of discipline evident in his self-control. Commander and officer tested each other.

  "I cannot stand by and allow you to destroy the ship and crew through your blind desire for glory. We could have taken the Enterprise. Or at least damaged her. The element of surprise was on our side. That would have been enough for an ordinary commander, but not you. I do not know what drives you to this madness, but I cannot allow it to destroy us all. I challenge your right of command!"

  S'Talon looked deep into the man's eyes, trying to fathom his motivation. Argelian's anger was genuine and so was his concern. He spoke as he felt. S'Talon took a deep breath and allowed his eyes to light with affection.

  "Peace, Argelian."

  Surprised, Argelian was pushed off guard.

  "You have voiced a general opinion. I understand your concern. I share it. But it is not for me to think first of this ship, or even of you, its crew. This time my duty lies higher. The Raptor is under direct command of the Praetor. The mission we undertake is his. It is a desperate chance, but the rewards are high. I can tell you no more, except to say that I am committed. Have you known me to act in haste or without reason?"

  Argelian's eyes were wary and S'Talon prayed he had judged the young man correctly.

  "No."

  Argelian's voice echoed in the stillness of the command module.

  "If the Praetor orders it, I will follow. I have not before had reason to question you."

  "Return to your post, Argelian."

  S'Talon let the breath whistle inaudibly through his teeth. According to regulations Argelian should have been arrested, but that would solve nothing. He was a spokesman for the crew—better that they should follow him than make him a martyr.

  "Well played, Commander."

  The centurion's soft voice contrasted sharply with the kaleh she was slipping back into its sheath.

  "You would have used that."

  "Yes. If Argelian had persisted I would have killed him. It would have kept the crew in line for a time."

  "You amaze me, Centurion."

  "The cause is great. It does not call for halfway measures."

  S'Talon's smile warmed her, but her eyes were unreadable.

  "Again I thank you, Centurion."

  "Commander," she acknowledged.

  "Mister Sulu, let's try to swing around her again. Course, one-two-eight, mark four."

  "Aye, sir," answered Sulu, his fingers flying.

  The Enterprise ground slowly sideways. Her movement was ponderous, labored. Sulu frowned, cleared his console and programmed the course again. The ship hung in space and then began its creeping turn.

  "Sulu … what's the matter?"

  The captain was standing directly behind the helmsman. He reached over Sulu's shoulder and coded the course himself, but there was no change in the ship's speed.

  "I don't know, sir. She's been sluggish for the last few days, but not like this."

  "Spoooock …" said the captain, his tone demanding answers.

  "The problem I mentioned, sir. It is affecting the entire ship."

  "Spock, what is it?" Kirk pleaded.

  "It appears the Enterprise's main computer is malfunctioning."

  "We knew that, Spock," put in Doctor McCoy, "the minute it started calling the captain pet names."

  "You are close to the heart of the matter, Doctor, though the path you traveled to get there baffles me."

  "Spock."

  Kirk's tone was both desperate and commanding.

  "The computer seems to have focused on a single problem to the exclusion of everything else."

  "You mean like the time you asked it to calculate the value of pi?" said McCoy.

  "Essentially, Doctor, with one great difference: in this case the 'problem' is Captain Kirk. The computer is fixed on him and will deal with other matters on a secondary basis. It is continually monitoring his vital signs and scanning his files and it seems to be studying the captain's areas of interest. It responds to his direct voice commands with unnerving efficiency."

  "Are you saying it's in love with him?" asked McCoy, incredulous.

  "Poetic, Doctor, but correct."

  "Just because those female computer technicians on Cygnet programmed it to call me 'dear' … Spock, a computer can't fall in love with me!"

  "Correct, Captain. But the fault in programming seems to go much deeper than the minor annoyances we've been experiencing. I have checked the library section and the computer has been scanning all references to the word 'love.' It is applying those references to its responses. It has chosen you as the 'love object' and has totally fixed on you."

  Astonishment, amusement and terror flashed across Kirk's face.

  "Spock, that's a Romulan out there, not a trader or one of our own. Are you telling me the ship is disabled?"

  "Affirmative. The computer will respond to orders given by you—directly to it—with its usual efficiency, but it seems to consider orders from other crew members beneath its notice."

  "Jim, you can't run the ship alone!"

  McCoy's concern vibrated in his voice
.

  "You're telling me. Four hundred and thirty lives depend on that computer. This quadrant depends on that computer. There must be something we can do!"

  "The fault is not mechanical, Captain, but one of programming. It is impossible to reprogram it without the facilities of a starbase. The computer will act according to its basic directives and those directives have told it to concentrate all its energies on you."

  "If we can't change it, maybe we can deal with it …"

  A wild series of blips and bleeps accompanied by hysterically flashing lights made the command crew whirl. Spock's computer station was wild with activity, but by the time he reached it the console was dead.

  A frown marred Christine Chapel's face as she sat down in front of the computer viewscreen. Her mind was not on medical records or lab updates. Every time the ship was placed on alert status she found herself fighting a strong sense of outrage. A red alert meant broken bodies and scarred lives. A head nurse saw too much destruction. She found herself turning to everyday chores to calm her nerves.

  A list of files to be updated was an immediate necessity. She fed the first patient's serial number into the computer. When Lieutenant Martinelli's file did not appear on the screen, she blamed the recent computer malfunction and patiently entered the serial number again. One twitching, wavy line expanded across the center of the screen. It jerked faster and faster until it finally formed a serial number—not, however, the same number she had fed into the computer. Christine cleared the console impatiently and coded the entry again.

  "SC 937-0176 CEC," retorted the computer.

  "I don't care if you are malfunctioning, you can do better than that," said Christine as she punched keys for the third time.

  "SC 937-0176 CEC," the computer replied instantly.

  Christine's lips compressed and her eyes flashed. She punched the keys once more, this time entering a different serial number.

  "SC 937-0176 CEC," read the computer screen.

  "Whose number is that?" she demanded.

  "Kirk, James T., Captain, USS Enterprise …" answered the computer in a helpful tone.

  "Stop," said Christine.

  "Computed," came the reluctant answer.

  "Computer," said Christine reasonably. "I have patients here who need attention. I need their files."

  "Kirk, James T.?" said the computer hopefully.

  "I do not need the captain's file."

  Christine enunciated each word with savage clarity.

  "I do not want the captain's file. I do not care a fig about the captain's file. The captain can hang by his toes for all I care. The captain is not important …"

  The screen glowed in a wild display of fireworks—red and blue and purple explosions, gold lights and green streaks of lightning. Then, with a chuckle of static, it went dead.

  "… to me," finished Christine. "Computer. Computer!" she demanded, but the screen remained blank. Thinking both Doctor McCoy and Spock should be aware of the computer's behavior, she reached for the intercom.

  "Chapel to bridge."

  There was no answer, only the indefinable sound of an open communications line.

  "Chapel to bridge!"

  Christine turned to a passing orderly.

  "I'm going to the bridge. Please tell Doctor M'Benga where I've gone—he's with the patients."

  The orderly nodded and Christine headed for the door. It did not open and, completely taken by surprise, she crashed into an immobile metal wall. She stepped back and cautiously approached the doors again. They remained closed. She tried to pry them open but could not get a grip on their slick surface. She stood, hands pressed against the solid slabs of metal, stunned.

  Spock hovered over the computer station, his face grave. He straightened and turned to Kirk and McCoy.

  "Well," demanded the doctor, "what was it?"

  Spock ignored him and reported to the captain.

  "The computer has destroyed a portion of the personnel files. All records regarding female crew members have been wiped clean. The computer has, in effect, 'killed off the competition.'"

  "Spock, that's ridiculous!"

  "Possibly, Doctor, but it is also dangerous. Since they are 'dead,' the computer will not respond to any female—which leaves the Enterprise hopelessly understaffed. We are stranded in space."

  The captain was silent through Spock's explanation, gold flecks of anger leaping in his eyes. He forced himself to stay calm, but the air was alive with the electricity of his frustration.

  Spock hesitated before continuing.

  "Captain. There is something more you should know."

  "Well, Spock?"

  The captain's impatience surfaced in his voice. Wordlessly Spock extended his hand, the sensor resting on his palm. Kirk picked it up, exposing the Federation symbol.

  "A sensor unit. Capable of long range transmission."

  "Yes, Captain. A new and extremely sophisticated model capable of picking up generalized mental images as well as sound."

  Kirk's look of surprise faded into a frown of concentration.

  "A spy."

  "Essentially. We have undoubtedly been under surveillance for some time."

  "Where did you find it?"

  "I discovered it attached to my computer station."

  "Opinion, Mister Spock. Are there more?"

  "Unnecessary. More units would be superfluous. This one is designed to cover an area greater than this ship—with ease."

  "Replace it, but don't turn it on."

  The set of the captain's face revealed his anger as clearly as if he had spoken. Though he knew surveillance was common—almost standard procedure—he could not condone the philosophy of mistrust which prompted it. It was an affront to his integrity.

  "Spock, get down to auxiliary control. Transfer the ship to the auxiliary computer. We'll run the Enterprise from there. Take Chekov. Let me know when you're ready."

  Kirk moved toward the command chair, his eyes on the alien ship, his fingers closing into fists. The Romulan was waiting. Why? Had the cloaking device caused such a power drain he was helpless? The captain felt the hairs at the back of his neck prickle.

  Commodore Yang leaned back in his chair. Lines of worry marred his face. The viewscreen with its panoramic vista of stars gave him no peace. Somewhere out there was the Enterprise … maybe. But all attempts to contact her failed. There was no concrete proof she existed. Without some sign he would be forced to discontinue the full-scale search he had authorized.

  "I can't accept that. Damn it, this sector is my responsibility!" he muttered and reached for the intercom.

  "Get Murphy in here. On the double."

  "Yes, sir."

  Before he had formulated a plan of attack Murphy arrived in the outer office, his cherubic face full of questions. Yang rose to meet him.

  "Murphy, you are a genius. I need your help."

  The little man went to the nearest chair and lowered himself into it, preparing for a long session. Previous experience had warned him any reference to his mental capabilities meant someone, somewhere, wanted him to accomplish the impossible.

  "Why?" he asked.

  "Because I'm worried. It's Kirk and the Enterprise. We can't contact them. Iota thinks they're dead."

  "Do you?"

  "No. Don't ask me why. I've just got a hunch everything hangs on what happens aboard that ship."

  "Everything? You mean the Romulan crisis?"

  "What? I didn't think that was general knowledge."

  "It's not. But I am, after all, a genius."

  Green eyes twinkled.

  "Listen, Murphy. This whole idea of mine is a hunch. I admit it. And if it ever got out it might destroy my career. But something tells me Kirk is going to need some information I can give him. The only way I can think of to break through the communications block is to borrow that new droid you've been working on."

  For an instant the commodore reminded Murphy of a very earnest puppy.

  "You
mean the Selective Intelligence Communications Robot?"

  "SICR. That's it. I want it programmed to find the Enterprise—and I want it set up to avoid sensor scans."

  "That's its job, Commodore. It allows sensor beams to pass harmlessly through, as if it weren't there. Mechanically it simply doesn't exist."

  "I want it to self-destruct if it doesn't rendezvous with the Enterprise in one solar week or if it's tampered with and I want it programmed with this message. This is code one priority, Murphy, on my authority. Will you do it?"

  Murphy picked up the tape, smiled and rose from his chair.

  "SICR will launch in two hours, Commodore."

  "I owe you one, Murphy."

  "Yes, Commodore, you do."

  Murphy's green eyes delivered a calculated wink and Yang had a momentary qualm over the price he would be asked to pay for this particular favor.

  The Praetor's orders burned into Tiercellus' mind with the white hot intensity of a surgical laser. He shook his head, refusing to believe the words he read, but they stared back at him nonetheless: "rear guard." He had witnessed more than one instance of the Praetor's pettiness, but to be denied an active role in the empire's fate was impossible. Tiercellus felt his anger boil upward from the depths of his being and momentarily he yielded to its power. He was held in a palsy of rage. How dare that overblown dolt delegate a former supreme commander guard duty! The insult was a physical shock to the elderly officer. He had scorned danger, hoped for death, and now the Praetor's orders threatened to cheat him of the honorable end he craved.

  By sheer force of will Tiercellus caught his anger and subdued it. A lifetime of service to the empire was to be his memorial. The insult would take effect only if he accepted it. He would treat his detail with all the honor at his command.

  Besides, the Praetor's strategy might prove less effective than he hoped. In that case, Tiercellus would make the difference between survival and destruction. He envisioned the Praetor's flagship fleeing for the Neutral Zone—at the head of the fleet. In his mind the great ship skittered through space like a frightened rodent, zig-zagging in an effort to escape its pursuer. It was a pretty picture.