Web of the Romulans

by M S Murdock

  Tiercellus regarded his orders again, this time with a considerably gentler eye. If he felt the Praetor's insult, his men must feel it also. He would have to speak to them, let them see he valued them. Men who are not appreciated have little stomach for battle.

  "Spock to captain."

  "Kirk here."

  "Captain, the doors to auxiliary control are jammed. I have consulted Mister Scott and we both agree they cannot be forced to open. The only alternative is to cut our way through."

  "That's right, Captain," contributed the chief engineer. "The controls are locked. And Captain … it'll take at least eight hours to cut through the doors or bulkhead on this part of the ship—everything is double reinforced."

  "What about the maintenance hatches?"

  "No go," answered Scotty. "They're flooded with gas."

  "The security system?"

  "Aye, sir. It'll take hours to clear 'em."

  "Nine point two-three hours, to be exact," said Spock.

  Kirk didn't like it, but there were no alternatives.

  "All right, Scotty, but make it as fast as you can."

  "I'll do my best, Captain."

  "Good. Take all the help you need. Spock, you and Chekov report back to the bridge—maybe we can think of some other way to knock out that computer."

  "Acknowledged. And Captain … it might be advisable to curtail your speech concerning the computer. It is constantly monitoring you and if it were to react in a fit of pique we could lose life support …"

  Kirk grimaced.

  "Noted, Mister Spock. Thank you."

  He leaned back in his chair, wondering if he would ever face a more bizarre or potentially dangerous situation. Technology clutched him in its cold, metallic fingers. He was at the mercy of a machine—a conglomeration of circuits incapable of human feeling. He rankled under the restraint. Could he turn the tables? He concentrated on the problem, his forefinger tracing the line of his lower lip. The sound of the turbo-lift doors being forced open made him turn.

  "Spock!"

  The Vulcan released the doors after Chekov slipped between them and turned to face his commanding officer.

  "Yes, Captain."

  "Spock, remember the time you got control of the computer by asking it to concentrate all its banks on calculating the value of pi?"

  "The situation is hardly similar. . . ."

  "I know … but what if it had to respond to something else? What if the computer itself—not the ship, but the computer—were under attack? If we could get it to concentrate on another problem maybe it would release the doors to auxiliary control …"

  "And we would regain control of the Enterprise." Spock's eyebrows rose as he considered the possibilities. "An interesting idea."

  "Well, don't just consider it, Spock, do it!" exploded McCoy.

  Spock favored the doctor with a particularly Vulcan acidity.

  "Try it, Spock," said Kirk softly.

  "Hmmm. The computer has its own security system—checks which it runs at regular intervals. It is also possible to code security checks manually. If we were to program the computer to run all automatic security checks simultaneously and add to that the manual security checks each section of the ship employs … it is possible the computer might consider it an attack and respond to the situation."

  "Good!"

  "However, Captain, I must warn you the computer could react in any number of ways … some of them deadly."

  "We're helpless in the hands of an enemy vessel. I'll take the chance."

  Commander Spock went to his computer station, concentration drawing his brows together as he began to organize the assault.

  "Jim, that computer could flood the decks with gas or simply cut life support! Is it worth the risk?"

  "If it succeeds we'll regain control of the ship … we all knew the risks, Bones, and accepted them when we joined Star Fleet."

  An object hurtled through space, the tiny struts at its sides flaring like sails as it breasted the unknown. At the top of each strut was a glowing sensor unit which scanned its flight path. A similar appendage curved from the rear of the object and mobile sensor units protruded from the top and bottom of the cube. Neatly inscribed on one corner were the letters "SICR." It moved at warp ten, its sensors ever seeking the one thing it could call home … the starship Enterprise.

  Commodore Yang watched it go and sighed. It was all he could do. Now for the waiting game. Well, he was used to it. He turned from the viewport and rifled through the papers on his desk, trying to forget the galaxy might explode into warfare at a moment's notice and that he had put his career on the line on a wild gamble, an impossible hunch. He had heard himself called a security-conscious paper-pusher. It just went to prove labels were seldom correct.

  S'Talon watched the enemy vessel, his hands clenching and unclenching in an involuntary betrayal of his tension. The enemy was not reacting as he had expected. He could sense the crew's restlessness as they waited for orders, gauging his reactions. Let them wait, he thought. I have no time for such annoyances. Red light played over his features as his expression hardened. One ship to hold the Federation fleet at bay. The Praetor believed in miracles. A grim twist broke the serious line of his mouth.

  "Commander."

  S'Talon inclined his head at the sound of his centurion's voice.

  "We await your orders," she said.

  He knew it was her way of recalling him to action.

  "Thank you, Centurion."

  He felt her withdraw and thought how lucky he was she was not the Praetor's spy. She knew his moods too well. He rounded unexpectedly on the crew, pleased the speed of his action unnerved them. He had heard them call such unexpected movements "the striking snake."

  "We will wait," he informed them, "a little longer … if the enemy has not moved, then we shall see."

  He read rebellion on many faces, but he knew none would cross him. He smiled.

  Chapter 8

  The conference room at Star Fleet Command Headquarters sparkled with brass. It was an exclusive group. Four admirals, two commodores and a private secretary graced the oval conference table. Sitting beneath the blue Federation symbol, Admiral Iota looked like a recruiting poster come to life. He appeared born to command. His tanned good looks combined with a military bandbox smartness inspired confidence and respect. He surveyed the other officers with satisfaction.

  "We are all agreed, then. An attack force must be readied to meet the Romulan challenge."

  Iota spoke with an enthusiasm that caused several raised eyebrows.

  "Now wait a minute, Jake."

  Poppaelia's soft voice was incongruous in relation to his powerful body. He leaned back and with studied informality stretched one of his arms across the back of his chair.

  "I agree we should be prepared for any emergency, but at the moment I don't see a challenge—merely a possibility. Our motive must be peace."

  "Of course, of course," answered Iota, "our motives are always peaceful … but the Federation and the Romulan empire are hereditary enemies. You know what they are: savage, brutal, ruthless. We can't afford to wait for a full-scale invasion. We've got to stop it before it starts."

  "Stop what? We don't even know what's going on."

  "Nevertheless …"

  Poppaelia altered course.

  "We've negotiated with the Romulans before."

  "Maybe, but we have to be ready …"

  "We will be," cut in Charles, his dark eyes angry. "We always are. The Federation defense system is a twenty-four-hour responsibility, not a weekend assignment. You know the specifications: continual patrol, constant monitoring of all sectors, specialized intelligence units for trouble spots …"

  "It's not enough."

  Iota's voice was cold.

  "One of those specialized intelligence units has stopped transmitting. It was aboard the Enterprise. Since the likelihood of its discovery was infinitesimal, I can only conclude that the Enterprise is destroyed. What do you sa
y to that?"

  "What did Yang say?" asked Poppaelia, his soft voice deceptive.

  "Commodore Yang seemed to feel that Kirk had discovered the device and turned it off."

  "Not impossible."

  "But unlikely."

  "Perhaps. But I think it's too soon to write the Enterprise out of the script. A communications block can be caused by too many things. I also feel Admiral Iota's suspicions must be taken into account. I therefore propose we form a detachment to proceed to the Romulan Neutral Zone—there to investigate the Romulan empire's curious silence and await further developments."

  "Agreed," snapped Iota. "The detachment to consist of starships Exeter, Farragut, Potemkin, Hood and six scout ships."

  "Four starships, Admiral?" Charles asked dryly. "Do you think it'll be enough? To investigate, I mean."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Just that if you pull four starships off the regular patrol roster you're going to leave part of the Federation border undefended."

  "What do you think I am? An idiot? The Potemkin and Hood have just come off leave—they're not defending anything at the moment. The Exeter and Farragut are both assigned to sectors near the Romulan Neutral Zone. I said four and I meant four. There's got to be a show of strength."

  "Aggressive power provokes attack," muttered Zorax.

  "Gentlemen, do I take it that you are afraid of the Romulans?"

  The cutting edge in Iota's voice was serrated, drawing blood even from Poppaelia's tough skin.

  "I do not fear the Romulans," he snapped, "but I do fear war. Any sane man would. Any sane man does."

  He leveled his eyes at the admiral.

  "Of course, of course," answered Iota, "but that doesn't alter the fact it will take four starships to be any kind of deterrent. They would laugh at less."

  "You will assume full responsibility?" Zorax questioned.

  "That is inconsequential, Zorax. What difference does it make who accepts responsibility? The dead don't care," said Poppaelia.

  "Four," repeated Iota.

  Poppaelia sighed.

  "I strongly recommend the detachment be jointly commanded by Admiral Iota and Captain Garson of the Potemkin."

  "Now wait a minute …"

  "I haven't finished, Jake. You would be in full command of all investigation and negotiation. Garson would handle the military side of things. There aren't many who can match him as a tactical commander and—you have to admit it, Jake—your experience along those lines is minimal. Your major talent has always been more internal."

  The word "figurehead" ran in Poppaelia's mind but he did not voice it. Garson was a competent, intelligent man. He would not rush into anything.

  "Jake?"

  "Everyone has to make compromises. At least we'll be ready. Agreed."

  "Charles? Popov? Zorax? Kaal?"

  "Agreed."

  "The detachment will proceed as planned. It will rendezvous at Starbase Eight, Admiral Iota and Captain Garson in joint command."

  Iota scanned the others' faces. He had won the war, if not the battle. Once at the head of a strike force … he would be a long way from Star Fleet Headquarters.

  Rear Admiral Arc Poppaelia sat in his spacious office, pondering the turn of events in the last council meeting. He had not meant to spearhead the proceedings, much less come into open conflict with Star Fleet Intelligence. Iota's power play had forced his hand. As admiralty representative he was the senior member of the council, even though Iota and several others out-ranked him. Generally he preferred to act unobtrusively, suggesting rather than dictating the council's directives. Iota had made that approach unsound.

  The Romulan situation was a powderkeg and Iota's military absolutism a sputtering fuse. It was just a matter of time until the explosion. Poppaelia closed his eyes, trying to remember everything he could about the intelligence officer.

  Iota had been born and raised in old New York City on earth. His family had been well off, the father a minor political leader. Iota had been educated in three exclusive private institutions before he entered Star Fleet Academy, where his talent for espionage had been immediately recognized. He was a brilliant student and his first assignment had been in the planning division of the intelligence corps. He had stayed there, rising through the years to command the division. Those were the bald facts. Where the devil, Poppaelia asked himself, did the man get a bee in his bonnet about the Romulans?

  Poppaelia had known the intelligence officer for years, and nothing in his background or training suggested a reason for his passion. He had lost no friend or relation to a Romulan raid, nor had he ever encountered a Romulan in person. Try as he might, Poppaelia could find no reason for Iota's obsession, and obsession it was. Poppaelia feared his intense, narrow outlook. Iota was unusually single-minded. His interests did not extend beyond the boundaries of Romulan culture.

  Poppaelia thought of the role he had forced on Garson and his heart went out to the man. He had made Garson the buffer between Iota and the Romulan empire. It was an untenable position. He had, in effect, placed a mere starship captain on an even footing with a full admiral. Then, too, he had a hunch Iota did not appreciate deferring to a line officer, whatever his rank. No matter how you looked at it, Garson was in for trouble and he deserved more explanation than his orders would provide; and Poppaelia acknowledged his own feelings of guilt in volunteering Garson for the joint command. The man deserved his support, at the very least.

  Poppaelia directed his secretary to open a communications channel to Garson. He inclined toward the screen as the image of a solemn man with honest grey eyes appeared on it.

  "Garson, you have your orders. I am aware that by placing you in joint command with Admiral Iota I have put you in a difficult position, but it was necessary. Remember, you have full military command. That, and this conversation will go on record here at Headquarters. I believe it would be wise to keep the admiral's position in mind at all times. You know as well as I more than once he's made statements concerning the 'weakness of our defensive posture.' Let's not start a war if we can help it."

  "Aye, sir."

  Garson's image faded and Poppaelia straightened, wishing he did not feel so uneasy.

  The remains of the Romulan fleet, assembled for the coming action, were an impressive display. The larger, more dramatic Klingon-designed cruisers would head the expedition, and it was in them the Praetor placed the most confidence, but he had a furtive attraction to the older Romulan design. He could understand S'Talon's preference for the smaller, less powerful ship. For one thing, it was totally Romulan—history painted into every line of the bird of prey on its belly. And there was a simplicity and cleanliness of design the Klingon vessels lacked. A sense of honesty. An admirable quality, if impractical. The Praetor turned from the viewscreen. The officers of his flagship were waiting at attention. Each man unconsciously tensed under his leader's scrutiny.

  "You have all been thoroughly informed of the situation. You know the Romulan empire as it now exists is doomed if we are not successful. Your men must know as little as possible. If they were to realize the extent of the danger we would face panic and we need obedience. Let them think this an invasion. Promise them wealth, fame, and we may succeed."

  The Praetor selected a goblet of wine from a serving tray and indicated his officers were to do the same. He raised the glass.

  "To victory. And its rewards."

  "Victory!" echoed the officers.

  The Praetor elevated his glass, letting the gentle fire of the wine flow through his body. There would be time for an hour's recreation before departure. He fingered the curving surface of the goblet, his jewelry glittering with electric lights.

  "You are dismissed. Departure in two hours. See that you are ready."

  The Praetor accepted their salutes with a gracious nod. He had not mentioned S'Talon's mission even though it was a key to success. They did not need to know. It would serve no purpose but to lionize the man. Later, perhaps, i
f it suited him, he would allow his brilliant tactical ploy to be discovered. If he were lucky, S'Talon would be a hero but dead and incapable of enjoying his fame. It, along with his family fortunes, would pass into the custody of the state—the Praetor's custody. He would keep them well, in fitting tribute to the dead. He drained his glass, pleased with his own resourcefulness.

  Kirk studied the main viewscreen. Chekov and Sulu were monitoring their stations with fierce concentration. Uhura was testing and retesting the communications system. McCoy found these situations curiously abstract—everyone was so concerned with minute detail, as if their personal performance was the key to averting disaster. Well, perhaps it was. But, he thought ironically, it was also a symptom of a vulnerable mortal clinging to sanity in the face of destruction. He folded his hands behind his back and raised his eyes to the enemy vessel. Like the captain, he would wait.

  "Captain, preparation is complete."

  Spock's voice shattered the aura of calm.

  "Scotty, get ready to try those doors!"

  "Aye, sir. We're ready here."

  The captain gripped the arms of his command chair.

  "Try it, Spock," he said, his eyes on the Romulan.

  Spock calmly activated the security sequence. For a moment there was no reaction and then the computer began clicking away, chattering to itself over its work.

  "Scotty," said the captain in a stage whisper, "try those doors."

  "Aye, Captain … no good. They're stuck fast. What's goin' on up there?"

  An explosion of sound was rising from the computer station, a carol of angry squeals, blips and bursts of static. The computer viewscreen erupted in a kaleidoscope of color and then faded gradually to black. Spock turned from the panel.

  "I had not anticipated this," he said, his voice grating in an effort to control his anger. "The computer has erased the remainder of the personnel records, with the single exception of Captain Kirk's. For all practical purposes he is the only living crew member aboard the Enterprise."

  "I'm alive!" snapped McCoy. "No matter what that glorified adding machine says!"