Web of the Romulans

by M S Murdock

  S'Talon raised an eyebrow, so like Spock it made the doctor shiver. The Romulan aimed a look of pure challenge at Kirk.

  "I accept your terms, Captain," he said.

  Admiral Iota glared at the Potemkin's captain. Anger seethed through him, effectually blocking his mind against words he did not wish to accept. Garson seemed completely unaware of his feelings and for that he was glad. It would have given the young captain too much power over him.

  "… I am sorry, Admiral, but that's the way it stands. There's nothing I can do about it. My orders come directly from Star Fleet Headquarters. The Potemkin, with me in command, is to head the force. You will have full control of all diplomatic and intelligence contact and I am to be guided by your recommendations wherever possible …"

  The words slid over Iota like quicksilver. He had not anticipated this. Poppaelia had forestalled any direct attempt to gain military command of the mission. He always was a conservative fool.

  "You must, of course, follow orders," murmured Iota.

  "That is my intention," replied Garson, comprehending more than Iota suspected.

  "Still, it does no harm to be prepared. I shall personally conduct a security check on the Potemkin. As my flagship she will not only be a primary target but our most potent weapon."

  Garson noted how easily the admiral claimed the Potemkin, but he answered with his usual grave courtesy.

  "An excellent idea, Admiral. Your expertise will be highly valued. Lieutenant Bowetski, please escort Admiral Iota. An escort will avoid any misunderstandings over security clearance, sir."

  "Thank you, Captain," Iota answered smoothly. "I'm sure we'll manage to work together."

  "Yes, sir," replied Garson as the admiral turned away. He had his doubts about their ability to work together, but Iota's security inspection would keep him occupied for a while. He began to appreciate Poppaelia's warning about the ruthlessness of Iota's reactions. Not five minutes after Poppaelia's call Iota had tried to usurp military control of the mission. He had cited tactical brilliance, his special knowledge of the Romulans and his more mature years in a voice filled with tolerance for Garson's lesser status. The Potemkin's captain grinned as he recalled the shock on Iota's face when Garson agreed with him and the total bewilderment in the admiral's eyes when Garson refused his offer of command.

  Garson went over all he had ever heard about Iota, from official Star Fleet press releases to the idle gossip of space-weary travellers. Everything about the man—except the statistics of his life—was vague, obscure, including Poppaelia's veiled hints. Iota had no close personal friends. His life appeared to be his work and his work was Star Fleet Intelligence, his specialty the Romulans.

  Garson ran a hand through his thick, pale hair. The "escort" had been a transparent ruse to keep Iota under surveillance. Garson knew he was no match for Iota in the devious field of espionage. He did not try to be. He quietly set up an honor detail from security whose job it was to continually escort the admiral. Iota's overt movements were documented while nominally paying him the compliment of an honor guard.

  The Potemkin's captain entered the turbo-lift, muttering "bridge" in a preoccupied voice. Garson was in his early forties, unremarkable in appearance except for the unusual clarity of his grey eyes. Most observers would have tagged him "stalwart" and thought no more about it. His close friends knew him to be completely trustworthy. He was possessed of a fair military mind, but his greatest asset was an unflinching acknowledgment of his own limitations. This and his deceptively gentle manner made him a gifted commander, for he utilized to the full the talents of those who served him. As he stepped onto the bridge, Lieutenant Arviela's small form rose from the command chair, deftly making way for him.

  "Thank you, Lieutenant."

  Garson's courtesy was one of the characteristics his crew found most endearing. Arviela handed him an authorization to be initialed and then resumed her customary position at the helm.

  He scanned the memo and noted Poppaelia was as good as his word. Garson's authority in this special mission would go on record not only at Star Fleet Headquarters, but in the Potemkin's log as well.

  "How're we doing?" he asked mildly.

  "On course, sir," answered Arviela.

  "ETA?"

  "Three point two-five hours to Starbase Eight."

  Garson turned to the communications station.

  "Any word from Kirk? Any intercepted Romulan transmissions?"

  "Negative, sir. It's quiet."

  "Too quiet. Like a tomb," muttered Garson morosely. He was trying hard not to think of the physical aspects of war, but Iota's raven-croaking prophecies hung over him. Even the stars were frail and tentative compared to the void of space between them, and human life was infinitely more fragile.

  The Praetor stood on the bridge of his flagship, a royal figure in his military regalia. The Romulan fleet was assembled before him, prepared for an historic foray. It was the moment for a speech.

  "My Praetor."

  The Praetor glanced over his shoulder. The panic in his aide's voice was alarming.

  "What is it, Pompe?"

  "S'Tor is dead."

  "The commander of the Remus? When?"

  "Just a few moments ago. He was taken suddenly. He must be replaced."

  "Yes. Are none of his officers qualified?"

  "The Remus is running with half its complement now. They are key personnel. If one of them must be pulled into a position of command, it will leave a vital post unmanned."

  "You will command her yourself, Pompe."

  "I, my Praetor? I have no experience with that class vessel."

  "We must fill the maw of necessity, Pompe. You will report directly to me. We need numbers now, not expertise. You are dismissed."

  "Yes, my Praetor."

  Inconvenient, thought the Praetor as Pompe backed from the room, to lose my aide—but dangerous to lose S'Tor. It did not bode well for the coming encounter. He must move quickly or he would have no fleet to command.

  "Commander."

  "My Praetor."

  "You may order the fleet to move out."

  The commander's satanic dark eyes gleamed.

  "We are ready, my Praetor."

  "Four ships are to be left at the borders of the Neutral Zone to defend our backs. That rear guard will be commanded by Tiercellus. In the unlikely event that I am lost … you will report to him. The rest of the fleet will proceed to the planet Canara. And Commander, this is my flagship. It is to be protected at all times. A squadron of the smaller vessels will surround it. There must be no gaps in their formation."

  "Yes, my Praetor. All shall be as you have commanded."

  "Then," said the Praetor, "for the empire, in the name of our august and revered emperor, we will return victorious!"

  "Victory!" echoed the commander.

  "Victory!" shouted the bridge crew.

  The Praetor smiled as the echoes of victory rose around him.

  Star Fleet Intelligence Headquarters loomed stark and silent in the moonlight. The trees planted around its perimeter dappled the walls with shifting shadows. Familiar sounds of night-flying insects covered the click of Poppaelia's footsteps.

  He was about to attempt burglary. He had no authority for his actions but his own unsubstantiated fears. What he proposed to do was a court-martial offense. If the building's computerized security system failed to stop him, the grinding gears of justice would, but he had to know the worst. He had exhausted every normal avenue of information without uncovering conclusive evidence of his suspicions. The only option left was a thorough search of Iota's office, but that was a touchy business. Poppaelia could ask no one to take the risk but himself.

  The more he mulled over Iota's actions, the more uneasy he became. Intuition told him where the Romulans were concerned Iota was a little mad. He actually wanted to fight them, regardless of the consequences, and Poppaelia had provided him with a perfect opportunity. Poppaelia shuddered at his lack of insight and the r
esolution to verify his evaluations strengthened.

  He moved into range of the building's security scanner and waited. A piercing red light blinded him for a moment and a computer voice demanded, "Identify!"

  "Poppaelia, Arc, Rear-Admiral. Security code blue."

  The computer registered this information and shot back, "Prepare for retina scan."

  Poppaelia opened both eyes and willed himself not to flinch under the white light of the computer's camera eye.

  "Scan affirmative. Verify code blue."

  Poppaelia slipped a card into the computer slot. One of his many acquaintances had procured it for him. The man's reputation was dubious, but he had always kept a bargain, and he owed the admiral a sizable favor. If the computer accepted this coding, he would be in the clear. If not … he might well be dead. It was now or never.

  "Security override confirmed."

  The big, double doors of the building's main entrance slid open and Poppaelia stepped through them with an audible sigh of relief. He sought out Iota's office and was about to enter when he stopped short. All security in the building was supposed to be linked to the computer, but it would be like Iota to rig a special alarm for his own office. Poppaelia regarded the closed door with slitted eyes. All around the door frame ran a hairline stripe of white. For a moment he thought it was purely decorative, but on closer inspection he realized it was a cleverly concealed laser field. Anyone passing through it would be fried.

  The field was neatly camouflaged, but it was a fairly simple device. Deactivating it was likely to be equally simple. Poppaelia ran his hands over the outside edge of the door frame, but found no switch. He stepped back and studied the door again, then he deliberately placed one finger on the nameplate beside it and pushed. His reward was instantaneous. The white line vanished and the doors to Iota's office slid smoothly open.

  Fifteen minutes later he found what he wanted in the lower right hand drawer of Iota's locked desk. He spread a sheaf of file folders across the desk top and read their labels with growing horror. To make absolutely sure of what he was seeing, he flipped open the top file. The title page of a thick report mesmerized him. "Romulan Invasion, Plan I," he read. "Specifications: six starship class vessels, twelve reconnaissance ships and thirty cargo shuttles …" There were over twenty folders, each outlining a different plan for destroying the Romulan empire. Plan seventeen called for four starships and six scouts. The hairs over Poppaelia's ears tingled.

  Time was running out. SICR's small but sophisticated metallic brain acknowledged this. The home it sought still eluded its sensors. Its appointed destiny was the starship Enterprise. Beyond that, it had no directives. It made a gradual turn, following its preprogrammed pattern. The sensors glanced off a large object, registered in SICR's memory banks and switched away from the asteroid it had identified.

  The stars watched its zig-zag course with faint amusement. Their stately dance made the small computer's movements as jerky and laughable as a Chaplin comedy, yet they were not intolerant. In its way the tiny craft was fulfilling its destiny as they fulfilled theirs. It searched for its home port even as they, moving bravely into the unknown with the most rudimentary description as its guide. It was a flourish in the dance, a chuckle in the midst of splendor.

  SICR kept to its course, aware only of what it lacked: the starship Enterprise.

  Chapter 10

  Tiercellus walked with stiff, measured steps toward his cabin. Though the sentries on either side of the door looked neither to the right nor the left, he knew they were aware of his every move. He must betray no weakness before them. He raised his chin defiantly as he passed between them. The moment the cabin doors closed behind him he doubled up in pain, one hand clutching his right side. He staggered as he groped for his medication and grimly willed himself to live. He was needed. He would succumb to the laws of nature only when the crisis was past.

  The pain began to ease and he could breathe, though each gasp still felt as if his lungs were tearing. He walked carefully across the cabin and sank into an oversize, padded chair, gripping the arms until his knuckles went white. He closed his eyes and waited out the pain. It ebbed slowly from his body and mind. He had been foolish, carried away by all that must be done like a raw recruit. He had neglected his medication and almost precipitated an untimely death. No more. The empire needed him. He would let the ship's physician bully him as much as she wished, even if it meant swallowing an endless array of pills and potions.

  He took an experimental deep breath and was pleased to note it hurt only a little. A few more minutes and he would again be fit for duty.

  "Sir."

  The sentry's voice echoed in the desk communicator.

  "What is it?"

  "The weapons master asks to see you."

  "Very well."

  It took a conscious effort on Tiercellus' part to keep the fatigue from his voice. He closed his eyes, drawing on all his strength to carry him through the interview.

  "My pledge is to obey."

  The deep, gravelly voice brought Tiercellus to his feet—too quickly. The weapons master reached to support him.

  "You are ill, my friend."

  Tiercellus shook his head.

  "Merely elderly, Hexce. It is of no consequence."

  Hexce gently lowered his commander back into his chair. Tiercellus waved a hand toward another.

  "Sit down, Hexce. I have not seen you in twenty years. I thought you must be dead."

  There was a glint of humor in Tiercellus' eyes.

  "Not I, sir. I am too stubborn to die."

  "More likely too strong."

  Tiercellus regarded the other man with undisguised affection. He and Hexce had served together for many years. They had saved each other's lives. Now they were again together for this final encounter. Somehow it was fitting.

  "Your presence here is luck I did not expect. Are you willing to be my strong right arm once again? I am not sure of my own strength. Were I to drop at a crucial moment … Hexce, there must be someone I can trust."

  Hexce's brow wrinkled. The muscles across his broad back bunched as he slammed one fist into his palm.

  "Whatever you ask of me, I will do, but I am an engineer, not a leader of men."

  Tiercellus smiled unexpectedly.

  "You have, on occasion, led me."

  Hexce chuckled.

  "I have pledged to obey. If that means being obeyed … I accept, Commander."

  "Good. We will go over the Praetor's orders together and I will tell you what I know of our young friend S'Talon. He, too, has a part to play in all of this."

  "He was always a likely lad, though too honest to get ahead politically."

  "At the moment, his honesty is being used against him. We will discuss the details …"

  "… over a glass of ale?" finished Hexce.

  "You never change, Hexce. In a world as transient as ours, that is a rare thing."

  "Perhaps not always a good thing. My day is over. Since our last battle, I have not found a commander I can follow with a quiet heart."

  "We are two old hawks, Hexce. It is time we were returned to the forest, to die as we were bred."

  Tiercellus extended his hand.

  "Come, my friend. One last task and we will rest."

  Hexce's massive hand closed around Tiercellus' forearm.

  "For the good of the empire," he said, and the two men's eyes locked in complete understanding.

  The pale sun of Canara shed its white light over fields of rippling gran. Endless winds swept the planet and they pushed and tossed the fields into waves and whitecaps, the tide changing with the direction of the wind. An ocean of gran chattered around rocky foothills and crept up the sides of towering mountains.

  Romm Joramm, on his knees in the middle of a field, raised his eyes to the mountains with the clouds swirling around their peaks, and reflected that Canara had come a long way. A decade ago the view had been considerably different: unyielding rock and sand everywhere,
with isolated pockets of vegetation clustered around the few natural springs. Life had been hard. Survival was the god many of his people worshipped.

  But the Federation had changed all that. Not, he thought sourly, that they had gone out of their way to bring about sweeping technological advances, but they had suggested new ways of using the knowledge and tools Canara already possessed. The result had been a dramatic jump in the standard of living. Life was still hard, but now there was enough for all. Taken as a whole, he was glad he had been part of the movement to join the Federation.

  Joramm rocked back on his heels and contemplated the sea of gran. Here was food for his people and health for the galaxy. Gran was a source of medicine as well as food. In unrefined gran itself or the flour milled from it, there was a powerful chemical which accounted in part for the Canarans' physical endurance and lack of disease. This much the Federation scientists had discovered and passed on to the people. And they bought all surpluses of gran at a fair price. Yes, life was now good … so much for the people to learn and see. As a Canaran elder he must learn first, see first, to guide them as they stretched their minds beyond their home world. Bending the tough Canaran will was like trying to bend a steel spring—when pressure was released it immediately snapped back to its original form. That will must be bent if Canarans were to grow and live in a world populated by radically different beings. He was guilty himself of insular, archaic thinking. He sighed, letting the weight of his responsibility escape with his breath. He would worry later. Now there was much to do.

  Joramm's back bent to his work once more, his rhythmic movements as he weeded the field hypnotically restful to his mind. The sun beat down on his white hair and the ripening gold he tended. A billowing wind washed the field, catching up Joramm's sigh and whirling it away with the tide.

  "Livius was right. You are mad."

  Argelian was beyond anger. His voice held a tired, dry certainty S'Talon found much more alarming. He doubted his ability to win Argelian over again, but the necessity of trying was inescapable.