Web of the Romulans

by M S Murdock

  Kirk's voice was sharp, intense.

  "There will be no execution … for you. As for your crew …"

  "They expect no other fate," said the commander. "That is our way."

  "Really, Commander? Then why are they even now buying their lives … with cooperation?"

  Kirk caught the quick flinch of surprise and pain on S'Talon's face and decided to press his advantage.

  "You lie," said S'Talon, his voice grating. "Humans are well-known liars."

  "Perhaps. But this time I have no need to lie. They betray you. Why should you sacrifice your life for them? Even your centurion is vulnerable."

  S'Talon's eyes blazed.

  "She will say nothing voluntarily, Captain. She has been with me for years! She is a loyal officer!"

  "But she is also a woman … a very attractive woman. I don't think Spock will have to use force."

  "No!" snarled S'Talon.

  "She went with him willingly …" murmured Kirk, placing a definite, soft emphasis on the last word.

  "As a Romulan officer! She volunteered for this mission though she knew it would mean her death! She would die to save her people!"

  "'To save her people,'" repeated Kirk. "'The life of the empire' … you meant that literally. Of course—why else would the Romulans risk a galactic war? It would be suicide unless … unless death without the risk was certain."

  S'Talon's face had become cold, the skin across his prominent cheekbones taut. Only his eyes revealed his emotions and they were full of despairing anger. Kirk continued his speculations.

  "You were the decoy! You kept outsiders from interfering! That's why you used the cloaking device to such an extent, why you let your ship be destroyed rather than seek escape … to buy time! But time for what! Tell me, Commander!"

  Kirk suddenly realized S'Talon was not listening to him. The Romulan's eyes were fixed on a point beyond Kirk and they had grown wide with horror. Keeping a wary eye on his adversary, Kirk turned just as Spock announced, "Captain, I have summoned Doctor McCoy. The centurion collapsed."

  Spock held her in his arms, her limp form and pallor making her appear frighteningly delicate. The captain's surprise was obvious, but S'Talon did not see it. His eyes were for the centurion alone.

  "Even Klingons would not have done this!" he spat.

  Spock ignored the venom in S'Talon's voice. For all the reaction he made it might have been the most civil of pleasantries. He carefully placed the centurion on the floor and rose to face the impassioned Romulan.

  "Commander, the centurion revealed nothing but her loyalty before she collapsed. I did not invade her mind nor harm her physically."

  "We do not employ torture," contributed Kirk.

  S'Talon knelt by S'Tarleya, his eyes on her face.

  "You tricked me, Kirk?"

  "Yes, Commander. The centurion's collapse is unfortunate, but I assure you Mister Spock is in no way responsible for her condition."

  S'Talon looked up at Spock, whose whole attitude expressed his concern.

  "I believe you. This was not unexpected."

  Kirk and his first officer exchanged a mystified look.

  McCoy, medical kit in his hand, threaded his way between Kirk, Spock and S'Talon to kneel beside the centurion. He ran his scanner over her, grasped her neck and gently lifted her head, then eased her back to the floor. With clinical thoroughness he studied her face. The arched eyebrows and dark lashes were like figures painted on startlingly white paper, framed in the black mass of her hair. He glanced at the Romulan commander. S'Talon looked both resigned and grieved.

  "Bones, what is it?"

  McCoy drew his eyes from the Romulan's face and looked up at Kirk.

  "It's myrruthesia. Peculiar to Vulcans and Romulans, but generally very rare and communicable only in its early stages. This seems to be a more virulent strain. . . . I can't tell just yet how dangerous it is …"

  "I can." S'Talon's voice was like gravel. "The centurion will die within forty-eight hours if the antidote is not administered. It may even now be too late to save her."

  "The antidote?"

  "Quinneal, Jim. But what kind of effect it has on this mutated form of the virus, I don't know." McCoy administered an injection before orderlies took the centurion to sickbay. "You'd better come along, too, Mister Spock, Commander. We have a small supply of preventive vaccine aboard."

  "We will be there shortly, Doctor."

  Spock's answer made it plain he would appear in his own good time.

  "See that you do, Mister Spock."

  McCoy was about to say something more but he caught the look Kirk aimed at him and turned to follow the centurion's gurney as it was propelled out the door.

  "Is that what you're trying to hide, Commander? Illness? A plague that threatens the entire Romulan empire? But McCoy said it's communicable only in the early stages …"

  "As the doctor surmised, this is a mutated form of the disease. It is highly contagious … and quinneal is not entirely successful in its prevention or cure," said S'Talon tightly.

  "I still don't understand why you tried to hide the disease. The Federation might be able to help …"

  A bitter smile tugged at S'Talon's mouth.

  "Help your enemies, Captain? In a way you already are."

  "The Federation and the Romulan empire may be political enemies, Commander, but we have no desire to see your people ravaged by a plague. At least we can supply medicine and our research staff here on the Enterprise will work on an improved vaccine."

  The commander's smile deepened.

  "Quinneal is created by using a distillation of gran as a catalyst. The nearest major source of gran is the Canara solar system … in Federation space," commented Spock.

  Kirk's eyes widened, then narrowed as his mind locked on to the situation.

  "The Romulan fleet is at Canara! You were to give them time to get the gran! Commander, that may not be easy—not even for the Romulan fleet. The Canarans are a warrior race, simple but dangerous. They are capable of destroying the gran rather than allow it to fall into Romulan hands."

  "We will do what is necessary, Captain, to save our people."

  "If you try to use force against the Canarans you may destroy your people! Listen to me, Commander! It may be true that humans are liars, but Vulcans are not! Spock!"

  "The captain speaks the truth, Commander. The Canarans are severe and violent, prone to extremes. They are also intensely loyal to the Federation. If you attempt to force them to refine gran for you they are quite capable of destroying the entire crop."

  The taut muscles along S'Talon's jaw relaxed and he sat down, defeat undermining his military bearing.

  "Then we are doomed. I have lived to see the destruction of the Romulan empire, not by military holocaust, but in this insidious arena of death commanded by a microscopic executioner."

  "Commander, let us help you! The Federation does not want to lose Canara, nor does it relish an all-out war with the Romulan empire! You must trust me, Commander!"

  S'Talon raised his eyes to Kirk's earnest face.

  "Trust you, Captain? When you have just tricked me?"

  "I admit I'm asking a lot, but the stakes are high. You have to trust me. We have to trust each other or see both sides destroyed. Hundreds of thousands of innocent lives sacrificed because of our inability to trust each other. With your help the chances of averting a galactic Armageddon are small. Without it they are non-existent."

  "It seems I have little alternative, Captain."

  S'Talon's shoulders straightened, accepting yet another untravelled course of action. Tiercellus had told him he must be open to new ideas, even from an enemy. His old commander had been something of a prophet.

  The communications center of Star Fleet Command Headquarters was designed to handle more than two thousand simultaneous messages. Its capabilities were enormous. It served as a relay center for all military communications and not a few civilian transmissions as well. It was a round-the
-clock operation, accepting, decoding and forwarding messages. The center's complexity and cold mechanical efficiency were overwhelming. Poppaelia was a little depressed by it.

  Since his unauthorized expedition he had haunted communications. He knew he was driving the technicians crazy, but the confirmation of his suspicions placed him in a difficult position. He could not share his illegally gained information, nor could he produce any justifiable reason for a formal search of Iota's office and quarters. He knew the Federation had never been nearer war than at this moment, but there was nothing he could do about it. If he tried to warn Garson and Yang more directly than he already had, his credibility would be in jeopardy. He was forced to know and do nothing except check every bit of code from the Romulan sector. Three or four messages the computer had picked up were in a new cipher and this added to his worries.

  He turned wearily away from a viewscreen and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He had to rest, but not for long.

  "Bryan, I'm taking a nap. Keep your eyes on those screens and your ears open. Wake me if anything—and I mean the faintest suspicion—looks unusual."

  "Yes, sir," answered the communications engineer.

  Poppaelia put his head on his arms. Within moments he was snoring lightly.

  "Excellency."

  The Praetor inclined his head.

  "Excellency, we have not been able to make contact with the Canarans. The planet seems to be ruled by a council of elders, their leader being a certain Romm Joramm. We are told he is unavailable until the fifth hour, when he will return from the fields for a meal."

  "Is there no means of contacting this man before that time? Have they no system of communication for emergencies?"

  "Yes, but they refuse to use it. They are a literal people and I could not convince them of our need without giving them an impression of weakness."

  "I will show them need! We could level the collection of hovels they call a capital with one blast. We will take what we need."

  "My Praetor, I understand your feelings, but Canara not only has the largest crop of gran in the quadrant, it has the ability to refine it. If we can secure the Canarans' help we can obtain quinneal a thousand times faster than if we refined it ourselves. They understand the process—they may be primitive in some ways, but they do know how to make quinneal. Good quality, too. But we will have to be careful. They are loyal to the Federation. As yet they do not realize who we are. If we are careful we may be able to obtain the entire crop."

  "They have an adequate harvest?"

  "Yes. I have seen the fields. They are rich and ready to be cut. In the south the harvest has already begun."

  "Speak, then, with this Romm Joramm. Offer him anything you must to get the drug."

  "Excellency, I have been informed Romm Joramm will speak only with the leader of the party. I think you will have to speak with him yourself."

  "You will act in my behalf. How will these primitives know the difference?"

  "I do not know, my Praetor, but they do. And they will deal only with you. They are shrewd, these Canarans."

  "Go, then, and arrange a meeting with this man. We will speak with him, but if he does not cooperate we will take what we need … in the name of the Emperor."

  "Yes, my Praetor."

  The Praetor turned his attention to the fleet, now in orbit around Canara. The impression of strength they created was a sham. Not one ship carried a full crew. Since they left Romulus over one hundred crewmen had fallen sick. There was no time for negotiation, for diplomacy. A tiny edge of fear was growing in the Praetor's heart.

  "Red alert! Red alert!"

  The raucous sound of a siren flooded the Potemkin. The crew scrambled for battle stations.

  "Enemy vessels ahead, Captain. They appear to be Klingon design, but I'll wager they're Romulan. The alliance …"

  "Yes, Mister Farrell. Range?"

  "Extreme range, sir. They seem to be holding position on the borders of the Neutral Zone."

  "They do not respond to our attempts to contact them. All universal hailing frequencies … ineffective, sir."

  "There, Garson. Are you satisfied? Four Romulan ships. Now do you believe the Federation is under attack?"

  Iota's voice was cold with satisfaction.

  "I will not jump to conclusions, Admiral. Those ships—Romulan or Klingon—have not crossed the borders of the Neutral Zone. They are completely within their rights. Don't misunderstand me. We're on alert status and we'll stay there as long as those ships are in sight. Helm, bring us into position opposite the enemy vessels. Ensign, keep trying to contact them."

  The Potemkin and her sister ships eased into position opposite the Romulans. The two fleets eyed one another but neither gave way.

  "No response from the alien vessels, Captain."

  "Well, do something, Garson!"

  "I am, Admiral. I am waiting."

  "For what? To be shot as we stand? For the Lord's sake, man, issue an ultimatum!"

  "To what end?"

  "The defense of the Federation!"

  "Sometimes the best defense is patience. Ensign, try to monitor the alien's communications. Helm, hold position. Instruct the rest of the fleet to do the same."

  Garson leaned back in the command chair and closed his eyes. He could feel Iota's frustration, a volcano under pressure. Calmly he assessed the situation. They were evenly matched. With the scout vessels the Federation fleet even had a slight advantage. However, if the Romulans—and Romulan he surmised them to be—fired on them from the Neutral Zone it would be hard to prove who was at fault. He must be extremely careful.

  "Sir, the alien vessels seem to be maintaining communications silence. There's no sub-space activity at all."

  "Curious. It looks like a stall. But why?"

  "I'll tell you why," answered the admiral. "Can't you see that the Romulan fleet has invaded the Federation?"

  "That would be the obvious motive. But we have no proof and I cannot move on suspicion."

  "Sir, a message coming in. It's from the alien, sir."

  "Put it on the main viewscreen."

  A Romulan appeared on the screen. His close-cropped hair framed a proud and patrician face. Though well past his physical prime, his strength of will was apparent in every feature. Behind him was a rank of the exclusive Praetorian guard.

  "Federation starship. In the name of the Emperor withdraw from the area or face the consequences."

  "This is Captain Garson, commanding the United Space Ship Potemkin. Identify yourself, sir."

  The grim line of the Romulan's mouth curled in contempt.

  "That you may know your executioner, earthling. I am Tiercellus, Supreme Commander of the Fleet."

  "What is your purpose, Tiercellus?"

  The use of his name was an effective bit of insolence. Garson rose a notch in the Romulan's estimation.

  "My purpose does not concern you," he answered.

  "Oh, but it does. Particularly since you see fit to challenge us."

  "And I repeat the challenge, Captain. Leave the area immediately. I am through bandying words."

  "You are in a poor position to deliver threats. What is your reason for this confrontation? You risk a galactic war."

  "I am not answerable to you. Clear the area or we will open fire."

  "I don't think so. We are, if you will check your instruments, out of your range. In order for your fire to be effective you will have to cross into Federation space … and I don't think you're going to do that—at least not yet. You are checkmated, sir."

  The Romulan's expression did not change.

  "You have been warned, Captain Garson."

  The viewscreen rippled and the alien ships reappeared, menacing gray bodies hovering like vultures. The analogy made an involuntary shiver crawl across Garson's shoulders.

  "Captain Garson, if you do not take action against the Romulan menace, I will be forced to report your actions."

  "Admiral, I will not enter the Neutral Zone, nor will I a
ttack an enemy who wages war with words."

  "If you would attack first and worry about protocol later, you would be victor. You don't seem to realize that in war there are no rules."

  "And you do not seem to realize that there is as yet no war."

  "Garson, you're a fool."

  "Possibly. That remains to be seen."

  "I consider your actions unacceptable."

  "I am dealing with an entirely military situation.

  That area is not under your jurisdiction," Garson pointed out.

  "We'll see about that. Rank has its privileges. As Chief of Intelligence, I am in an enviable position to make sure the facts of the matter appear."

  Garson ignored the admiral's blathering and closed his eyes again. With every faculty he possessed he reached out for an answer.

  Chapter 12

  "Captain's Log: stardate thirty-one twenty-eight point six.

  "The Enterprise is proceeding to Canara to act as intermediary between the Romulan empire and the Canarans. Communications are still inoperative, but should be repaired within the hour. We have had no contact with Star Fleet Command. Commander S'Talon has agreed to help us try to convince the Romulan leaders it is in the Federation's best interest to help them. His only concern seems to be the welfare of his people. The centurion is still in sickbay and, in spite of all Doctor McCoy can do, her condition is worsening."

  Kirk sat in the doctor's office. In one hand he held McCoy's report on myrruthesia. He looked up from it, appalled by the swiftness and agony of the disease.

  "Bones, isn't there anything you can do?"

  "I don't think so, Jim."

  The pain in McCoy's voice sent a ripple of sorrow through the captain.

  "One thing we have done. Using the centurion's blood and tissue samples we've managed to isolate the mutated virus and I think we've got a quinneal derivative that will stop it cold—up to the crisis period. But it won't help the centurion … the disease was just too far advanced … I think she knew she had it when she volunteered for this mission."

  "S'Talon said as much."

  Both men's eyes went to the stoic figure of S'Talon bending over the centurion's bed. Framed by the doorway of the doctor's office, it was a timeless portrait of grief. A profound sadness mantled McCoy's face and the captain's eyes were dark with sympathy.