Web of the Romulans

by M S Murdock

"At once, Praetor."

  Stars melted from the Romulan viewscreen and alien faces took their places … alien except for one.

  "S'Talon!" snarled the Praetor. "This is what you have done for the empire!"

  He spat the words and S'Talon straightened imperceptibly.

  "Yes, my Praetor," he answered steadily.

  The Praetor! Kirk and his bridge crew studied the Romulan leader with undisguised curiosity. They saw a huge man whose handsome features were stained with pride, passion and ruthless self-interest. Kirk knew immediately this man would do nothing for the sake of the empire that did not also directly benefit himself.

  "Where is your ship, S'Talon? And your crew?" said the Praetor in a soft voice with razor-sharp edges.

  "His ship is destroyed and his crew are dead or aboard this vessel."

  "Kirk," guessed the Praetor.

  "Sir," he acknowledged.

  "So. You have S'Talon and his crew … and I have you. An entertaining situation."

  "More than entertaining, sir: cataclysmic. If you choose to make it so."

  "I, Captain? I hardly think you are in a position to be belligerent."

  "No," said Kirk, challenge slashing from his eyes, "I have come to plead with you! For our lives … and the life of the Romulan empire."

  "The Romulan empire is not your concern, Captain."

  "You have invaded Federation space—that makes it my concern. Your people are dying. Unless you receive immediate help, there will be no empire, only a handful of scattered survivors. Hardly fit to rule," he added deviously.

  "We can do very well without you, Captain."

  "No. You have already found out the Canarans are loyal to the Federation. Without the sanction of the Federation they will never give you the gran you need. And you will not be able to take it. If you attempt force they will destroy the entire supply. You need me, Praetor."

  "I am to trust to the Federation's good will to supply medical assistance to its enemies?"

  "You must. And good will is hardly our motive. Canara is a member of the Federation and as such deserves Federation protection and assistance—we can hardly allow you to pillage as you please. By your blatant military entry into Federation space you have jeopardized the fragile truce we maintain. We do not desire war. The cost to both sides would be astronomical. And Canara is the nearest major source of gran. By the time you found another supply, it would be too late to matter."

  "What you say has the uncomfortable feel of truth," murmured the Praetor.

  "An empire of the dead is no empire," said Kirk. "I have always been impressed by the military calibre of Romulan warriors. You are fortunate, sir, to have officers of Commander S'Talon's quality. His foresight may well save the situation. Surely the Emperor will repay the one who is responsible for the very existence of the Romulan race. Such a man would be honored everywhere … the … rewards … would be incalculable."

  Kirk watched the Praetor sniff at the bait. Fame—and fortune—have a pleasant scent, and the Romulan was on the verge of intoxication when he pulled his desires to a halt.

  "The welfare of the people is my first concern," he stated pompously.

  "Of course, sir," answered Kirk, suppressing a smile.

  "If you will beam S'Talon aboard, we can proceed with the negotiations."

  "I think not. The Commander has knowledge valuable to our medical staff …"

  "That's right," said McCoy. "We've isolated the mutation in the virus and are making extensive tests to determine the effectiveness of a vaccine."

  "Besides," added Kirk, "the Commander is much too valuable as an intermediary. The Canarans have agreed to accept S'Talon as the Romulan envoy."

  The Praetor looked down his long and elegant nose. So. S'Talon could not be made a scapegoat. Well, he would claim S'Talon's glory—so he got only enough to save his life. That was more than he deserved. He allowed the silence to lengthen. His voice, when he spoke, was superior and a little bored.

  "We will allow this," he said royally.

  Kirk smiled.

  "Good. Negotiations will begin immediately. The commander will inform you of the details."

  Kirk stepped back to allow S'Talon exclusive use of the communications line.

  "You would seem to have averted disaster, Captain."

  Spock was at his elbow.

  "Keep your fingers crossed," answered the captain.

  Spock tilted his head, considering.

  "What possible effect can crossing the fingers produce? I was not aware of any extraordinary human abilities …"

  Kirk chuckled, tension draining away.

  "Only you, Spock," said McCoy.

  Chapter 14

  S'Tokkr, science officer of the Romulan ship Eagle, rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He knew he was ill, but he had no time for infirmities of the flesh. Without his expertise the bridge crew would be crippled. The vessel was badly understaffed—more so even than those which followed the Praetor. At this moment he manned both his own science station and the special weapons console.

  S'Tokkr shook his head to clear it and sent a wave of dizziness over his mind. His close-fitting helmet was stifling. He felt squeezed inside it, unable to breathe. In desperation, regulations or no regulations, he wrenched it off. Breathing deeply, he forced his eyes back to the scanners, determined to remain at his post. He blinked hard, willing his eyes to focus on the screens. The fluctuating computer patterns held him mesmerized and he knew he was fighting a losing battle. He opened his mouth to summon help, but no sound came. His eyes rolled up and he collapsed on the console.

  "Captain!"

  An engineering technician pointed to S'Tokkr's supine form.

  The Romulan captain growled an oath.

  "Remove him!"

  S'Tokkr's body was dragged from its post with little delicacy. His lifeless hands rattled keys as they slid across the console. One finger knocked against a small, orange lever hard enough to move it. No one noticed.

  "Captain, the cloaking device!"

  Arviela's exclamation knocked Garson out of his reverie. His eyes snapped to the viewscreen just in time to see the last of the Romulan ships wink out of sight.

  "Ship's status?"

  "Our shields have been activated."

  "Get me an open channel to the rest of the fleet!"

  "Our course is being charted into the Neutral Zone!" interposed the navigator.

  "You're on, sir."

  "This is Garson of the Potemkin. You all know how the situation stands. No vessel in this detachment will enter the Neutral Zone without my express order." There was a painful pause. It took an immense effort of will for Garson to issue his next order. "Should the Potemkin begin to move toward the Neutral Zone, all ships will block her path. If this does not deter her, you are authorized to shoot her down. Stop her any way you can."

  Garson indicated the end of the transmission with a wave of his hand and then said, "Get me lota."

  Iota sat hunched in his chair, oblivious of the captain's summons. He concentrated on the course he was plotting toward the last position of the Romulan vessels.

  "Give it up, Admiral!"

  Garson's voice held a note of command Iota had not previously heard.

  "They've activated the cloaking device. It's clear they mean to attack! I'm going to be there first!"

  Iota punched a button and Arviela murmured, "Half impulse power."

  "This time I hold the high card, Admiral," said Garson.

  Iota's arrogance turned to shocked disbelief as the rest of the Federation detachment glided into the Potemkin's path. His sensors told him their defense shields were in place.

  "Checkmate, Admiral."

  "What is the meaning of this?"

  "If you attempt to take the Potemkin into the Neutral Zone, the rest of the fleet will destroy us."

  "The Romulans attack!"

  "We will not."

  "You're bluffing."

  "Try me."

  Gar
son's voice was chilling in its certainty.

  Iota hesitated, then touched another control and the ship hung in space.

  "I did, after all, give you twenty-four hours. Eight remain. After that I will not hesitate to use the facilities at my disposal. This discussion is terminated."

  The screen went dark. Garson rose from his command chair and began a meandering tour of the bridge. His frown cut a V of wrinkles on his usually untroubled forehead as he wrestled with an impossible impasse.

  "What!"

  Tiercellus leaped to his feet with the agility of a twenty-year-old acrobat and immediately regretted it, but he was too preoccupied to worry about the stitch in his side.

  "As I stated, sir, the Eagle's cloaking device was inadvertently activated. Because the Eagle was your ship, the other vessels assumed they were to follow suit. We estimate the fleet has been invisible for a quarter," answered the Eagle's captain.

  "And the Federation vessels?"

  "One started to move toward the Neutral Zone, but the others cut her off. They were running with full shields."

  "Most unusual. Deactivate the device, Captain, and signal the other ships as well. The time has not yet come to engage the enemy. We are the Praetor's insurance. We must never forget that fact and be ready to aid him should he need us."

  "I obey."

  Tiercellus struggled into his tunic, favoring his right side. He removed a bottle, vial and glass from a storage cabinet and poured himself a healthy dose of blue ale. Its power would cover the unpleasant taste of his medication. He carefully squeezed three drops of blood-red liquid into the ale, lifted the glass and stirred the mixture with a circular motion of his hand. It was a deep purple draught, rich as the border on the Emperor's robe, royal as the heritage of the Romulan way. He drank it in one swallow and made his way toward the bridge.

  His movements were more sure, more decisive than they had been. There was a spring in his step the years had ground away. He would not survive this encounter. He had accepted his fate. Still, he would choose his own good time to die.

  As he entered the ship's bridge, the Eagle's captain vacated his position with obsequious haste. Once Tiercellus would have refused this courtesy, but not now. He sank into the comfort of the command chair with a grateful nod to the captain.

  "Call weapons master Hexce to the bridge," he said to the communications engineer. "And I would speak with the Potemkin's captain. We will try to decipher his reasons for attacking his own fleet."

  Hexce, in response to Tiercellus' call, appeared on the bridge. One glance told him his commander's condition. He moved unobtrusively to a position just behind the command chair.

  "Federation starship Potemkin. Supreme Commander of the Fleet Tiercellus will speak with your captain! Reply!"

  The Romulan's command was answered almost instantly.

  "Well, Tiercellus. So you decided to show yourself."

  The human's insinuation of cowardice left the Romulan unruffled.

  "Were I you, Captain," he countered, "I would speak more diplomatically to a superior adversary."

  "I see no evidence of superiority, sir. Merely a certain flair for deceit and trickery."

  "I, at least, have control of my forces."

  "And I do not?" queried Garson. The bluff he was running was enormous.

  "Is it a normal procedure for one Federation ship to attack another? I have always considered mutiny outside accepted regulations. Perhaps this is a Romulan prejudice."

  Garson gave a short, wicked chuckle.

  "It got you back out in the open, didn't it?"

  "Your actions in no way determine mine," returned Tiercellus.

  Garson's chuckle sounded again.

  "I suggest, sir, you and your fleet retire—this time in actual fact—from the area. Your presence here is a waste of time for both of us."

  "That may be, Captain, but the Romulan empire does not act out of expediency to the Federation. You will yield, sir—now—or later, in a much less …" he paused, amusement in his eyes "… humane manner. The choice is yours, sir."

  Tiercellus severed communications and sank back in the command chair. He tried to relax, but Hexce could see the rapid pulse in the prominent blood vessels of his old commander's hands.

  "You will be needed, Hexce, and soon," said Tiercellus softly.

  Garson let his breath escape between his teeth in a relieved whistle.

  "Close call, sir."

  Arviela's comment produced a nod from Garson.

  "Too close. We've got to get that crackpot out of auxiliary control."

  "I've gone over every single thing I can think of to pry him out of there, and drawn a blank. He could barricade himself forever. Nothing's going to touch him short of destruction of the ship," said the Potemkin's science officer.

  "Can't we flood the compartment with tranquilizer gas—something?"

  "Not without his knowing it. That's the real problem, sir. Anything we do down there can be detected."

  Garson considered the risk and found it too great. No matter what they used, Iota would be able to take some action before he lost consciousness, and that action might provoke war. Deep in his heart, Garson knew he would sacrifice the Potemkin and its crew to prevent that.

  "Then all we have is the human factor."

  Garson's voice held little confidence. Trying to reach the shreds of sanity lurking in the twisted corridors of Iota's mind was going to be difficult. He did not consider an understanding of complex personal relationships to be his forte. Sane, Iota was an insular personality; mad, he was a depth charge waiting for detonation. He might already be irrevocably primed for disaster. Yet Poppaelia seemed to feel there was a chance to get through to him.

  "There's one thing, sir," said Arviela.

  "Yes, Lieutenant?"

  "He doesn't want to die. He backed off when the rest of the fleet confronted him. Maybe if he had a good excuse to give in …"

  "I see your point."

  "Message coming in, sir. It's Admiral Poppaelia," interposed Commander Yellowhorse at the communications post.

  "On screen."

  Poppaelia's leathery face was positively wreathed in smiles and Garson's heart lifted for the first time in hours. Poppaelia launched his news with no preliminary.

  "Garson, we've heard from Kirk! He's arranged a truce whereby the Federation and the Romulan empire can resolve their differences. No war. That should get you off the hook."

  "Good news, Admiral. Very good news, indeed. What about the situation here?"

  "What you're facing there, Garson, is the Romulan rear guard."

  "I don't suppose the truce will affect their position."

  "Hardly."

  "Couldn't you ask them to withdraw?"

  "We've tried that. They won't budge. The Praetor was adamant. And since they, at least, are not in violation of treaty, there isn't much we can do."

  "I understand, Admiral."

  "Quit worrying, Garson. We've averted war."

  "Maybe," muttered Garson to himself. Aloud he said, "I'll consolidate matters here. Except for our … personal difficulties … things are static."

  "Satisfactory. Let me know if you need help. Report any changes in the situation immediately. Poppaelia out."

  Garson nodded to Yellowhorse.

  "Admiral Iota, sir."

  "Good news, Admiral." Garson tried to channel every ounce of confidence he could muster into his voice. "The Romulan crisis has been resolved. Peace is declared."

  "I heard."

  "Then you know there's no longer any reason for aggression against the Romulans."

  "I know nothing of the kind. I see four Romulan ships. They have not withdrawn. There is no peace."

  "Surely you don't disbelieve Admiral Poppaelia?"

  "Bah. That bleeding-heart? He'd lie through his teeth to avoid honest combat. As a matter of fact, he did lie."

  "What do you mean, Admiral?"

  "Quit while you're ahead, Garson. You know as well
as I Kirk is dead. I'm surprised at you Garson. I'm not that easily duped."

  Garson spoke slowly, trying to pound each word into Iota's armored mind.

  "James Kirk is not dead. He has negotiated peace between the Federation and the Romulan empire. There is no reason for hostility."

  "Don't make me laugh. You won't fool me with childish tricks. And you will not deprive me of the rewards of my actions. You now have two hours in which to negotiate. I suggest you make use of them. Iota out."

  Garson slumped heavily against the front of the helm console. Somewhere there had to be a key to unlock Iota's mind. The man's confidence in his own judgment had to be shaken, shaken so hard its back was broken. It was clear he required proof of any statement, no matter what its source. Garson acknowledged himself a fool for not realizing this earlier. He had actually expected the news of Kirk's success to change Iota's position. Well, it had not. No hearsay would ever do that. Iota had to hear things for himself or he did not believe them. As an intelligence expert he would be inundated with false and conflicting opinions, would learn to trust nothing but hard fact. Garson felt he had played his last card. The destruction of the Potemkin was beginning to look inescapable.

  S'Talon surveyed the comfortable but sterile quarters he occupied with a dissatisfaction verging on anger. He had no justification for his feelings as far as his treatment was concerned. He had met with respect and courtesy on every hand.

  True, he and his crew were still virtual prisoners of the Federation, but he had to admit it was as much for his protection as a lever against the empire. Security guards were his constant companions, but he was used to that.

  He looked around his apartment again. It had all the necessities but not one element of personality. The room was barren except for a long-range, sub-space communicator, pre-set and locked on the Praetor's frequency, and a portable viewer accompanied by a collection of tapes, kindly lent him by Spock. Yet it felt like home. That was it! That was what was making him so disagreeable.

  S'Talon isolated his reaction and studied it. This lifeless atmosphere, untouched by the core of his personality, felt comfortable. Had he lived in such anonymity always? Was it of his own making? He did not know. He only knew he was now aware of it. S'Tarleya's love, however brief his knowledge of it, had awakened him to the singleminded narrowness of his own life. He found, after all, that his career could not contain him. For the first time in his life his sense of purpose was an inadequate defense against loneliness.