Web of the Romulans

by M S Murdock

  "I see I am intruding, Commander."

  The Enterprise's Vulce first officer stood in the doorway, his hands cradling something. S'Talon was startled, but glad of the interruption. His thoughts led to a dark door closed to his perception.

  "On the contrary, I welcome your company. I find my own thoughts disquieting."

  "That is unfortunate, since they must be your inseparable comrades."

  "My ill temper robs me of manners. My thanks for your thoughtfulness," said S'Talon, indicating the pile of tapes.

  "I am well aware of the effects of boredom. It is a disorder particularly devastating to humans."

  "They are an unpredictable lot, if your captain and medical officer are representative."

  "They are a continual source of interest," agreed Spock. "However, a discussion of Captain Kirk is not my motive for seeking you out."

  S'Talon almost smiled at Spock's rebuke and his own incorrigible desire to amass information on a formidable opponent.

  "What, then, is your errand? I had thought agreement had been reached between my people and yours."

  "I am not here in my capacity as a Star Fleet officer, but as a distant kinsman."

  With these words he placed a handsome carving on the table before S'Talon. The stylized bird of prey had a profound effect on the Romulan. Spock watched S'Talon's eyes turn to pools of bottomless black and noted the uncontrolled grief they expressed.

  "It was found among the centurion's personal belongings. Doctor McCoy said she requested it be given to you, Commander."

  A short flash of anger for the alien's intrusion on S'Tarleya's privacy hit S'Talon before he acknowledged the necessity of searching a prisoner's belongings. He knew he would have been less generous, would have confiscated all personal possessions. No doubt the t'liss had been thoroughly checked as a possible instrument of sabotage or escape. That S'Tarleya had managed to salvage the one item he cherished touched the Romulan deeply. It was a fitting gift from her, encompassing as it did the austere ideal of the warrior.

  Spock ran a sensitive finger over the satiny wood with an appreciation S'Talon had not expected.

  "It is a thing of beauty, Commander."

  "Yes. And of a rarity I had not before realized."

  The Romulan spoke of something far more valuable than a work of art and Spock found himself regretting the political and ideological barriers between them. Yet for a few short hours Romulan, Vulcan and human had managed to accept their differences and combine their energies to prevent a war and shackle disease. Perhaps it was a beginning.

  The Romulan communications officer whirled in his chair, his eyes incredulous.

  "Sir! A message from the Praetor! They have declared … peace!"

  Tiercellus straightened with an effort and leaned forward.

  "Details," he commanded.

  "His most glorious excellency …"

  Tiercellus grimaced.

  "… has declared peace between the Romulan empire and the United Federation of Planets … we have obtained sufficient supplies to stem the plague."

  "It seems we are not to die in battle after all, my friend," said Tiercellus.

  Hexce smiled.

  "We are cheated even of that," he agreed.

  "Our orders are to make no move, but to maintain our position here on the borders of the Neutral Zone. The Praetor's fleet will rendezvous with us when they have completed negotiations."

  Tiercellus sank into his chair. He was drained of purpose, yet Hexce could see the command the old man exercised over his body. Wracked with pain, he was using the last of his mental strength to subdue it.

  "The crisis passes, Hexce, and so must I," said Tiercellus softly. His hands were braced against the arms of his chair and his breath now came in short, harsh gasps.

  "No."

  Hexce's voice, low and broken, surprised Tiercellus. Their comradeship went deeper than he had realized. The sorrow, the protest in the big engineer's voice warmed Tiercellus even as he felt the cold cloak of death begin to close around his body.

  "Remember your promise, Hexce."

  Hexce nodded.

  "I will keep my oath to the death," he replied.

  Tiercellus raised one hand and grasped Hexce's massive forearm in salute.

  "We will meet again, Hexce, in that isle reserved for all old comrades and respected enemies. I shall await you, my steadfast friend," Tiercellus whispered.

  They were his last words.

  So the eagle of the Romulan empire died.

  Hexce felt his commander's grip loosen. His face set in a granite mask of sorrow, but he rose to the task Tiercellus had set him. He got slowly to his feet. The bridge was still. Hexce's eyes swept captain and crew. They were stunned, suddenly weak.

  "I thought he would live forever," murmured the captain.

  Hexce, aware of the void in his own heart, was quick to recognize it in another's. Tiercellus had been right. He was needed.

  "Captain, if you will check the sealed order tapes, you will see I am now in command of the detachment. I know my appointment is somewhat irregular, but you will find it is in total accord with Supreme Commander Tiercellus' authorization. His body is to be prepared for burial and treated with all the respect it is due."

  The captain punched up the orders and Hexce watched as Tiercellus' body was borne away. His piercing eyes sparked as he noted the careless indifference of one of the orderlies, and he vowed to teach the man respect for the dead. The methods he contemplated were not gentle.

  The Romulan captain turned from the computer tape and saluted Hexce. Though the form of his action was correct, it was clear he did not relish being commanded by an engineer who, until a few moments past, was his distinct inferior in the chain of command. It was also clear Tiercellus' orders were not to be countermanded or disputed. Hexce ignored the captain's arrogance. Like his old commander, he had little to lose.

  "Well, Captain, our orders are plain. We await the Praetor. In the meantime, I shall be in engineering. My supervision is required." Hexce paused, sure the captain was not listening to him. His voice became a whip, lashing out with deadly accuracy. "Remember, Captain, we are under a truce. Though he wished for death in battle, Tiercellus knew his own desires were of small importance next to the preservation of the empire. He will be your example … you will await my command."

  The captain's inattention vanished.

  "I hear and obey," he answered. There was a sincerity in his voice which caused Hexce a private smile. He was not without a temper, and the captain knew it.

  Chapter 15

  Admiral Iota surveyed the slick efficiency of Auxiliary Control with the pride of ownership. He allowed himself to enjoy the compact power at his fingertips. Everything was so carefully designed it created the illusion a single man could handle the ship. Mentally he checked off vital ship's stations: communications, helm, navigation, engineering, a mini science-computer center … weapons.

  Weapons. They were the ship's real power—not her warp speed engines, but the ability to destroy the enemy. Between phasers and photon torpedoes the Potemkin's destructive potential was considerable. Not much could stand against her. Iota ran his hand over the phaser control panel, thinking of past conquests and the long line of heroic tradition. He belonged to that tradition. Men like Garson and Kirk never realized that. They always believed they held active commands due to some temperamental superiority. What was it Poppaelia had said? That his talent had always been for "internal affairs." He'd show him. He'd show them all. The great gods of Star Fleet were blind to the Romulan menace. No doubt they would still be sitting in their chairs when headquarters itself was destroyed. He would not. He was about to show them who the real man of action was. The thought gave Iota a small curl of pleasure.

  He crouched over the weapons station, his eyes on the timer before him. One finger was poised above the photon torpedoes, directly over a button marked "fire." In moments the day of grace he had awarded Garson would end. Iota's eyes ne
ver wavered from the timer as he silently counted off the seconds. His excitement mounted as they clicked away.

  "Five, four, three, two, one!" he mouthed and his eyes ignited as he pushed the button.

  The dim lighting in the captain's cabin was meant to simulate night. It painted the walls with dark, velvety shadows and spread a transparent wash of peace over the room. A grill-work partition cast its geometric pattern across the bed where James Kirk was stretched out. He was catching up on some much-needed rest. His hands were linked across his stomach and one leg was cocked. Every inch of his compact, muscular frame reflected tranquility. His eyes were closed and his breathing deep, but he was not asleep. His senses were acutely active. In this deeper state of mental rest which comes from concentrated relaxation he found a green oasis devoid of responsibility.

  He was aware of sound. The ship roared around him, its gentle vibration magnified by his receptivity. It throbbed through bone and muscle, its pulse his. He thought fleetingly of the computer's statement he and the ship were joined, and had to admit in some ways it was right, though the joining was on a different level … more his love of an idea.

  Thoughts wandered through his mind like a child through a garden, swayed by any fancy. He turned them over in idle curiosity and wondered at them, but the sharp perception of his conscious mind was subdued. Like a timeless summer afternoon, it was full of sun-washed indolence. He reached out for its warm expanse of peace, found it and sank into it.

  "Captain Kirk."

  His name touched the fringes of his thoughts and he was immediately alert. His eyes snapped open and with one fluid move he rolled to his feet and reached for the intercom.

  "Kirk here."

  "Captain, I have a message from Admiral Poppaelia," said Uhura. "He requests you take it on the bridge, sir."

  "I'm on my way."

  An icy tingle ran across the captain's shoulder blades. He shrugged it off. What could possibly happen now, with peaceful negotiations underway and everybody's best interest served?

  "Bridge," he told the turbo-lift.

  His mind accelerated with his ascent. When he stepped onto the bridge he found it undisturbed, but Lieutenant Uhura's eyes were worried. Kirk nodded to her.

  "Put him on, Lieutenant."

  "Aye, sir."

  "Admiral."

  "I am the tale-bearer of disaster, Captain. The Potemkin has fired on the Romulan cortege on the borders of the Neutral Zone."

  "What?!!"

  "Your hearing is not faulty, Captain."

  "What did Garson think he was doing? Was he provoked?"

  "Captain Garson was not at fault. Admiral Iota has seized auxiliary control and opened fire on the enemy. Your situation is most grave. Withdrawal at the earliest opportunity is advisable."

  "Admiral, why hasn't the Romulan fleet exploded? They've made no move at all."

  "So far none of the shots have landed. Garson contacted the other vessels in the detachment and they've been shielding the Romulans and countering Iota's fire. So far it's worked, but it's a risky business and sooner or later one of those shots will get through. Iota's fired only the photon torpedoes—if he uses the phasers it'll be almost impossible to stop him."

  "Captain, Captain Garson is calling, sir. He says it's urgent."

  Kirk half-turned toward his communications officer and Poppaelia noticed the distraction.

  "Face it, Jim. Quit trying to find alternatives. Get out of there while you still can!" he said.

  "Captain, eight Romulan vessels have moved into position around us," interposed Sulu. "We're surrounded."

  "That tears it! Admiral, it seems the Romulan fleet is warned. We will find a way out of this or …" He left the sentence unfinished.

  "Good luck, Captain," said Poppaelia gently. The viewscreen flickered and the admiral was gone.

  "Put Garson on."

  "Aye, sir," answered Uhura.

  "Jim!"

  "Yes, Mikel. Is there any way out of this mess?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. So far none of his shots have hit and the Romulans haven't reacted at all. Remarkable forbearance on their part. I've come near ordering the destruction of the ship. I've given Iota one hour to surrender auxiliary control—if he doesn't I'll have no alternative. I don't have much hope … he's never trusted me. I thought if you talked to him—from the heart of things—maybe he'd listen."

  "You think I can reach him?"

  "I don't know. He is completely obsessed by the idea of the Romulans as enemies. He refuses to believe we've made a peaceful settlement with them. He thinks we're all fools."

  "Who would he believe?"

  "His own people? He's never mentioned allegiance to anything but 'the Federation'—no mention of friends or family."

  "Doesn't he have something to do with intelligence and counter-espionage?"

  "Yes."

  "He talks like it," muttered Yellowhorse.

  "Admiral Iota is the nominal director of the Federation Intelligence Corps," said Spock. "He has been instrumental in the development of countless intelligence devices."

  Kirk's eyes lit up.

  "Like that sensor unit!"

  "Precisely, Captain."

  "Listen, Garson, there may be a way. Do you know if Iota is in touch with his people?"

  "He does have a special wrist communicator … I've never seen him without it."

  "Then I think we may have an outside chance. Lieutenant Uhura, get S'Talon. Spock, activate that sensor unit … and let's make sure any mental images it picks up are related to peaceful cooperation."

  "Affirmative, Captain."

  Spock reached over to the corner of his computer station and slid his fingers across its surface. A high-pitched whir, audible only to Vulcan ears mentally attuned to it, was the sole evidence of the sensor's activation. Spock looked up and nodded.

  "Good!" Kirk took a deep breath. "Have you got S'Talon, Lieutenant?"

  "Not yet, sir. I … here he is, Captain."

  "Commander S'Talon," greeted Kirk.

  "Captain, what is the meaning of this? I have just received word a Federation vessel has opened fire on four of our ships! I thought we had an agreement—or are humans really dishonest infidels? Answer me, Captain! Your life is forfeit if you have no explanation."

  Kirk's eyes snapped, but he controlled his anger. If the situation were reversed he would react as S'Talon had—possibly with less restraint.

  "Commander. Is it true none of the shots have landed?"

  "That is true," conceded the Romulan.

  "Shot down by our own vessels?"

  S'Talon inclined his head.

  "And are those same vessels deployed in front of your ships, shielding them?"

  "Yes."

  "Then please listen to me, Commander. The Federation is the victim of a mutiny. The Potemkin is under attack from within. Her captain has ordered the ship's destruction if the mutineer refuses to surrender. If just one shot hits there'll be war. Neither of us wants that. Nor do I want to see the Potemkin destroyed."

  "What can be done?"

  "Speak to your superiors. Convince them to give us time. We have reason to believe this communication is being monitored—by the man responsible for the attack. He refuses to believe the Federation and the Romulan empire can work together. If we can show him the truth we might be able to reason with him. Will you help, Commander?"

  "Of course. It is in my best interest, and that of the empire. Without the Canarans' gran my people will die. We need your cooperation, Captain, and that of the Federation. We will not attack unless one of our ships is hit and we will guarantee your safety unless war is declared. I pledge it."

  "Thank you, Commander. I can ask no more."

  "Luck, Captain."

  "For all of us, Commander," replied Kirk as the Romulan departed. "Well, Mister Spock?"

  "That should be efficacious, Captain. If the communication was heard."

  "And if it's been relayed to Iota." Kirk rubbed his hands toget
her. "Now we wait," he said.

  S'Talon walked down the corridor, seething at the Praetor's ability to anger him. The man was an overblown, pompous egotist who should be told his own miniscule value in the scheme of things. If only he were not so dangerous … amazing how position and power enforced respect, even when it was not deserved. He had had to beg this time and the overstuffed windbag had enjoyed it! He had smiled his fat smile and wallowed in his power. His thoughts increased the force of S'Talon's footsteps. The humiliation he endured had better be worth it, he thought savagely. "Peace at any price" he had as much as stated to the Terran captain, but some prices were too high—self-respect, dignity. The void take Kirk anyhow!

  A wave of frustration rolled over the Romulan at the thought of his Terran counterpart. Kirk had persuaded him into all of this. He knew he could not have managed it on his own. Well, he had a choice. He could refuse to cooperate, but that would solve nothing. He had agreed to Kirk's plan because it was the only possible course of action. And Kirk was at least a man of some principle. It was ironic that he found himself better able to work with his enemies than his own people. S'Talon growled to himself. Once more he had spliced the fragile threads of understanding. He was not adept at diplomacy, yet he was always embroiled in its sticky web. He shrugged, mentally casting off subterfuge and deceit. He craved action. Once the plague was contained he would request a transfer to the dangerous exploratory missions on the edges of Romulan space. He had no doubt the Praetor would grant his request.

  Mikel Garson stood on the bridge of the Potemkin. His face was white and drawn, the muscles of his jaw contracted. Strain showed in his eyes and in the tense, compressed line of his mouth. He twisted his hands together behind his back. He had no doubt he would have to destroy the ship. The Potemkin had become a floating prison, four hundred and thirty people trapped within its hull. A part of Iota's assault was a power cut in "unnecessary systems"—systems like the transporter—so he could channel more energy into the weapons banks. Garson did not want to die and he loathed the thought of murdering his crew. They had signed on aware of the possibility of death, but he would order their destruction. It was murder and he could not stomach it.