Web of the Romulans

by M S Murdock

  His secretary's uncanny ability to know when he needed her always disconcerted him. He liked organization and most of all he liked explanations. Her magical appearances always made him feel trapped in a fairy tale where the unexplainable was the order of the day.

  "I need a meeting of all department heads as soon as possible. Then schedule a session of the Defense Council and inform all members we meet to discuss the action to be taken on the Romulan crisis. And Birdie, get me the confidential background files on all present starship commanders."

  Birdie nodded and bustled out the door, Iota's instructions arranging themselves in her mind like neatly filed cards.

  The admiral watched her go and then moved to a large table with a shining indigo top. He touched controls on the table edge and the Romulan sector of space appeared, complete with Neutral Zone and Federation outposts. He placed a hand on both sides of the table and stared into the map as if it were a giant ouija board holding the future in its depths. He pinpointed Kirk's last location. It was the only clue he had to the whereabouts of the Romulan fleet. If they were to cross the Neutral Zone there … he placed a mass of model ships on the table, arranging them in the semblance of a war which did not yet exist.

  "Mister Spock?"

  The anxiety in Uhura's voice demanded his attention.

  "I can't contact Star Fleet Command. My whole communications board is jammed. All outgoing transmissions are blocked and everything coming in is scrambled, but there's nothing wrong with the circuits!"

  "Captain …"

  "I heard. Opinion, Mister Spock?"

  "The Romulans could be jamming our communications, Captain. However, to block out a communications system to this extent requires more power than they can spare using the cloaking device."

  "They could have developed something, some new device …"

  "Possible, Captain—I shall investigate."

  Spock turned to the computer console. "Computer," he said.

  Lights blinked in lazy response, but there was no answer.

  "Computer," Spock demanded.

  "Working," came a bored feminine voice.

  "Correlate following hypothesis: could the Romulans with known level of technology cause a communications stoppage of the magnitude we are experiencing and still maintain the cloaking device?"

  There was an extended pause, then the console lights began to flash lazily.

  "Working," repeated an abstracted voice.

  The muscles in Spock's jaw tensed as he watched the slow-motion mechanical response to his question.

  "Affirmative," it finally replied. "Present level of Romulan technology is capable of blocking our communications. With auxiliary fuel they are also capable of maintaining the cloaking device."

  "Computer. Are they now doing so?"

  "Present sensor scan indicates no activity from the area of the Romulan ship previously sighted."

  The computer station went blank and Spock's mouth compressed in annoyance.

  "Computer."

  A light flashed reluctantly and Spock continued.

  "Could such activity be concealed?"

  "That possibility exists," came the languid reply.

  "The Romulans blocking our communications—to isolate us … but why? They haven't attacked … yet. Unless they're launching a full-scale invasion …"

  "… and this is the spearhead. A possibility, Captain."

  "We have to get through. Lieutenant Uhura, launch an emergency communications drone. Inform Star Fleet of our present situation."

  "Yes, Captain."

  Uhura turned to her communications board and programmed the maneuver. She pressed a key to launch the capsule and it locked. She tried all the tricks she knew to free the key and finally gave the console a thump, but even that failed to dislodge it.

  "Captain, the launch controls are stuck!"

  "Scotty …" said Kirk desperately. Too many things were going wrong. The computer, the Romulans, and now a mechanical failure … all his instincts warned him of impending disaster. He watched as his chief engineer began to tinker with the console, absorbed in the problem.

  "Captain."

  "Yes, Spock," replied Kirk, still eyeing the communications station.

  "There is another possibility."

  His attention caught, Kirk looked up at his second in command.

  "The problem could be internal. The computer malfunction is escalating. Response is lethargic. In a full-scale attack it could be fatal. It is as if the computer were focusing its banks on a single problem to the exclusion of all else."

  "You just don't like her. All right, Spock, just find me some answers."

  "I will try, Captain."

  Kirk leaned forward and searched the empty viewscreen, willing the Romulan to appear. Nothing happened. McCoy, from his position behind the command chair, watched the iron-bound intensity of the captain's concentration. He noticed strain in the bunched muscles of Kirk's broad back and grimaced. He could see the headache developing.

  "I'm coming, I'm coming!"

  The angry buzzing of his door alarm grated on Tiercellus' nerves. He no longer moved quickly, and by the time he reached the door his temper was thoroughly aroused. He pushed the lock release with a healthy blow of his closed fist.

  "Well, what is it?" he asked a lieutenant of the imperial guard. The man was surprised by Tiercellus' anger, but nevertheless he bowed with an exaggerated deference which betrayed his youth. Soon, thought Tiercellus with an inward sneer for the Praetor's blindness, they will be drafting children.

  "I beg your pardon, sir, but I am ordered to deliver this. With the Praetor's compliments."

  Tiercellus snorted as the lieutenant handed him a fat, white communiqué. He saluted the young man absently, his eyes on the splash of purple wax etched with the imperial crest. His fingers trembled as he broke the seal.

  "'In the straits of present circumstance you are required. You will report to the Praetor for assignment. For the glory of the empire …'"

  Tiercellus' voice trailed off as he confirmed the emperor's signature calling him out of retirement and back to the service of his country. His heart leaped with the prospect of battle. He did not wish to die slowly, in obscurity, and fate had provided him with one last chance for glory.

  Still, the seriousness of the situation appalled him. The Praetor actively disliked him. This call to service was an indication of the Praetor's desperation, and desperation invited panic. He had nothing to lose and so might contribute a steadying influence. It was also true he commanded a respect from the military the Praetor did not. He was, therefore, a useful tool for consolidating an army. Even the prospect of being used as a figurehead did not still his excitement. An old fire long banked burned in his eyes.

  S'Talon swiveled away from the desk. His tiny, spartan quarters were lit by a soft red glow. The only ornament in the room was a streamlined sculpture of the Romulan t'liss, the same bird of prey whose markings adorned the Raptor. Carved from a black wood, hand rubbed to a satiny patina, it echoed the concentrated power S'Talon exemplified. His eyes swept over it with a sense of affinity.

  "My pledge is to obey."

  The centurion's voice intruded. A flashing security light above the door informed S'Talon she waited outside.

  "Enter."

  "You wished to speak with me?"

  "Yes."

  The soft light gave her beauty gentleness.

  "Before you begin, Commander, I must protest."

  If S'Talon was surprised he gave no sign.

  "This strategy you employ plays right into Livius' hands! He needs ammunition to fan his anger and you are giving it to him! Let us fight, let us die, but do not continue this stalemate!"

  "Your fears are noted, Centurion. I am not unaware of the danger of my position or the risks I take. I told you it was suicide."

  "You did not tell me it was stupid."

  "That, too."

  The centurion's anger made her whirl away.

  "
I had thought you understood the situation," said S'Talon gently.

  "I do. All too well. But I cannot stand idle and watch you lose command. To see you dead would not be so difficult."

  The depth of passion in S'Tarleya's voice surprised S'Talon and he filed it away for future contemplation.

  "I have not yet lost command, nor do I intend to. S'Tarleya …"

  The centurion flinched at the sound of her name. S'Talon was never familiar with his officers. The stakes must be high indeed.

  "… again I ask you to trust me. I do know what I am doing. Would that you were as ignorant as the rest of the crew," he murmured.

  She whirled back to face him as sharply as she had turned away.

  "You ask for my trust in one breath and scorn my loyalty in the next!"

  "Never. I have learned its depths. The ignorance I desire is a shield—one you do not possess."

  S'Tarleya's puzzled look forced a smile from S'Talon.

  "Never mind. I desired the clarity of your thoughts. I have thought so long on this problem, I see too much. Tell me, Centurion, what you know of Kirk."

  "What everyone knows. He is brilliant and dangerous. The rest is gossip, really."

  "I would be interested in hearing this gossip."

  "It is said his crew are intensely loyal. He is rumored to have risked his own life for them."

  S'Talon's eyebrows went up.

  "As I said, this is gossip."

  "And the Vulcan first officer?"

  "They say even he respects Kirk—has deferred to his judgment."

  "What do the Klingons say?"

  "I think they like him. Of all the officers of Star Fleet, it is Kirk they wish to fight. Like us, they see him as a worthy opponent. Perhaps we both see a kinship in him—a joy in contest."

  S'Talon smiled with saturnine satisfaction.

  "Centurion, you have given me what I asked. The key to Kirk is in the contest. If I can keep him interested he will concentrate on me. There will be no time to question the activities of the fleet."

  The centurion's eyes opened wide.

  "A decoy!"

  "Not entirely. We are also a safety valve."

  "I knew this was suicide, but now I see why. And why you were chosen."

  "My loss in glorious conflict with the enemy would give the Praetor pleasure. I fear he will not have even that satisfaction."

  "I can see no way to escape death."

  "I can, Centurion. Unfortunately, I can. And it will be my duty, though it violates all but one of the things I hold most dear."

  "May I ask what that one thing is, Commander?"

  S'Talon's nostrils flared.

  "The preservation of the Romulan empire," he answered.

  For three hours Kirk had sat in his command chair and dared the Romulans to appear, but the golden bird slept. It was as if the Romulans did not exist, as if their appearance was no more than a momentary trick of the eye. Invisibility made their presence as unnerving as a walk through a haunted house at midnight. Kirk was not a superstitious man, but even he was not immune to the uncanny feeling of being watched. He could almost feel eyes boring into the back of his neck and he made a conscious effort to ignore a desire to whirl and face an adversary.

  The tension was beginning to tell and he found himself paying tribute to the tactical ability of his opponent. Nothing could destroy military efficiency so completely as a prolonged wait. Still, Kirk found himself wondering how much longer the Romulan could hold out. The cloaking device was a merciless power drain. It should have exhausted the ship's fuel supply in half the time they had been waiting.

  "Spock, how much longer can they maintain the cloaking device?"

  Spock turned from his station and clasped his hands behind his back. His expression was thoughtful.

  "I would have said, Captain, they could not have maintained it more than one point two-seven-six solar hours, but they seem to have exceeded that limit by a considerable margin."

  "Then they must be carrying considerable auxiliary fuel."

  "Evidently. And it would not be presumptuous to assume they have made technological advances with the device itself rendering it more fuel efficient."

  "Auxiliary fuel."

  A frown of concentration creased the captain's forehead as he considered the ramifications of a Romulan ship equipped with auxiliary fuel tanks. It smacked of espionage or a trap, yet the Romulan's actions belied either possibility. If espionage was the game, he would have used the cloaking device as a screen to run to the relative safety of the Neutral Zone, or he would have tried to contact the Enterprise. He had done neither. Of course, with communications out the Enterprise was immune to contact by any outside party, but channels had still been operative when they first sighted the Romulan. If he was baiting a trap he was waiting an awfully long time to spring it.

  Kirk had tantalizing possibilities but no answers. Until the Romulan chose to make a move he had to trust his speculations. His frustration pounded in a throbbing headache as slowly mounting tension swelled the confined atmosphere of the bridge. Only Spock worked with his customary quiet efficiency. The rest of the crew were too alert, straining their senses for a glimpse of the enemy. Stamina was diminishing and tempers were wearing thin. The captain looked around the bridge, painfully aware of the enemy's strategy.

  "The watch is almost over," he announced. "You are all to get some rest."

  "But, sir …" said Sulu.

  "The engines are in good condition, Captain, but I need time to give the phasers a final once over …" pleaded Scotty.

  "Communications are still blocked, Captain …" contributed Uhura.

  "That's an order!" Kirk barked.

  Doctor McCoy's smile was smug, but he only said, "You could use some rest, too, Captain."

  "All right, Bones, I'll give in gracefully." He turned to the crew and said quietly, "He's trying to wear us down by playing on our nerves … and he's succeeding. We can all use the rest. Mister Spock, you have the conn. I'll be in my quarters. Notify me at once of any change."

  "Acknowledged, Captain."

  The Vulcan watched Kirk leave the bridge, then turned to the main viewscreen and gave the stars a penetrating look before he resumed his check on the library computer.

  Chapter 5

  Kirk was tired. He had not realized how tired. The moment the turbo-lift doors closed, his shoulders sagged and he leaned back against the wall.

  "Deck five," he said.

  The lift plummeted like a stooping hawk. The force of its descent pinned him to the wall and he strained toward the manual controls, fighting the centrifugal effect with everything he had. He could not reach them. The turbo-lift was in free-fall and there was nothing he could do. He was lost. He threw himself at the manual controls in a last, desperate attempt to reach them—and found himself flying across the compartment as the lift swooshed to a halt and the doors snapped open. He managed to stop his headlong flight by catching the door frame, but he immediately pushed himself out of the lift and braced himself against a wall to let the knot in his stomach unwind. Then, still shaking, he headed for the nearest intercom.

  "Engineering, maintenance," he said.

  "Maintenance here."

  "Kirk here. Check main turbo-lift for malfunction. Report to Mister Spock on the bridge. Kirk out."

  He walked down the corridor, slowly regaining his composure and anticipating the security of his quarters. The cabin doors flew open while he was still twelve feet away from them but his mind was absorbed with problems and he failed to notice. He rolled onto his bed, rubbing the tension knot at the back of his neck. It loosened a little and he concentrated, banishing worry, willing himself to rest, mentally forcing his muscles to relax. It was easier than he had expected. Something he could not place disarmed his clicking mind and seduced it into inactivity. As sleep stretched out its arms he almost understood. Through the darkened cabin filtered the gentle, nearly inaudible strains of Brahms' "Lullabye."

  Lieute
nant Sulu was hungry. Danger always gave him an appetite and the thought of a corned beef on rye sandwich and a fat dill pickle made his mouth water. He gave the helm controls a final check before turning his station over to Lieutenant Muromba. Everything but the auxiliary electrical system was working properly and his mind reverted to the question of food.

  "Pavel," he said, "I'm starving. Let's stop by the galley for a sandwich. If I don't get something to eat, I'll just stare at the ceiling and think about food … dill pickles jumping over the moon."

  "A Swiss cheese and bacon sandwich, macaroni salad, Rigellian custard …"

  Chekov's eyes glazed over as he reeled off his preferences in a reverent voice.

  "Come on," said Sulu.

  Two dark heads moved expertly through the corridors, both men intent on one purpose. At this late hour the galley was nearly empty and they had no trouble getting to the food processor. Sulu rubbed his hands together and smiled, anticipating the taste of garlic. He punched in the code for his sandwich and pickle and waited. Nothing happened, and, sure he must have made an error in the code, he punched the numbers again.

  Chekov removed a tray from the processor. He carried it to the nearest table, sat down and attacked his sandwich. Surprise and then disgust settled on his face.

  "What is this?" he demanded through a large mouthful of food. He held the sandwich up to eye level and glared at it. "Chicken! What happened to my Swiss cheese and bacon? I am certain I coded my order correctly."

  "So did I," muttered Sulu as he set his tray across the table from Chekov, "but I got chicken, too. Look," he said, pointing an outraged finger at an innocent slice of chicken. "I know I gave that culinary marvel the proper orders and it turned my pickle into chicken. And coffee! I hate coffee."

  "So do I," said Chekov. "Maybe it's a malfunction."

  He went to the processor and punched the code for a roast beef sandwich: chicken; he tried the code for a salad: chicken; tomato and Vulcan clawfruit: chicken. He looked over his shoulder at the disconsolate Sulu, who was staring sorrowfully at his plate.

  "It's a malfunction. All I get is the captain's special.