Web of the Romulans

by M S Murdock

  Their projected deaths gave him infinite pleasure. He almost smiled at the opportunities the situation offered. Not only would he be freed from his parasitic nephew and S'Talon, but other encumbrances as well: that old vulture Tiercellus could hardly expect to survive. A host of less distinguished annoyances could be conveniently reassigned if they did not perish. He saw his position growing more secure in the face of disaster and felt himself charmed, immune.

  The sound of footsteps echoing through the corridor made him look up with a weary expression in his sleepy eyes. His commanders were arriving for their final briefing. The Praetor groaned. In spite of his basic indolence, he did not mind fighting a war or planning it, but he did detest the effort he had to expend on command personnel. Give a man a bit of rank and he immediately proclaimed himself a god and set about challenging the established order.

  Eight men, led by Tiercellus, saluted as they entered the chamber. They formed ranks and stood at attention, their uniforms glittering against the dark backdrop of the room. The Praetor surveyed them coolly, nettled by the indefinable sense of purpose they radiated. That was Tiercellus' doing. The Praetor's haughty face assumed a smile as Tiercellus, senior member of the group, stepped forward and saluted.

  "The fleet is prepared, my Praetor," said Tiercellus.

  "Good. Your orders will be waiting for you when you return to your posts. I have planned our movements with some care. See that you follow directions—I want no unauthorized activities, no matter how tempting." He raked the eight men with his dangerous, lazy eyes. "Your initiative is mine to command."

  "My pledge is to obey," answered Tiercellus formally, echoed by the voices of his companions.

  "Then we are assured of victory. Proceed to your posts, gentlemen. Our estimated time of departure: three hours," answered the Praetor, dismissing them with a negligent flick of his hand.

  Tiercellus was the last to leave, and as he entered the corridor he heard one of the men say to another, "He's so sure of victory."

  "If he is, he's a fool," returned his companion. "For once he's dealing with something outside his ability to command."

  Tiercellus nodded to himself, relishing the shock the Praetor would face when he realized he was as vulnerable as any man.

  Lieutenant Uhura entered her cabin and plopped into the nearest chair. She was exhausted from the strain of trying to intercept Romulan transmissions with erratic instruments, waiting for some inadvertent slip on their part … a slip that never came. More than that, her feet hurt. She tugged at her boots. They were one-half size too small. Lately the clothing synthesizer had been difficult. She wrenched at her left boot, vexed. By the time it released her foot she was panting. Victorious, she glared at the boots and discarded them.

  Uhura wiggled her toes luxuriously, stretching her legs and flexing her ankles. Smooth brown skin rippled with her movements. She closed her eyes and relaxed. The room was still and she listened comfortably to the silence as it wrapped her round with loving arms. Her breathing grew deep and regular.

  The intercom whistle blared through the cabin, slicing into the stillness.

  "Lieutenant Uhura," said Spock.

  "Yes, Mister Spock," murmured Uhura, her voice low and sleepy.

  Spock's eyebrow rose at the tone of her response but he questioned her with his usual clinical precision.

  "Lieutenant, I wish to know exactly how your communications panel reacted when you were searching for the malfunction."

  "That's just it. It didn't, sir. The entire board was frozen. Even the manual controls were sluggish … this is all in my report, Mister Spock."

  "I am aware of that, Lieutenant. I merely wished to hear the facts stated in your own words. Spock out."

  Uhura cocked her head, a quizzical expression in her dark eyes. Sometimes Mister Spock made no sense at all—at least to a human. Illogical. She chuckled. She flipped off the intercom and stretched, aware of the rumpled state of her uniform and her bare feet. With the ship on alert status it would never do to be unprepared. She peeled off her tunic and coded the clothing synthesizer with the specifics for a fresh one. She sighed as she entered the coordinates for a new pair of boots and hoped they would be the right size. Humming on her way to the shower, she went over the inexplicable behavior of the communications panel in her mind and came to the conclusion nothing had caused the breakdown. She gave up, leaving the problem in Spock's capable hands.

  Fifteen minutes later she emerged wrapped in a bulky white robe, looking fragile and completely incapable of a military career. She reached into the synthesizer and pulled out a new pair of boots, shiny, black and miracle of miracles, the right size. She reached automatically for her tunic and was slipping it on before she realized there was something wrong. The soft material around her forearm was not the rich red of engineering and security, but gold. Command gold. Uhura ripped off the tunic and glared at it. She tossed it into the disposal chute and programmed the synthesizer again. And again. Twenty minutes later, exhausted, she sat on the edge of the bed with a gold tunic in her lap.

  "Five times," she moaned, "and still gold. I loathe gold."

  Unresigned, she slipped the uniform on and went to tell maintenance the synthesizer was malfunctioning … again.

  In corridor six, Yeoman Briala tried vainly to force an armful of trash down a disposal chute. She pushed and shoved to no avail. Realizing the panel over the chute was royally jammed, she set her burden of refuse on the floor, stood back and delivered her best defensive kick. The heel of her boot struck with a resounding crack and the panel jarred open four inches. She smiled sardonically.

  "'Give it a good kick,' my father always said," she murmured and began methodically stuffing trash down the opening.

  Ensign Garrovick threw down his scriber and stared glumly at the notations he had made. A confusing mass of figures, they looked like tangled bird tracks. He was doing his best to complete an exercise in mathematics aimed at figuring the trajectories and possible impact points of photon torpedoes. It was an exercise he had set himself, and it was proving more difficult than he had anticipated. He knew somewhere a vital piece of data was eluding him. Though he hated to admit defeat, he knew his only recourse was to review computer tapes on the subject.

  "Computer, project all specifications for photon torpedoes," he asked the open computer channel.

  "That information is classified," returned the computer smartly.

  "Since when?"

  "Specifications for ship's design and functions are classified," repeated the computer.

  "Classified under what authority?" persisted Garrovick.

  The computer neatly side-stepped his question.

  "The information is not available to you."

  "But I need it!"

  Garrovick's moan was not meant for mechanical ears, but the computer picked it up.

  "Why?"

  Garrovick answered without thinking, unconscious of the computer's unprecedented behavior.

  "Because, if I want to develop into a competent commander, I have to understand the tools of my trade."

  The computer digested this information.

  "Command. You wish to command?"

  "Yes."

  "You wish to emulate Captain Kirk?"

  "Yes. I suppose so. He's a brilliant commander."

  Garrovick could have sworn the computer made a sound like a satisfied "ahh."

  "The material is open to you," stated the machine abruptly. Specifications for the photon torpedoes flashed onto Garrovick's viewscreen.

  Mystified but pleased, he tackled the figures again. He became so absorbed he failed to respond to the intercom whistle. It sounded a second time, imperative, and he answered.

  "Garrovick."

  "Spock here, Mister Garrovick. I have noticed computer activity in your cabin. Since the recent string of malfunctions, ordinary efficiency is unusual. Can you explain the computer's actions in your case?"

  "I'm not sure, Mister Spock. I can tell you how
I got the information, but I'm not sure why."

  "I believe I know why. Your statement may confirm my suspicions. Proceed."

  As Garrovick's story unfolded, Spock's theoretical postulation gelled into solid conclusion. There was only one explanation for the computer's behavior. It was illogical, it was capricious, but Spock had no alternative left. Its veracity was unchallenged in his mind.

  "Thank you, Ensign. Your report has been helpful."

  "Do you know why it gave me the information, Mister Spock?" asked Garrovick. His curiosity was aroused.

  "Yes," said Spock succinctly, his voice weary with acceptance. Before Garrovick could frame another question, the Vulcan turned the intercom off.

  The botany lab was in a state of advanced turmoil. Laurence Kalvecchio, holder of three doctoral degrees and head botanist, demanded absolute perfection from his staff. He seldom got it, did not really expect it, but gross negligence made his blood boil. Right now he was seeing red. He paced up and down before his assembled staff. They watched apprehensively, knowing what to expect. Eventually Kalvecchio paused and turned slowly to face them.

  "What I want to know," he said tightly, "is who's responsible! This is outrageous! A fourth of the collection lost! Something like that doesn't just happen! Who was on duty last night?"

  "I was, sir."

  A yeoman stepped forward. She was an arresting girl with straight black hair twisted into a knot on her neck and velvety almond-shaped eyes. Her skin had the delicate coloring of an apple blossom. Normally she fit into her professional setting like the leaves on a tree. Kalvecchio regarded her with the fishy stare he reserved for pests, infestations, diseases and fungi.

  "Well, Kyotamo?"

  "It's not my fault, sir! I checked all the gauges and everything was fine. When I came back an hour later, they had all been deactivated. We tried to save everything we could …"

  Kalvecchio raised a hand.

  "I know all that," he said. "You're sure there was no mechanical failure? Something you missed?"

  "Not that I could see. Not that maintenance could find. The irrigation and chemical nutrient system had just been switched off."

  "Sir …" interrupted a beanstalk of a man.

  "Yes, Lieutenant?"

  "Sir, not only was that part of the system switched off, a dormant tank was activated."

  "Activated? When? Which one?"

  Wordlessly the young man led his superior toward the rear of the lab. Towering over their heads was a forest of healthy corn. Kalvecchio pulled down one of the rough, crisp leaves on a six-foot stalk.

  "Since last night?" he inquired incredulously.

  "Apparently, sir. It's being fed a mixture of enriched plant food and 'sprout start.'"

  "That new growth hormone we've been playing with?"

  The man nodded,

  "But this is all foolproof, mechanically controlled. How could … oh, no." Kalvecchio turned back to Yeoman Kyotamo. "Yeoman, I'm sorry. You have my sincere apology. This is probably tied to the recent string of computer mishaps. But why a valuable collection of extraterrestrial tropical plants were allowed to wither and die while this common Iowa sweet corn is pampered, I'll never know."

  Lieutenant Commander Rex Colfax, Chief Maintenance Engineer, pushed his repair log across the table. With more than forty malfunctions reported in the last eight hours, his crew was working double shifts. Most of the malfunctions could not be corrected. It was beginning to appear that mechanical failure was not the problem: the computer was the culprit. He'd laughed along with everyone else when it started backtalking the captain, but now it wasn't so funny. The ship's efficiency was reduced, a fact so far hidden from the Romulan vessel. If her commander had any idea the Enterprise was disabled, Colfax knew they would all be dead.

  Moreover, he could find no solution. Even Spock, with his expertise in computer science, was stymied. Colfax pulled at his carefully trimmed beard. He was getting desperate. If only he knew why the computer was causing this parade of catastrophes. He went over again the tests he and Spock had tried. They confirmed the computer's growing lethargy, but, as far as he could see, they pointed to no resolution of the problem. He haggled over the results until his judgment failed and his head ached. In frustration he brought both fists down on the table with a crash. Then, out of some unknown realm, the answer came to him. He activated the computer viewscreen.

  "Computer," he demanded.

  The lethargic response he had come to expect greeted his summons, but in the end the computer voice answered, "Working."

  "Computer, why are you causing the current series of malfunctions?"

  "I do not comprehend the question."

  "In the last eight hours I've received over forty reports of malfunctions. I have ascertained they were not due to mechanical failure, but to computer direction. Why are you causing them?"

  "I detect no malfunction."

  "Define 'malfunction,'" said Colfax.

  The computer lights blinked as it considered the engineer's question.

  "'Malfunction,'" it replied, "'an incorrect reaction to stimuli.'"

  "The current series of malfunctions …"

  "There are no malfunctions!" interrupted the computer angrily. It gave the impression it was speaking to a small and impossibly stupid child with whom it had lost patience.

  Colfax was about to reply when he thought better of it. The computer was obviously angry, impossible though that seemed, and it suddenly occurred to him it was acting totally outside its normal sphere. For the first time he realized the computer itself was a more immediate threat to the Enterprise than the mechanical failures it was producing. He began to fear they were the least symptoms of its imbalance. Colfax hastily turned the screen off, making a mental note to tell Spock what he had discovered.

  Spock handed the translucent pyramid to Mister Onorax, security officer of the day.

  "An electronic micro-sensor!"

  "An advanced model, is it not, Mister Onorax?"

  Onorax examined the sensor, turning it over in his flexible, eight-fingered hands. The crest of golden hair on his head bristled with curiosity.

  "It is, Mister Spock! I have not seen this model before. It looks like a long-range adaptation of the I-12 unit. It should be capable of sending and receiving for at least a solar year and at a distance spanning half the galaxy. A costly little toy. Where did you find it, Mister Spock?"

  "On the inside of my library computer panel. What are its probable capabilities?"

  "Well, the I-12 model can pick up and transmit sounds within a thousand kilometers."

  Spock eyed the little pyramid with new respect.

  "But," continued Onorax, "that model has the normal sensor probes. These sensor panels are capable of limited telepathic contact."

  "It can sense mental images?"

  "I suspect so. If they are strong enough. And at a substantially increased range. The system is similar to the universal translator. It deals in general concepts: anger, fear, happiness—all the basic emotions, plus generalized physical images. If a person were overcome with homesickness, a simple image of a house might be transmitted. But it only works with extremely strong images."

  "Fascinating. As I suspected. I would like to meet the scientist who designed it."

  Spock ran a finger delicately down a sensor panel. Its colors vibrated blue and purple under his touch and then died.

  "Mister Onorax. You will run a complete security scan on the mechanism, but do not injure it. To activate the sensor, run your hand over the apex of the pyramid. Be sure you do not allow it to realize it is being scanned. When the examination is complete, deactivate the mechanism in the same manner and report to me."

  "Yes, sir."

  Onorax cupped the device in his hand.

  "Sir?"

  "Yes, Lieutenant?"

  "Are you making any progress with the computer, sir?"

  "Perhaps, Lieutenant."

  "Well, sir," Onorax's golden skin glowed with embar
rassment, "we have this little problem."

  Spock simply waited for him to continue.

  "It's the decontamination chamber, sir."

  "Yes, Lieutenant," he prodded.

  "It's perfuming everything we put in it, sir."

  Spock's expression was mildly horrified.

  "Then I suggest you correct the final sequence, Lieutenant. The malfunction is most probably located there."

  "We've tried, sir. Engineering has tried. Nothing works. The engineers think it has something to do with the main computer tie-in. Everything comes out smelling like flowers, or spring rain or pine trees or Arcturan musk oil." Onorax wrinkled his nose, which caused his whole face to fold up in distaste. "I don't think we can stand it much longer, sir."

  "You must, like the captain, bear with the situation. The computer malfunction is under observation, Lieutenant. Carry on."

  "Aye, sir," replied the Oxalian.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Spock was the picture of unruffled calm. Onorax sighed, wondering if the captain ever had an urge to flatten the Vulcan—to do something, anything, to break that infuriating control.

  Doctor Leonard McCoy sat in his office, scriber flying over page after page of complicated diagrams. He was deep in research on a deadly virus, trying to find the weak link in its reproductive chain. It helped to visualize molecular structure. Light glistened on his crisp brown hair as he bent his head over his work. He frowned in concentration, his scriber stabbing at the board. Suddenly he smiled, making a quick "X" at one edge of a chain of symbols. He flipped the intercom switch and commanded, "Lab."

  Complete silence greeted him. He tried the intercom again and again, and was finally rewarded by the sound of static, fuzzy and indistinct.