Web of the Romulans

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com/st

  http://www.startrek.com

  Copyright © 1990 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc, under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-1961-8

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Look for STAR TREK fiction from Pocket Books

  To STAR TREK

  with love

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to express a very special thanks to Mrs. Dorothy Marrs, Margaret A. Marrs and Valerie Enholm for the preservation of my sanity; to Teri Meyer and Interstat for reviving art in my life; and finally, to Mr. Gene Roddenberry for Star Trek, a unique and beautiful milestone which has touched countless hearts and minds.

  Chapter 1

  The atmosphere was dark and heavy, cloying with the sweetness of exotic, honey-laden flowers. A lantern threw its smoky light across the room, but it did not reach the shadowy corners. Ornate tapestries covered the walls: sombre hunting scenes full of screaming coursers, the raw colors of wind-whipped banners, ancient weapons and trampled earth stained with the rich blood of the wounded. Hide-covered furniture, savage in its heavy elegance despite carved woodwork and gilt decorations, filled the room like a gathering of prehistoric animals. The doorway was set in a wide, wooden frame of fantastic running beasts where each creature swallowed the tail of its leader in an endless predatory race. A floor of black wooden tiles shone with polish and the passage of many feet. It reflected everything set upon it with the murky distortion of swamp water. Ornaments were scattered throughout the chamber: a clear glass wine goblet, a great circle of sabers hung on the wall like a wheel with countless spokes, a wealth of jewel-encrusted sculpture.

  Spoils, thought S'Talon. This was not the room of a warrior at all. A dragon perhaps, sitting on its hoard. Yes, a dragon, he thought, looking into the Praetor's eyes.

  The Praetor was seated in the largest chair. He was a handsome, heavy-set man whose leonine features already sagged under the weight of a life devoted to dissipation. Silver hair framed his face in short, elegant curls. His hands, heavy with jewelry, rested on bowing lizard's heads carved in black wood. He lounged in the chair, but there was no relaxation in his pose. S'Talon watched the Praetor's hand curl around a carving. The dragon's claw was poised and ready to strike. Involuntarily he braced himself.

  "… so, S'Talon, you have been selected."

  As he had thought. Again he had been graciously granted the opportunity to die.

  "It is the chance of a lifetime." Greed glittered in the hooded eyes. "If you serve the empire well, it will serve you. The risks are high, S'Talon, but the rewards are great. Go with the Emperor's blessing."

  I will need it, thought S'Talon as the Praetor's unctuous voice faded into the darkness.

  "I am honored, my Praetor," he said tightly.

  The Praetor inclined his head as S'Talon saluted and backed from the room. He smiled a small and private smile, aware of the commander's unyielding anger. S'Talon was an annoying ache in his side. To be frank, he could not stand the man. Nobility angered him, angered him twice over because in this case it was genuine. Yet opportunity rises to the surface like oil on water. He had found a solution to more than one problem in S'Talon's assignment. The mission was necessary and profoundly dangerous. If, by some miracle, he survived, S'Talon's already overdeveloped reputation would grow even more … but he would not survive. Still, it would never do to let him attempt such an important task unsupervised. He was too intelligent to be predictable.

  The gentle sound of a latch opening recalled the Praetor to the matter at hand.

  "Come in, Nephew," he said to the shadows, and a tall, slim young man appeared from behind a tapestry. Despite the elegant cut of his tunic and the style with which he wore it, there was a dangerous expression around his mouth, an enjoyment of injury—rather like a weasel after chickens. He smirked.

  "Old S'Talon is angry enough to bite someone's head off," he commented.

  "Take care that it is not yours," snapped the Praetor. "It is never wise to provoke combat when you are overmatched. I am sending you with S'Talon to watch, not to cause an insurrection. Don't give me that sly look. Presently you will have more power than you can handle … or you will be dead."

  "Not I, Uncle. The fates smile on me."

  "They will continue to smile only if you carry out my orders. Your surveillance of S'Talon must be exacting. He will know he is being watched. Make no mistakes. If you are careless, he will have you strung up by your thumbs."

  "I should like to see him try it!"

  "So should I," muttered the Praetor.

  "What was that, Uncle?"

  "Umm, I said, 'he'd be foolish to try.' You are, after all, my nephew. However, the fact remains that, given sufficient provocation, he will certainly try and very likely succeed."

  "Never! My position …"

  "Your position is of small importance in space. Once you are under S'Talon's command, your political ties cannot protect you. Technically, your life is in his hands. If you wish to hold on to it you will follow my orders!"

  The Praetor watched his nephew digest this unwelcome piece of information. He waved a hand at his uncle, pushing the Praetor's grim prophecies aside.

  "I shall return with S'Talon's head and his glory …"

  "No! S'Talon may be old-fashioned and squeamishly gentle, but he should not be underestimated. He has a keen eye for treachery and one of the most envied military records in the empire. But he is notorious for his independence. Should S'Talon deviate from the course I have given him, I wish to know."

  "But, Uncle, I have heard you curse his name. Surely it would be better if he were to have an accident … oh, while checking a propulsion unit …"

  "There will be no more of this idle talk. S'Talon is at least a known quantity. You will report his actions—that is all. Do not waste this opportunity, Livius. If you fail it will not be the Commander's wrath you face—although you may then wish it was."

  The Praetor's voice had hardened and his eyes were implacable as granite. Color drained from the young man's face as he crossed his arm across his breast in the Romulan salute.

  "Yes, my Praetor. It will be as you have ordered."

  "Let us hope so," said the Praetor warmly.

  The centurion rose as S'Talon backed from the Praetor's audience chamber. She noted black fire in his eyes and the corded muscles of his neck. Anger crackled in his movements.

  "Th
e ship awaits, Commander," she began, but S'Talon turned and swept down the dimly lighted hallway without answering. He covered the tiled floor in long strides, the angry precision of his footsteps echoing down the corridor. The centurion had to run to keep up with him. Snatches of the raging monologue he flung over his shoulder rang in her ears like a long-expected finale.

  "… suicide! … If he had listened to the warnings, but no! … big enough for him to bother with! … only when he lost his favorite did he listen to anyone! And now he wants me to lead a detachment into certain death—for glory! We will all be dead soon enough …"

  Snarls subsided into a low grumble as the commander approached the palace gates. He returned the guard's salute with wordless savagery and without slackening his pace. The centurion followed grimly. As S'Talon strode past their parked air car, she sighed. She would have to come back for it.

  They wound through meandering streets and she tried not to see the empty city. The worst of it had hit the capital and its gates had long since been shut, its population evacuated. Those who remained were ravaged and hopeless. It was rumored the Praetor would not leave his palace for fear of them.

  All along the streets houses watched their passage with vacant windows. Where once the soft light of solar panels glowed, there was darkness. The city was hollow, like a great harp with the strings removed. Its wooden frame was capable of promise only—of melodies once played or those to come. Without the vibration of life it was a sad relic. The centurion felt she was being watched by a skeleton whose grinning jaws and sightless eyes followed her with prophetic certainty. She shivered and moved closer behind S'Talon.

  They crossed a cobbled street at the edge of an older residential area. Trees had overgrown the walk, their blue-green foliage at its peak. The houses were made of poured stone cast in pure, simple shapes. They reflected the simplicity of an ancient way of life fast disappearing under the yoke of avarice that was the Praetor's governmental policy. The demise of the warrior's austere ideal was mourned not only by those who remembered it at its peak, but by the young searching for identity. Only in officers of S'Talon's calibre did that ideal live, and there were too few like him.

  The centurion was deep in her own thoughts when S'Talon stopped so abruptly she almost ran into him. Reproaching herself for inattention, she stood on her toes to look over S'Talon's shoulder. The cause of her near disaster stood unperturbed behind a hedge. He was idly clipping it, but as S'Talon stood in respectful silence he disengaged himself from his work to peer nearsightedly at his observer. A slow smile lit his patrician features.

  "S'Talon, my boy!"

  S'Talon clicked his heels together and gave a short, courteous bow of greeting. The centurion, though a little startled to hear her superior addressed in such an informal tone, bowed also.

  "Well, well. It's been a long time. What brings you here?"

  "Frankly, sir, I am angry and seek emotional release through exercise, to be followed, I hope, by the stability of logic. Though I knew you resided in this section of the city, I was sure you would have left with everyone else."

  "Why? I am an old man. What have I to fear? Even from death. It has never been my friend. Had it, I would have died in the service of my people instead of wasting out my days like a mindless vegetable. No, I have no reason to leave." The old man peered into S'Talon's face. "Come here, my boy. My eyes are not what they used to be."

  As S'Talon moved closer the old man's slanting white brows drew together in a frown.

  "You said you were angry, S'Talon, and I see you spoke the truth. Anger is stamped on your face for all to see. What, may I ask, is its cause?"

  S'Talon frowned more deeply, but did not reply, and the old man chuckled.

  "That fool of a Praetor."

  "S'Talon's anger was pierced by alarm. "Sir, you must guard your words! You, of all people, know that."

  "As I told you, S'Talon, I no longer have cause for fear. I have lost everything but my life, and that I hold in very small regard." He cut off S'Talon's protest with a wave of his hand. "I suppose you have been elected to solve this problem we're having?"

  "Problem, sir?" Not only was he forbidden to speak of his mission, but the Praetor had spies in the most obscure places. He could not allow his respect for this man to provoke rash comments.

  "Don't play games with me." Pride flared for a moment in the dim eyes, showing the man's will to command. "But, I suppose you must, even as I had to. Perhaps fate has brought you here on this day. I am aware of your standing in the fleet. The course of your career is of interest to me. The empire was my responsibility for a good number of years." He smiled ironically. "Old habits die hard. I have kept myself informed on certain key issues, and I have followed the actions of those most likely to influence the fate of the empire."

  "Then why choose me?" asked S'Talon bitterly.

  "Because you are a bastion of the old order. In that alone you are unique. It makes you both a symbol and a stumbling-block. It is patent that the Praetor would like to see you removed, but in such a way that you become a martyr to his cause and not a standard for rebellion." The old man paused as he saw anger flash unchecked in S'Talon's eyes. "Now who must guard his actions?" he inquired. "It is inevitable that you will be the Praetor's chosen pawn, but even he does not realize the part you will play in the events to come. He has made a mistake. Though he understands your military capabilities and your sense of honor, he has little conception of your flexibility or the depth of your loyalty … to that which you deem worthy of it. In this, I have the advantage of him, but then, we are two of a kind."

  "You pay me a most extravagant compliment, sir."

  "Nonsense. It was not meant so. Merely a statement of fact. I see other facts as well. Though my eyes are dim, my mind is clear, clearer than it has ever been. We are facing destruction. I know that, and if my judgment of your quality is correct, so do you. You will be the key. Sometimes the life of the largest beast depends entirely upon the ability of its smallest member to remain strong in adversity. I cannot tell you how to act, what roads to take or methods to employ, but I can tell you this: do not be afraid to follow the dictates of your instinct, and do not let your pride get in the way of judgment. I have been guilty of both offenses, so I speak with the wisdom of experience."

  "If you have, sir, I was never aware of it."

  "You are kind to an old man, S'Talon, but you are singularly thoughtless. Who is the exquisite creature standing so patiently behind you?"

  S'Talon started and then stepped to one side. "My centurion, sir. Centurion, Supreme Commander of the Fleet, Tiercellus."

  The centurion began to salute him, but Tiercellus' voice stopped her.

  "None of that, my dear. I've been retired for so long I hardly remember how to return your courtesy. S'Talon did not mention it, but I am sure you have a name."

  "I am called S'Tarleya, sir."

  "So. If S'Talon's job will be difficult, yours will be even harder. You must keep the key from being broken. He already has enemies who seek his life, either from jealousy or because he jeopardizes their political influence. His position as scapegoat—yes, we must call it that—will make him doubly vulnerable. You must keep him alive."

  In Tiercellus' crisp authority S'Tarleya saw the supreme commander. It was no frail old man, but a superior officer who enjoined her to protect S'Talon's life. She straightened, accepting not only his trust but the fear she had run from before.

  "His life is mine," said S'Tarleya quietly.

  "That should do," replied Tiercellus. The old-fashioned oath of loyalty with which S'Tarleya answered seemed to please him.

  S'Talon's dark eyes were unreadable as he studied the centurion and his former commander. He had the feeling he was missing something. They were possessed of an understanding that went beyond words. Still, words were what he had to deal with. Tiercellus' estimation of the situation was frighteningly correct.

  "Your words have not cheered me," he said. "They are frail ropes
thrown from one lost man to another, incapable of bearing either man's weight."

  "How right you are, S'Talon, but they are all I have to give—warnings flung into a stiff wind." He smiled. "I would not be surprised to see them hurled back in my face. But I am grateful for the chance to voice them. It is all I have now—my experience. It is a small contribution to the cause, a token resistance to a death I profess to welcome. We are complex creatures, are we not?"

  S'Talon nodded.

  "So complex we are not able to cope with simple issues," he replied.

  Tiercellus cocked his eyebrow in an unspoken question.

  "Life and death. Our lives consist of nothing else, yet our capacity for ignoring both of them is amazing. We cloak them in ritual and philosophy so we can avoid facing them, but, in the end, they are the only subjects worth considering."

  "S'Talon, you sound like an old man! That is supposed to be my prerogative."

  "I must confess I feel like an old man."

  "The weight of command. And yet you would not have it lifted for all the wealth of the empire."

  Some of the bitterness faded from S'Talon's eyes as he perceived Tiercellus' understanding.

  "I see that you would not. Nor did I. But the time comes when each of us must defer to another. Looking back, I believe the acknowledgment of that was the hardest moment in my life."

  "Am I to give up then? Forsake the Romulan way?"

  "Never. But … there may come a time when your understanding is not enough. At such moments help springs from the most unlikely sources."

  "And I should watch for it?"

  "If you do not, if you are not the same man I knew, if you have become afraid to think for yourself, then we are indeed lost. All my years of military experience tell me you have become the fulcrum upon which the empire turns. Life or death—you said it yourself. I believe your actions will determine the fate of Romulus and its colonies."