Web of the Romulans Page 6

  I'll call maintenance."

  "We could starve," Sulu murmured sadly.

  Chekov informed maintenance of the malfunction and turned from the intercom.

  "I have some provisions in my cabin. We won't starve until tomorrow. Come on," he said, gathering up the chicken sandwiches … after all, they shouldn't go to waste. He conveniently forgot they could be reprocessed. Sulu followed him out the door and down the corridor, considerably cheered by the word "provisions."

  Mister Kyle glared at the game table. He had stepped into the officer's lounge for a quick game of Quaestor, the last in a series he needed to become an acknowledged master of the game. Quaestor resembled chess in difficulty and he was proud of his ability to play it. The game was based on a series of progressions, which, if interrupted, meant the sequence had to be completely replayed. The game table was not responding to his coding. Kyle tried the Quaestor game code again, but the response was still inaccurate. In disgust he slid a tool from his belt and began to unscrew the top panel of the table, determined to correct the malfunction. The computer refused to acknowledge the Quaestor code, but continued to call up the opening gambit of a childishly simple game of chance called "Captain's Square."

  Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott entered his quarters reluctantly. He was worried about the phasers … one last check wouldn't hurt. He reached for the intercom.

  "Engineering," he said.

  "Kopka here."

  "Scott here, lad. Run a final check on the main phasers. I want to make sure they're in perfect working order. These malfunctions could be the death of us."

  "Security run-through on phasers in progress, Mister Scott."

  "Good lad!" said Scotty. "Report anything unusual to me. I'll be in my quarters. Scott out."

  Scotty smiled to himself at the well-oiled efficiency of his engineering crew. Maybe he could relax for a few minutes. He stretched out on the bed and pulled his computer viewscreen to eye-level.

  "Computer."

  A single light flashed and the computer answered, "Working."

  "Library, section one A four-two-three-one, Engineering, tape thirty-two X: 'Phasers—Innovations and Advances.'"

  "Working," muttered the computer. The light on the computer panel gave a preoccupied blink and switched off. The viewscreen cracked with static until Scotty wanted to shake it.

  "Come on, now," he pleaded.

  The screen cleared and Scotty settled down to study his technical journal.

  "'Four score and seven years ago, our Fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.' Here, now, what's this?"

  He scanned the page and found the complete text of the Gettysburg Address, but nothing at all about phasers. He adjusted the controls so he could see the title of the work.

  "A Definitive Biography of Abraham Lincoln?" he read. "That can't be."

  He carefully cleared the viewscreen controls and reentered the code for his article on phasers. Again the viewscreen crackled and a crazyquilt of static coalesced to form a photographic likeness of Abraham Lincoln.

  "Matthew Brady!" snarled Scotty. "Mister Spock, Mister Spock!" he demanded of the intercom.

  "Yes, Mister Scott," came the abstract reply.

  "Mister Spock! Your precious computer is screwin' up the library tapes. I can't get anything but Abraham Lincoln! Can't ya do something, Mister Spock?"

  "I am aware of the problem, Engineer. However, at the present time I am at a loss concerning methods of correction."

  "If ya could find the crux of the problem …"

  "… I could devise a means of correcting it. Did you say Abraham Lincoln, Mister Scott?"

  "Yes. Does it mean anything?"

  "It is interesting. I am investigating, Mister Scott. Spock out."

  Scotty sat gloomily on the edge of his bed contemplating Abraham Lincoln's mocking face. He didn't feel like sleeping, and without the library tapes he was bored. He gave up and went philosophically to a storage cabinet … at least he could tinker with his models. Scotty smiled at the array of minute, complicated machines. He selected a conglomeration of wires, the hull of a ship, his finest tools and settled down to work, a master shipwright absorbed in his profession. The delicate impersonation of an ancient Minoan vessel grew under his hands. When she was finished each of her tiny parts would be in perfect working order and she would be beautiful. Scotty worked with expanding enthusiasm. He decided to call the little ship Seabird.

  Spock studied the library computer console. He had just finished a series of computations designed to test the accuracy of computer response. The results were not satisfying. Not only was response slow, only seven out of every ten answers were correct. Two of the ten were ignored completely and one was answered with unintelligible nonsense. Spock drummed his fingers on the console and concentrated, mentally checking off the exercises he had run and their results. None of the normal tests revealed a cause for the problem … perhaps it was something so simple it had been overlooked. If some foreign object—a speck of dust or lint—had insinuated itself into the circuitry … the circuits were cleaned automatically, but if there was a malfunction in the cleaning apparatus dirt could build up and damage the whole system.

  He pried the top from the computer console and set it aside, his eyes flickering mathematically over the rows of microcircuits as he searched for any obvious maladjustment. At the upper right hand corner of the panel he found something that caused his mouth to form an ironic line. Carefully he slipped his fingers under a triangular mechanism and popped it loose. It was about three inches high and was constructed of sensor panels with electronic distance boosters lining the edges. Spock held it in his hand a moment, his face impassive, and then deliberately turned it over to expose the blue United Federation of Planets insignia.

  Lieutenant Kevin Riley rocked back in his chair and put his feet up on a guardrail. This was the kind of duty he hated: hours of enforced idleness while he nursemaided an automatic temperature gauge. His station was a security device, a safety valve in case of malfunction or damage, and his entire responsibility consisted of waiting for an alarm and trying not to die of boredom.

  Even the proximity of the Romulan vessel could not change his outlook. In point of fact, it made the job worse. He was stuck in a hole, a passive observer, while hundreds of lives hung in the balance. The more he thought about it, the more frustrated he became. The only antidote was action, and since space and propriety curtailed his physical activities, his only recourse was to keep mentally occupied.

  He flipped through the library computer index until he found the section headed "Poets, Irish." Liquid beauty of language was a gift his heritage boasted with special pride. He would let the words of a Celtic bard wash over him like waves. He would drown in them. He would not think of the Romulan.

  Riley punched up a reading of Sean O'Casey's minor works by a particularly gifted contemporary actress. He leaned back again and closed his eyes, anticipating the rich beauty of her voice.

  "'I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and sky, and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by …'" said a dark baritone voice.

  Riley opened his eyes in surprise.

  "'… and the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, and a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking …'" continued the voice.

  "Hey!" exclaimed Riley, snapping forward in his chair to check the index again.

  The voice had just launched into the third verse of the poem when Riley cleared the computer and reentered his code. The screen remained coldly blank for a moment and then cleared to show a man wearing a heavy sweater and a fishing cap.

  "'I must go down to the seas again …'" he intoned, and Riley hit the reset button again, but the screen merely jumped and the man continued.

  Riley stabbed wildly at the intercom switch.

  "Computer maintenance."

  "
Spock here."

  "Riley here, Mister Spock." He had not expected Spock. "My library computer has gone nuts—flipped—flared out!"

  "Please, Lieutenant Riley, in English." Spock's voice sounded pained.

  "I called for a theatrical tape from the library computer and the computer substituted another. I re-coded the tape, but the same malfunction appeared again. The second time I tried to clear the machine, the computer wouldn't accept it. It just gave a funny kind of gulp and went on. Mister Spock, I can't turn it off! It's driving me crazy!"

  "What exactly did the computer substitute for your request?"

  "A poem by John Masefield …"

  "'I must go down to the seas again?'" quoted Spock.

  "Yes, Mister Spock. How did you know?"

  "A hypothetical surmise, Lieutenant. I suggest you let the tape run through and then reset the computer. Until that time, I recommend you relax and enjoy it."

  "Mister Spock!" Riley's tone was mortified. "Enjoy a poet-laureate of England? You've put a sword through my Irish soul."

  "The present crisis involves sacrifices from everyone," said Spock dryly. "Please report any further computer problems directly to me. Spock out."

  "'… and all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, and a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.'"

  Riley glared at the computer viewscreen and tried to resign himself to the goodly amount of time still to elapse before his particular 'trick' of duty was over.

  Spock closed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Lieutenant Riley's report added to the body of data he had collected. The escalation of the computer malfunction was no longer an unsubstantiated theory, it was fact. The nature of that escalation alarmed him. So far the ship's efficiency was unimpaired. The single exception was the loss of communications. This effectively isolated the Enterprise. They were still capable of combat, but there was no telling where the malfunction might strike next.

  Spock shifted uneasily. The illogic of the computer's reactions was unsettling and impossible. He should be able to project a progression of probable reactions from the amount of information he had collected, but so far he could detect no set pattern for its actions. The only possibility which presented itself was so bizarre he shrank from accepting it. His thoughts were interrupted by the intercom.

  "Mister Spock!"

  "Spock here."

  "Yeoman Rand, Mister Spock. I'm in the turbo-lift between decks three and four. It's stuck. I can't get out!"

  "Have you informed maintenance, Yeoman?"

  "I couldn't get maintenance. I couldn't get through to anyone. Until you answered. Mister Spock, get me out of here!"

  "Describe the circumstances leading to your present situation, Yeoman."

  Spock's dry voice was oddly comforting.

  "But there wasn't anything unusual. I just walked into the lift and asked for deck five."

  "Did you do or say anything prior to entering the lift?"

  "I was talking to Angela …" Janice's voice trailed off as she struggled to remember the precise details she knew the Vulcan expected. "She was telling me about some courses she was taking, especially one on the psychology of command. She was doing a paper, a comparison of four different commanders' personalities and how they approach command duties. I remember telling her I thought command was given too much attention, that the crew were more important to efficient operations than the commander."

  Spock closed his eyes. The illogical possibility he wanted to dodge grew more probable with each new report.

  "Mister Spock? Mister Spock, are you still there?"

  "Yes, Yeoman. Was that all?"

  "Yes, Mister Spock. I can't understand it, all I said was 'deck five.'"

  "I will send a maintenance team to release you."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Spock absently informed maintenance of Yeoman Rand's predicament and then flipped the library computer on. Its lethargy was growing. He had to wait for a full minute before the screen cleared.

  "Computer, list the complete works of the poet Kayla of Aldebaran."

  The computer clicked sporadically.

  "Who is Kayla of Aldebaran?" it answered.

  Spock's left eyebrow rose. He tried another tack.

  "Scan all literary indexes for references to Kayla of Aldebaran."

  The computer remained silent for a long, suspenseful moment. Spock was about to re-enter his request when it said, "Working," in a disoriented voice.

  "There is no Kayla of Aldebaran," stated the computer decisively.

  Not long before, Kayla's insipid poetry was the computer's answer to a simple question. Now it did not acknowledge her existence. Though a distinctly minor talent, she did not deserve oblivion. Spock's test fell into the puzzle of data with a neat click.

  Tiercellus watched the outfitting of the ships in his detachment from an observation dome of the space center. The younger technicians watched him covertly. They were not used to an officer supervising every detail of his command. Such scrupulous attention had fallen into disfavor. Tiercellus did not care. Let them watch. He would show them a Romulan! He would make these slack-jawed hypocrites the Praetor favored look like the fools they were. He was home again. His actions echoed a strength they did not comprehend.

  He smiled as he remembered the faces of the men he and the Praetor had reviewed earlier. Their expressions had been resolute, set, but hopeless as they entered the assembly hall. Then, one by one, the older commanders had recognized him as he moved slowly through the ranks. He had seen those commanders straighten with an old pride, seen the light come back into their eyes. A ripple of excitement had charged the air.

  His eyes narrowed in amusement as he remembered how annoyed the Praetor had been. Tiercellus' power to arouse the army galled him. That the old commander's age and physical weakness were discounted because of his unquestionable mental strength made the Praetor even angrier, for it was a strength he could not achieve with all his wealth and power.

  Power. Once he had sought that too, but such times were past. Now he was a legend going out to seek a fitting end. An image of S'Talon's face, grim at their last encounter, came unbidden to Tiercellus' mind. That young one, too, was the stuff of legend. He and S'Talon held in common a desire to benefit the empire. This was their cause, their religion, and they were both to die in its service. Of that he was sure. In a way he envied the younger man who would be spared dreary years of aging. S'Talon would die at the pinnacle of his strength, as befitted a warrior. Perhaps the blood sacrifice of an old man and a young one, given willingly, would be the empire's ransom.

  He let his eyes roam lovingly over the ships of the line he was to command. The Klingon design was superior, he knew, to the old space schooners he had known. Their sleek, streamlined contours enticed him. He yearned to be gone, to be held again in the clenched jaws of death, to be totally alive in a way he had not experienced in years.

  A deferential cough at his elbow called Tiercellus from his reverie.

  "Commander, the ships are almost ready," said the space station prefect.

  "I know. I have been watching. You will tell the men in your teams they have worked well, adding hours to our start. Time is a precious commodity now and they have helped me to gain it."

  Surprise and pleasure were written on the man's face. He was used to having his work taken for granted.

  "I obey, Commander," he replied warmly. He hesitated uncertainly and then continued, "They wish me to tell you their faith lives. Your coming proves it."

  "Convey my thanks. Tell them … tell them I may not return from this voyage, but the empire will. They must serve her first and always."

  "Commander!"

  S'Talon whirled, his instinctive reaction defensive. It saved his life. Where his throat had been one moment before, the fine, long blade of a throwing knife quivered, its point embedded in the wall. He grasped the hilt and pulled it free. The polished metal of the blade glittered up at him.


  The centurion released her breath slowly. So close. She retraced the flight of the dagger.

  "Here, Commander. It was hidden in the ventilation conduit."

  "An electronic beam," he said, passing his hand in front of the sensor. "Ingenious and simple. When the beam is broken this switch is activated, projecting the kaleh in a previously determined direction."

  The centurion fingered the switch, testing the power with which it operated.

  "You would have been killed," she said.

  "There is little doubt of it. I, or someone coming to my quarters. It was not a wise move."

  "No. And I think only one man in the Raptor's crew is foolish enough to attempt it."

  "Livius."

  Their eyes met in understanding and S'Talon's softened.

  "You have my thanks, Centurion. I value my life."

  "It was my duty."

  "Indeed. But still I thank you." As S'Talon turned down the corridor her eyes filled with tears.

  "I value your life, too, Commander," the centurion whispered softly. "More than I value my own."

  Chapter 6

  The Praetor dropped Livius' latest tape into a disposal canister and watched the thin line of vapor its destruction produced. Livius had overstepped his instructions, as expected. Rings flashed on the Praetor's heavy hands as he idly fingered the canister. Perhaps he had been too eager to rid himself of what was, after all, a minor irritation. S'Talon was clever enough to keep the boy in his place, but if Livius attempted some ill-timed coup or an assassination he would jeopardize S'Talon's mission and in turn the survival of the empire. The tone of Livius' reports was more arrogant and impatient with each successive tape and he was increasingly careless in his surveillance. His lack of discipline was appalling. Still, S'Talon was a talented commander. He should be able to forestall Livius' plots in spite of his responsibilities.

  The Praetor pursed his lips. His reliance on S'Talon's ability gave him a momentary pang, but he pushed it away. Livius and S'Talon had both become troublesome. The boy was a greedy, sneaking little stoat, a spoiler who destroyed for the sheer joy of the havoc he created. S'Talon had that damned sense of honor. Between the danger of the one and the unflattering standards of the other, the Praetor found little to choose. At any rate, it was not likely either would survive the present crisis. They would both be assets as martyred heroes, useful in the political games a man of power lived by.