by Greg Cox
“I’ll say.” Roberta shuddered, no doubt recalling how close she had come to being burned alive inside a gigantic wicker effigy. Seven himself had been severely disillusioned to discover human sacrifice still being practiced in the late twentieth century. “Who would have ever guessed,” she added, “that we’d wind up living only a few islands away?”
Seven noticed a sheaf of papers caught beneath Roberta’s arm, in the crook of her bushy fleece sweater. “What do you have there?” he asked.
She handed the documents over to Seven. “Today’s New York Times, hot off the Beta 6,” she explained, “plus the usual updates on various global hot spots.”
He glanced at the front page of the Times. “PLO and Israel Accept Each Other After 3 Decades of Relentless Strife,” read the banner headline across the top of the page, reporting on substantial progress in the ongoing Mideast peace talks. Seven was encouraged by the news, but feared that achieving true peace in that troubled region would prove easier said than done. Lower on the page, a less hopeful headline informed him that “U.S. Troops Fire on Somalis; Death Toll May Reach 100.”
A long way to go, indeed, he thought, acutely aware that the situation in Somalia was being exacerbated by the megalomaniacal ambitions of one of Khan’s supersiblings. With luck, he thought, Amin will be taken out of the picture by either the Americans or one of his fellow warlords.
“Any other highlights?” he asked, flipping through the newspaper. The bulk of the coverage seemed to concern the peace talks in Washington, but he knew that Roberta had other, equally reliable sources of information.
She shrugged. “Yeltsin is threatening to dissolve the Russian Parliament. Saddam is playing games with the U.N. inspectors again.” She paused, searching her memory for any other relevant tidbits. “Oh, NASA is on schedule to fix the Hubble space telescope in December. That’s okay now, right?”
“I believe so,” he stated. Back in 1990, he and Roberta had sabotaged the ambitious astronomical project by covertly shaving seven hundred thousands of an inch off the Hubble’s primary mirror, rendering the $1.5 million dollar space eye effectively nearsighted. Such tampering had been necessary to prevent unprepared human astronomers from observing the passage of a Vulcan trading fleet through the Lambda Sector; in Seven’s judgment, Earth was not yet ready for that sort of first contact. Fortunately, the Vulcan caravan had since warped beyond the range of the Hubble, so he saw no harm in allowing NASA to correct the telescope’s vision.
“What about Khan?” he asked.
Roberta’s face grew more somber. “Ominously quiet, at the moment.” The red-winged falcon continued to circle above their heads, awaiting prey. “Our spies suggest that he’s regrouping after the total failure of his big superman summit in June. He’s had some dealings with Morrison’s militia in the States, exchanging info and technology, but mostly he seems to be gearing up to defend himself from all the other would-be Napoleons out there. Things are particularly frosty between Khan and Hunyadi, who are wrangling over Turkestan. Hunyadi’s people assassinated a couple of Khan’s most highly placed pawns in the local government earlier this week; this morning, Khan retaliated by taking out an entire Serbian intelligence cell.” Lines of worry deepened around her eyes and mouth. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that particular cold war gets real hot real soon.”
Sadly, Seven had no reason to doubt Roberta’s dire reading of events. Almost twenty years after he destroyed Sarina Kaur’s underground laboratory in Rajasthan, it seemed that her Chrysalis Project was still casting a long shadow over world affairs. Like Landru on his world, Seven thought. There were times, in his darker moments, when he almost wished that he had let the budding children of Chrysalis be incinerated along with their creator. But, no, that had never truly been an option; he could not have condemned blameless innocents to death for crimes they might someday commit, even if that meant dealing with Khan and his ilk two decades later.
I mustn’t lose hope, he thought. Perhaps Earth could still escape the sort of eugenic madness that had corrupted so many other civilizations. Thankfully, many of Khan’s more unstable peers had already self-destructed, like that would-be messiah in Texas. Others, such as Alberto Gomez, were being neutralized in a reasonably discreet manner; thanks to some undercover assistance by Roberta, the Peruvian government had finally captured the brilliant revolutionary leader less than a month ago, promising the return of something resembling normalcy to that war-torn nation. Seven had been relieved to see Gomez behind bars at last, unable to turn his superlative mind to future acts of violent insurrection. One terrorist mastermind down, he thought, gratefully striking “Pachacutec” from his mental to-do list.
But that still left Khan and Hunyadi and the rest, along with their respective throngs of superhuman followers. Seven stared at the pastoral peace and beauty of Arran, and wondered how long such serenity could survive in a world overrun by indomitable conquerors whose grandiose ambitions were encoded in their very genes. Sometimes he feared that, despite his best efforts to protect mankind’s infinite potential, the human race would ultimately destroy themselves anyway, spurred on by the perilous feuding of Khan and his kin.
Good thing I have a backup plan, he thought. Just in case.
CHAPTER TEN
AJORRA CAVES
MAHARASHTRA STATE
CENTRAL INDIA
SEPTEMBER 30, 1993
CHISELED OUT OF THE GRANITE HILLSIDE BY GENERATIONS OF ANCIENT monks and artisans, the enormous cave-temple took Khan’s breath away. Larger even than the Parthenon in Greece, the towering edifice rose toward the night sky, its venerable exterior generously adorned with intricately carved friezes depicting picturesque scenes from Hindu folklore and mythology. Epic battles, royal weddings, and acrobatically amorous couples, all lovingly sculpted in elaborate detail, proliferated upon the walls of the temple, being all the more impressive when one realized that the entire structure, including its rampant decoration, had all been hewn from the same solid piece of rock, carved from the top down rather than built up from the bottom. “Magnificent!” Khan pronounced. Even in nocturnal darkness, its myriad surfaces illuminated only by the flashlights of Khan and his entourage, the temple presented almost too much visual detail to take in all at once. Hard to imagine, he thought, that such an astounding work of art and engineering was created by ordinary, primitive humans.
Unsurprisingly, Joaquin was too concerned with Khan’s personal safety to appreciate the splendor before his eyes. “I don’t like this,” he muttered gruffly, the cool white beam of his flashlight searching for hidden snipers. “It’s too quiet.”
By day, and during the peak season, the temple was a major tourist attraction. It was now nearly 3:45 in the morning, at the tail end of the annual monsoon, however, and Khan and his party appeared to have the place to themselves. They were gathered on the rocky plain outside the temple’s main gate, with a clear view of the spacious courtyard beyond. The helicopter that had brought them here rested several paces behind them on a blacktop parking lot usually reserved for tour buses. Although the rain had mercifully abated for a time, swollen clouds promised another downpour before morning.
“That was the intention,” Khan reminded Joaquin, referring to the silent and deserted setting. “Our contact desired privacy, as you recall.”
“This is too private,” the bodyguard insisted. He was always unhappy when Khan ventured beyond the safety of his fortress in Chandigarh. “It could be a trap.”
Khan did not share his protector’s fears. “We have taken the necessary precautions,” he observed, gesturing toward the team of armed Exon warriors accompanying them. He, too, was prepared for combat, his P226 automatic resting securely against his hip. “Besides, I have always meant to visit this site.” He swept the beam of his flashlight over the intricate carvings climbing the walls of the temple gate or gopuram. “Spectacular, is it not? A tribute to human achievement and artistry.”
Someday, he reflected, after I have won my wars o
f conquest, I shall be a great patron of the arts and sciences. Under my benevolent sponsorship and protection, there shall be an intellectual renaissance unrivaled since the Medicis ruled Italy.
He looked forward to that day.
Joaquin remained unmoved by the temple’s grandeur. “We should not have come here,” he argued once more. “Now is a bad time. There is too much trouble in the air.”
This much is true, Khan conceded regretfully. Nineteen ninety-three had been a bloody year on the Indian subcontinent, marked by months of religious strife and rioting. Thousands of Muslims had been killed by militant Hindu mobs, sparking retaliation both in India and abroad. Indeed, there had been almost a dozen bombings in nearby Bombay alone. All the more reason, he thought, for me to cement my control over the entire region. Panic-tinged memories, of being chased through the streets of Delhi by an anti-Sikh mob, in the harrowing days following the assassination of Indira Gandhi, flashed unwillingly before his mind’s eye. It saddened him that senseless sectarian violence still tore at the delicate social fabric of his homeland. I will put a stop to such madness, he vowed, even if I must conquer the entire world to do so.
“I do not dismiss your fears lightly, my friend,” he assured Joaquin, placing his hand upon the bodyguard’s brawny shoulder, “but I cannot let apprehension alone dictate my actions. Great victories sometimes require great risks, and I believe the prize we seek tonight fully warrants whatever hazards we tempt by coming here.”
Joaquin seemed to realize he could not dissuade Khan. “As you wish, Your Excellency.” He turned toward the Exon soldier nearest the temple, who was scanning the imposing structure with a handheld mechanism of Khan’s own design. “Well?” Joaquin demanded of the trooper. “What do you read?”
The soldier kept his eyes on the scanning device. “I am detecting only a single individual within the temple.” He double-checked the readings, just to be safe. “The granite is very thick in places, I’m afraid, so the results are not one hundred percent certain.”
“An acceptable risk,” Khan declared quickly, before Joaquin could raise any further objections. “Post your guards outside every exit. Make sure no one leaves or enters while you and I are inside.” His dark eyes narrowed as he stared at the forbidding stone walls of the deserted temple. “We shall enter alone, as arranged.”
The anxious bodyguard would undoubtedly have preferred Khan to be accompanied by a full security detail, but Joaquin held his tongue, maintaining a stony silence as he and Khan walked beneath the temple gate, leaving the armed troopers behind. An autumn wind whistled through the upper towers of the sculpted sanctuary like the mournful notes of the shehnai, a Hindustani instrument not unlike an oboe. Thunder sounded somewhere in the distance.
Khan did not look back.
The gateway led to an open courtyard, whose basalt tiles had been worn smooth by the passage, over the centuries, of myriad pilgrims. A central worship hall provided access to the three-story shrine beyond, whose pyramidal design was meant to mimic Mount Meru, the Himalayan home of the gods. Smaller shrines flanked the granite pyramid, known as the shikara, beneath which the top-secret rendezvous was scheduled to take place. Let us hope, Khan thought, that this trip is worth my while.
A flicker of trepidation passed through Khan as they stepped into the cavernous entrance of the worship hall, but he dismissed it as unworthy of his exalted station. Nonetheless, he remained alert for any hint of ambush, keeping one hand on the grip of his pistol as he followed the beam of his flashlight deeper into man-made caverns hollowed out of the living rock twelve centuries before. The incandescent beam fell upon striking tempera murals, painted, many generations ago, on the dry surface of plastered cow dung. Although the murals’ once-brilliant colors, including cinnabar-red and lapis lazuli-blue, had necessarily faded over the centuries, the frequently erotic artwork retained much of its original power. Khan admired the cavorting gods, demons, and lovers painted on the tunnel walls, even as he remained on guard against treachery.
Finally, they came to the location described in the coded communications leading up to this meeting: a somber shrine, or chaitya, deep in the heart of the immense pyramid. Parallel rows of ornate stone columns supported a high, rib-vaulted ceiling, with a dancing stone Shiva presiding over the chamber from an altar at the rear of the sanctum. Elaborate bas-reliefs, depicting various episodes from the life of Shiva, ran around the cornice bridging the thick granite columns.
Much decoration, in other words, but no glimpse of the emissary Khan had arranged to meet here. He briefly turned the beam of the flash upon his own wristwatch. It was exactly 3:50 A.M. He was a few minutes early.
“Show yourself!” he demanded, unwilling to wait upon the other man’s convenience. His impatient voice echoed within the artificial cavern. “My time is valuable. Do not waste it.”
“Very well, Khan Singh,” a raspy voice whispered from the shadows. Khan turned his flashlight toward the voice and saw a skeletal figure step out from behind one of the timeworn columns. “Far be it from me to try the patience of such as yourself.”
The speaker, whose voice held a Russian accent, looked more dead than alive. His gaunt face was pale, bloodless, and emaciated, like that of a concentration camp victim. Rheumy, bloodshot eyes examined Khan from the depths of sunken, discolored sockets. He trembled in the coolness of the cave, despite his double-breasted, steel-gray greatcoat, of the sort formerly favored by the KGB. Khan heard the Russian’s lungs wheeze painfully with every breath, and guessed that the man was dying. Used to the physical perfection of his closest associates, he found the stranger’s decrepit state disturbing.
How long had the Russian been standing there in pitch blackness? “Where is your own light?” Khan asked, puzzled by the man’s behavior.
“Here,” the haggard Russian answered, removing a compact flashlight from a coat pocket and flicking it on, so that the light shone in Khan’s face, forcing him to blink and look away. “I was merely accustoming myself to the dark. Not a bad idea, you must admit, given that it is in unending darkness that we must all ultimately spend eternity.”
Khan had little interest in the man’s morbid musings. “Do you have what you promised?” he asked impatiently, stepping forward to push the other man’s flashlight away from his face. “Show me what you have.”
He had come to Ajorra in search of knowledge; specifically, technical know-how relating to advanced genetic engineering. Despite the assiduous efforts of Phoolan Dhasal, her team at Chrysalis Island had not yet been able to duplicate Sarina Kaur’s success at cloning multiple copies of a single fertilized human egg, a key step in the application of genetic engineering on a large scale. Conventional wisdom had it that such an egg could only be cloned twice before expiring, yet somehow his mother had developed a technique for producing dozens of identical copies of a single egg, thus increasing the odds of successful hybridization later on. Alas, that secret appeared to have died with her, consumed by the cataclysm that had destroyed the original Chrysalis Project nearly two decades ago.
Until a few weeks ago, that is, when Khan had been contacted by the man before him, who claimed to have classified scientific information from a top-secret genetic research project conducted by the Russian military some years before the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Russian, whom Khan knew only by the code name “Strigoi,” had offered him the information in exchange for political asylum and a generous pension, boons Khan was perfectly willing to bestow upon the expatriate Russian, provided that the data was all that it had been professed to be.
Now that he had met Strigoi face to skull-like face, and seen the sorry state of the Russian’s health, he could not help wondering why the infirm man was even bothering to make provisions for a future that could not possibly amount to very much time at all. His code name, a Russian synonym for “vampire,” seemed bleakly appropriate, given how much the man resembled a walking corpse.
I suppose, Khan observed philosophically, even the dying and th
e diseased cling to whatever meager prospects they might possess. He liked to think that, when his own time finally came, ninety or a hundred years from now, Khan Noonien Singh would not go gently into that good night. I will fight on, pitting my strength and intelligence against the universe, until my dying breath. . . .
How then could he blame this wretched specimen for trying to make the best of whatever time remained to him? “Well?” he demanded again, aware that Joaquin was anxious for Khan to conclude this meeting and return to the protection of the guards waiting outside. “What is the matter? Give me the data.”
Instead of handing over any sort of folder or disk, the Russian casually looked around the lavishly ornamented shrine. “A fascinating place, don’t you think?” His flashlight beam, which wavered in the man’s trembling grip, rose to find an exquisite bas-relief depicting Shiva at war against an army of demons. The god was sculpted with four arms, bearing a fire, a horn, a drum, and a trident, respectively. A garland of skulls was strung about the deity’s neck. “They say that over 200,000 tons of rock were cut away from the hillside to shape this temple and its surrounding walls. Can you imagine the dedication, the commitment, required to undertake such a feat?”
Khan got the distinct impression that Strigoi was stalling. Eyeing the man suspiciously, keeping him caught in the glare of his flashlight, Khan noticed that the Russian seemed to be fumbling with something in the left pocket of his heavy greatcoat. A weapon? he speculated. Or perhaps a computer disk bearing the data I seek?
He did not wait for the overly discursive Russian to get around to the business at hand. Moving with the speed and ferocity of a Bengal tiger, Khan shoved Strigoi against the nearest column, then held the man in place with a single hand around his throat while handing over his flashlight to Joaquin so that his other hand was freed to search the man’s pocket. The Russian’s neck felt so dry and brittle that Khan had to make an effort not to crush it by squeezing too hard. “Enough delays,” he snarled at his prisoner. His fingers closed on a small plastic object in the pocket of the coat. “Let us see what you have here.”