STAR TREK: TOS - The Eugenics Wars, Volume Two

by Greg Cox

  “Up,” he grunted, easily pulling her back onto her feet with just one hand. Roberta felt like a side of beef hanging on a grumpy, unfeeling meat hook.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered, milking the moment for all it was worth. “I guess I’m still a little woozy from that high-voltage hello your boss arranged for me.”

  A few feet away, the airlock door swung open, disgorging a statuesque Indian woman in a stained white lab coat. Clearly surprised by what she saw, the woman stared at Joaquin and his blond-haired captive with a baffled look on her face. She protectively clutched a three-inch floppy disk to her chest. “What is this?” she murmured. “Who—?”

  [47] “An intruder,” Joaquin explained gruffly, while Roberta compared the woman’s well-made features to the photos in her own memory. Their eyes briefly met, and a shudder ran through Roberta as she saw the horizontal black lines bisecting both of the woman’s dark eyes. The inky streaks across her corneas were, Roberta knew, twin legacies of the disastrous chemical disaster in Bhopal, India, many years ago, created when the other woman had squinted to see her way through the clouds of poisonous gas. Seven and Khan were both at Bhopal, Roberta recalled, although they had managed to avoid being scarred in this manner. Numerous survivors, however, had been permanently marked, including one of the Chrysalis children.

  There could be no doubt: This was Dr. Phoolan Dhasal, a Nobel Prize-winning biochemist, who, like Khan, was also a product of Sarina Kaur’s illicit experiments back in the seventies. Roberta was familiar with Dhasal’s work, having once forced herself to wade through the precocious Ph.D.’s groundbreaking paper on the introduction of transgenic exons during late-stage RNA processing. Dhasal had also been one of the youngest contributors to the Human Genome Project, before mysteriously disappearing several months ago; her presence on Muroroa provided the final proof that Khan was up to hard-core genetic hanky-panky here in the South Seas. I need to report this to Seven, pronto.

  Joaquin did not prolong their chance encounter with Dhasal. Within moments, they had left the entrance to the bio-lab behind, descending even farther into the bowels of Khan’s new outpost. By Roberta’s [48] calculations, they were well beneath the island’s surface, in some sort of sub-sub-basement, far from waving palms and fragrant trade winds.

  They finally stopped in front of a door marked DETENTION. Joaquin placed his sizable palm against a sensor plate mounted beside the door. A thick steel door slid open with a whoosh and they entered a stark white hallway lined on both sides with detention cells, perfect for confining, say, any pushy anti-nuke demonstrators who might have sneaked onto the island during the good old days of atomic testing. Nice of the French to leave these for Khan, she thought somewhat less than sincerely.

  Bulletproof plastic doors, four inches thick and reinforced with thick metal struts, barred the entrance of each cell. Joaquin tugged open the door of the nearest cell and unceremoniously thrust Roberta inside. “Stay,” he ordered redundantly before locking the door back into place. To Roberta’s relief, he did not stay to keep her company, but quickly departed, no doubt anxious to resume his post watching over Khan. Thank my lucky stars, she thought.

  Rubbing her injured shoulder, she took a minute to inspect the latest stop on her Pacific excursion. The accommodations were spartan—a stool, a cot, a toilet—but clean and comfortable as jail cells go. Frankly, she’d been imprisoned in worse places during her two decades-plus as an alien-sponsored secret agent babe. The first Chrysalis, she recalled, had not been equipped with detention facilities at all, so she and Seven had ended up locked in straw-carpeted cages with a menagerie of test animals. This, by contrast, was a definite step up.

  [49] Not that she intended to stay all that long. Pressing her face against the transparent plastic door, she checked out the scene beyond her cell. As far as she could tell, she was currently the only prisoner. (But not the first; to her amusement, she noticed a Greenpeace logo carved into the seat of the wooden stool.) There were no flesh-and-blood guards in sight, either, only security cameras mounted opposite every cell door, where no prisoner could reach them. “Hello! Anybody there?”

  No answer. Welcome to solitary confinement, she thought.

  Roberta languished in the cell for half an hour or so. Time enough, she lamented, for MacPherson and his staff to place Khan’s so-called Morning Star into a low polar orbit, where it could do the most harm. “No use crying over launched satellites,” she muttered, trying to maintain a positive attitude. Gary and I will just have to keep Khan from ever activating the damn thing, one way or another.

  Only because she was listening for them did Roberta hear the stealthy footprints in the corridor outside her cell. A low hum stirred the air and the unblinking red lights atop the security cameras went dead. Moments later, a solitary figure appeared on the other side of the thick plastic door.

  “About time you got here,” Roberta said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PALACE OF THE GREAT KHAN

  CHANDIGARH

  THE PUNJAB, INDIA

  JULY 10, 1992

  “THEY ARE READY FOR YOU, YOUR EXCELLENCY.”

  Khan checked his reflection in the full-length mirror adorning his private dressing room. Eschewing false modesty, he was pleased by what he saw: a virile and commanding figure, fit of body and proud in demeanor. An expertly wrapped white turban sat atop his brow, while his red Nehru jacket was embroidered with threads of genuine gold. A P226 automatic pistol rested in a holster against his hip. Although still in his early twenties, Khan accurately judged that he carried himself with the confidence and style of a true world leader.

  As, indeed, he had been painstakingly created to be.

  “Excellent,” he told Joaquin, turning his back on [51] the mirror. His faithful bodyguard stood by the open doorway leading out of Khan’s personal quarters. A silver chakram, the traditional weapon of a Sikh warrior, adorned the foyer wall, the razor-sharp edges of the steel ring reflecting the light from the dressing room. Khan basked in the halo the shining circlet bestowed upon him. “Let us not keep our distinguished guests waiting.”

  Khan stepped past Joaquin into the marble corridor beyond. He strode briskly past polished limestone walls inlaid with jeweled panels bearing stylized depictions of the sacred double helix at the heart of all heredity. Turquoise, malachite, lapis lazuli, carnelian, jasper and other sparkling gemstones represented the various nucleotides arranged on the twisting strands.

  Stationed every few meters, Khan’s elite guards, composed entirely of genetically engineered specimens of superhumanity, snapped to attention as he approached them. Known as the Exon force, after the crucial two percent of human DNA that actually contains genetic information, they sported metallic silver sashes over their crimson uniforms. “Hail, Khan!” they each trumpeted in succession. Khan acknowledged their tributes with an approving nod, pleased by his soldiers’ unquestioning loyalty and devotion to duty. Someday soon, he mused, all mankind will swear allegiance to my superior will.

  The corridor led to an open courtyard, many meters across, awash in sunshine. It was a glorious day in northern India, the sky as blue as Krishna himself, the air warm and dry, yet not nearly as oppressively hot as the scorching days of summer. A spume of [52] crystal-clear water rose from a lotus-shaped fountain in the center of the courtyard, then came cascading into the pool as churning white foam. A cool wind brought a few refreshing drops of spray against Khan’s upturned face, as though Nature herself was anointing him in recognition of his growing stature and power.

  Armed guards patrolled the high sandstone walls surrounding the fortress, which Khan had modeled, at least aboveground, on Agra’s fabled Red Fort, built by the great emperor Akbar over four centuries ago. The towering, reddish-brown fortifications, over thirty meters tall, enclosed a sprawling complex of pavilions, courtyards, pools, and gardens, yet this was only the tip of the iceberg. The true nerve center of Khan’s growing empire lay beneath the opulent citadel, hidden from the world’s v
iew, not to mention the prying eyes of orbital spy satellites—and whatever other resources Gary Seven might have at his disposal.

  “Khan! Khan!” chanted the guards on the ramparts, as they gained sight of him. Unlike his Exon guards, these soldiers were not superhuman like himself, merely ordinary men who had wisely chosen to entrust their futures to him. Khan’s heart embraced these hapless, imperfect beings, feeling a distinctly magnanimous sense of noblesse oblige toward these men, and all the world’s suffering masses. In the new world he would create, there would be peace and plenty for all.

  “Khan! Khan! Khan!” The full-throated chanting swelled in volume, echoing across the length and width of the fortress as Khan marched beneath the [53] azure heavens, the exultant cries of his followers ringing in his ears. He felt his magnificent destiny upon him, coursing through his veins with every beat of his uniquely powerful heart. Is it not passing brave to be a king, he thought, after Marlowe, and ride in triumph through Persepolis?

  He quickly left the imperial apartments behind him and arrived at his destination: a domed sandstone building whose arched entrance was supported by a pair of imposing stone columns. This was the fortress’s official meeting hall, where Khan now intended to take an important step onto the world stage. A scarlet banner waved proudly from a flagpole atop the roof of the building, bearing the image of a silver crescent moon superimposed upon a bright golden sun. Khan had chosen the emblem personally. The sun and the moon together, symbolizing totality, everything in the world. All that he was fated to rule.

  The exquisite Ament, clad in a purple silk sari, met him beneath the shadow of a festooned archway, then led him around the corners of the building to a less ostentatious back entrance. “All is in readiness, Lord Khan,” she reported calmly. Her kohl-lined amber eyes held no trace of apprehension. “Our guests await your arrival.”

  “Good, good,” Khan said approvingly.

  Her voice is ever soft, gentle, and low, he observed; an excellent thing in a woman. Among her other distinctions, Ament was one of the few women, superhuman or otherwise, who had proven herself capable of declining his amorous advances, for which he admired her all the more. Only the most confident and cool-headed of women could resist a Khan.

  Except, of course, for a certain irritating American [54] blonde, the thought of whom allowed an element of worry to intrude into his consciousness. “What of my dear American friends?” he asked, referring to Gary Seven and his irrepressible handmaiden. Roberta Lincoln’s unexplained escape from her cell on Chrysalis Island remained a frustrating and perplexing mystery; no one had seen her depart, yet Khan had found her cell empty when he had finally come to interrogate her, following the successful launch and deployment of Morning Star. “Is there any sign of their presence?”

  Ament was in charge of internal affairs, including domestic security and intelligence. “Not even a whisper,” she assured him. “The Lincoln woman is reportedly in Bosnia, attempting to prevent that attack on the United Nations peacekeeping force.” A sly smile lifted the corners of her lips. “An excellent distraction, Lord, just as you intended.”

  Khan took a moment to savor the fruits of his own ingenuity. Providing the would-be ambushers—a renegade offshoot of the Serbian militia—with funds and logistical support had required only modest effort on his part, yet it had successfully served to keep his own enemies occupied while he had more pressing matters to attend to.

  “Then all is as it should be,” he concluded. Confident now that neither Roberta nor her aged superior would interfere with today’s agenda, he entered the building, followed by both Ament and Joaquin. The hubbub of many heated conversations reached his ears as he rapidly traversed the small backstage area at the rear of the structure. Khan did not hesitate before striding out into the larger chamber beyond. Stage fright was for lesser mortals.

  [55] A hush fell over the packed auditorium as Khan emerged from behind a velvet curtain. He found himself facing a roomful of high-ranking diplomats and military officers from throughout southern Asia and the rest of the world. Modeled on the General Assembly of the United Nations, albeit on a slightly smaller scale, the meeting hall featured several tiers of seats, accommodating roughly five hundred delegates, many of whom glared at Khan with hostility and suspicion. Engraved placards, fixed to the front of their deluxe leather-covered desks, identified each emissary’s nation of origin: Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, Myanmar, Bhutan, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, Sri Lanka, and so on.

  Scanning the assembled dignitaries, all of whom now waited upon his pleasure, Khan was gratified to see that even the federal government in New Delhi, that stubbornly refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of his reign in northern India, had deigned to send a representative to this conference. Only the so-called governor of Punjab, whose power Khan had already usurped, had chosen to boycott the event. Khan made a mental note to assassinate a state official or two, just to remind the governor who was really in charge in Chandigarh.

  Flanked by Joaquin and Ament, he strode to the podium. “Welcome, honored guests,” he addressed the conclave. “I am Khan Noonien Singh. I trust I require no introduction.” He smiled coldly. “You would not be here if you were not already aware of my influence and ability.”

  A TelePrompTer, positioned conveniently within [56] view, remained blank; Khan’s superior memory required no assistance. “Behold,” he declared, as the heavy velvet curtain behind him drew back to expose an illuminated map of the world. “This is the Earth as we know it, a mere nine years before the dawning of a new millennium. Lamentably, it is a planet still beset by the same grievous ills that have plagued humanity since the beginning of recorded history: war, famine, persecution ...”

  As he spoke, his fingers marched over a smaller, touch-sensitive map installed on the podium. In response, various nations and regions on the larger map changed color, suddenly glowing a vibrant shade of red.

  “... overpopulation, poverty, illiteracy, ethnic cleansing—”

  A blood-red tide seemed to wash across the globe as Khan ticked off the evils of the world. He saw some of the delegates squirm uneasily in their seats as their own respective countries acquired a damning crimson hue. Good, he thought, savoring his visitors’ discomfort. Let them face the truth of their myriad inadequacies.

  “In short, esteemed guests, the world cries out for a savior, for one powerful sword to slice through the Gordian knot of all the Earth’s tangled and intractable woes. I am that sword,” Khan declared in his native Punjabi. Electronic earpieces provided the varied delegates with an all-but-simultaneous translation of his words. He resisted an urge to sneer at the naked human frailty that required such measures; he himself spoke over fourteen languages fluently.

  “Welcome to the capital of the new world order, [57] the Great Khanate that even now spreads beyond the walls of this fortress to embrace and envelop all of long-suffering humanity.” He tapped decisively upon the miniature map before him, and, upon the larger map, the city of Chandigarh switched from red to imperial purple. Another stroke of his finger, and the entire state of Punjab assumed a purple tint. “Although none of your governments have, as yet, officially recognized my regime, my influence already stretches much farther than the borders of my homeland. As I speak to you now, my followers occupy high posts in most of the governments of Asia, granting me effective control over a quarter of the Earth, from South Asia to the Middle East.”

  His fingers tapped out new commands with the staccato rhythm of an automatic rifle. A fresh wave of purple radiated outward from the Punjab, rapidly claiming a sizable percentage of the map. The spreading, plum-colored tide was darkest at Chandigarh, where Khan’s power was most deeply entrenched, and grew somewhat fainter at the periphery of his domain, where flickering violet tendrils threatened the adjacent territories. Khan paused to give his illustrious audience an opportunity to contemplate the transformed map in silence.

  Predictably, it was the delegate from New Del
hi who objected first. “This is absurd,” he pronounced, rising indignantly from his seat. He was a gaunt, ascetic-looking man who had once served as India’s ambassador to the United Nations. “I cannot speak for the rest of the world, Mr. Singh, but the sovereign Republic of India is a democracy, indeed the largest democracy in the world, and I certainly don’t recall [58] voting for you.” Angry mutterings, outbursts, even a few untranslated profanities, seconded the Indian delegate’s sarcastic remarks. “You have no mandate, no legal authority, no diplomatic recognition,” he continued. “In fact, despite your grandiose claims, you are nothing more than a common bandit or gang leader, albeit more egotistical than most.”

  Khan maintained a stern, unmoving expression as he listened to himself being denounced. He had expected a reaction such as this; the old, obsolete ruling powers were bound to squeal like pigs before surrendering their palsied grip on the reins of power. Their impotent bluster matters not at all, he knew with absolute certainty. Destiny and DNA are on my side.

  Casually, almost imperceptibly, he nodded at Joaquin, who nodded back in understanding. Without hesitation, the brawny bodyguard, whom Khan had liberated from an Israeli prison, where the belligerent superman had been serving a life sentence for multiple assaults and homicides, reached for his belt buckle and drew forth the razor-edged throwing knife concealed within the sculpted brass bear’s head. Before any of the outraged delegates even realized what Khan’s unsmiling myrmidon was up to, Joaquin hurled the blade at the Indian delegate with preternatural force and accuracy.

  The knife struck its target between the eyes—in the nasion region, to be precise—and buried itself up to its hilt in the man’s skull. The former ambassador died instantly, before he could utter a sound. The impact knocked him backward, where his lifeless head and shoulders flopped onto the desktop of the delegation directly behind him.