by Greg Cox
Its propeller blades spinning almost silently, the ’copter lifted off the tarmac. Shannon took one last look at Area 51, her home away from home for over a decade, then contemplated the silver pen—and the job offer Roberta (a.k.a. “Helen Swanson”) had made to her the night of the blast-off.
[406] Did she really want to join Roberta’s mysterious organization? Now that she had said good-bye to NASA for good, she had literally no idea what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. Maybe she ought to take the older woman up on her offer? As long as she had the pen, she knew, she could always contact Roberta.
No, she realized, coming to a decision all at once, with surprising certainty. That’s not going to happen. She glanced back ruefully, unable to even see the top-secret desert base anymore. Being a double agent had cost her far too much already.
Feeling completely confident about the choice she had just made, if about nothing else, she tossed the silver pen out the window of the helicopter. “Excuse me, miss,” the pilot asked her, looking more perplexed than upset. “What was that?”
Shannon shrugged, brushing back a strand of her auburn hair. “Nothing I’m going to need anymore.”
A new millennium, it occurred to her, was only four or five years away, depending on how picky you were about the math. Maybe by then, she thought hopefully, I’ll have found a new life for myself.
And a new dream to pursue.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ISLE OF ARRAN
FEBRUARY 2, 1996
“YOU REALIZE, OF COURSE,” Roberta said, “that we’ve unleashed Khan on the rest of the universe?”
“The universe has survived worse than Khan,” Gary Seven observed. “Earth might not have been so lucky.”
True enough, she conceded. In her heart, she knew that they had handled the Khan crisis the best way they could, except for what had happened to Isis, that is. At times, though, she couldn’t help wondering what Khan would be up to once he finally woke up, a hundred-plus years from now. If nothing else, it gave her something to think about besides what was just about to take place.
Gary Seven stood in front of the open transporter vault, his bags packed. Sunlight peeked through a window in the farmhouse’s venerable stone walls, offering her a glimpse of violet hills and clear blue skies beyond.
“So you’re really going?” Roberta felt herself [408] getting misty-eyed already, and she reached for a box of Kleenex atop Seven’s—scratch that, her—oak desk.
Seven nodded. “It’s time,” he told her gently. He wore a simple black bodysuit that Roberta assumed was in fashion back on a certain cloaked planet light-years away. “My aging musculature would prefer a lower-gravity environment, and, to be honest, a change will help me get over the pain of Isis’s death.” A bittersweet tone crept into his voice as he mentioned his once-constant companion. “Besides, I know Earth’s future will be in good hands, Supervisor 368.”
Roberta would have blushed if she hadn’t been too busy being weepy. “Thanks,” she replied, still mildly flabbergasted by the promotion. She wiped her eyes, hoping to avoid crying over her favorite downy blue pullover. “But how am I supposed to police this entire planet by myself?”
A cryptic smile appeared on Seven’s crinkly face. “Arrangements have been made,” he assured her. “In fact, I believe that’s being taken care of right now.”
As if on cue, the transporter controls on the inside of the heavy vault door started flashing and beeping. A cloud of glowing blue plasma materialized within the vault, rapidly filling the entire cavity.
What the heck? Roberta wondered, her gaping eyes struggling to penetrate the swirling azure fog. Seven didn’t tell me we were expecting company.
At first, she couldn’t spy anyone in the mist, then she realized that she was looking too high up, as their unexpected visitor came padding out of the vault on all fours. A fluffy orange Persian cat, with yellow eyes and an adorable pushed-in face, stepped onto the carpet and meowed hello.
[409] “Roberta Lincoln, meet Ramses,” Seven said by way of introduction. “He’s your new partner.”
“He?” She gave the long-haired feline a careful once-over.
“Yes,” Seven answered dryly. “As a matter of fact, Ramses is a tomcat.”
Roberta arched her eyebrow. This could be interesting, she thought.
First, however, there were some difficult good-byes to get through. Roberta got up from behind the desk and, being careful not to trod upon Ramses, gave Seven a heartfelt hug. “Don’t be a stranger,” she urged him. “Remember, I’m always a subspace call away.”
“Good to know,” he answered warmly, putting down his luggage long enough to hug her back. “And who knows? I may find reason to brave Earth’s gravity again, whether there’s a brewing interstellar emergency or not.” Letting go of her at last, he stepped back so he could look her squarely in the eyes. “In any event, I want you to know just how proud I am of everything we’ve accomplished together over the years. You’re living proof that the human race is worth preserving—and that you don’t need genetic engineering or selective breeding to produce a superior human being.”
On that note, he picked up his bags and, smiling back at her over his shoulder, stepped into the same roiling blue plasma that had disgorged Ramses, which suggested, if you thought about it, that he might be going exactly where the apricot-colored Persian had just come from.
Or not.
Roberta watched his familiar figure disappear into [410] the mist, then kept on watching until the fog itself had entirely evanesced, leaving her alone in the antique stone farmhouse with her brand-new feline companion. “I don’t know about you, buster,” she said, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a tissue, “but I still think we need some new blood. After all, who’s going to do all the running around I used to do?”
Roberta still had her hopes regarding Shannon O’Donnell, but was starting to doubt whether that was going to happen. After all she’s been through, the older woman thought, having discreetly checked on Shannon’s situation in the weeks since the great spaceship heist, I can’t blame her if she doesn’t want to get any deeper into the extraterrestrial spy biz.
That still left Roberta, though, with the problem of finding a qualified new operative. What am I supposed to do? she asked herself rhetorically. Take out an ad in the Village Voice?
A knock at the front door of the farmhouse took Roberta by surprise. Hastily closing the transporter vault, and hiding it behind an authentic-looking cedar armoire, she scurried down the stairs to the foyer, with Ramses hopping down the creaking wooden steps behind her. “Hang on!” she called out to the increasingly insistent knocker. “I’m coming!”
She undid the latch and tugged open the door. There upon her threshold, caught in mid-knock, was a slim, dark-haired, young woman who Roberta had never seen before. The stranger, who looked to be in her mid-twenties, wore a striped woolen sweater and an excited expression. Vibrant brown eyes peered at Roberta from beneath a pair of unusually animated eyebrows.
[411] “Oh, thank goodness someone’s home!” she said breathlessly, her raspy voice carrying a trace of a New York accent. “Listen, please don’t think I’m crazy, but I’ve got to talk to you!” She stuck her foot in the door just in case Roberta felt like slamming it in her face. “My name is Rain Robinson, and I’m with SETI—you know, the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence? Anyway, I was manning the radio telescope at Griffith Observatory a couple weeks ago, when I spotted some sort of bizarre spacecraft, like nothing I’ve ever seen before, in orbit above the Earth! Now, officially, according to NASA and all, there was nothing up there, but I tracked it for hours—and then I detected a strange kind of concentrated energy burst, sort of like a cross between a laser beam and a radio wave, zapping from the ship to the Earth. And you want to know where that beam ended up?” she asked Roberta exuberantly, answering her own question before the older woman even had a chance to respond.
“According to my calculations,
right here! This island, this house, right in the middle of nowhere, no offense.” Dangly white earrings rocked back and forth as Rain practically bounced up and down on Roberta’s doorstep. “So, you want to explain to me why an advanced spacecraft of unknown origin is beaming down some sort of transmission to a quaint little cottage on an island that’s primarily inhabited, as far as I can tell, by loads of freakin’ sheep?”
Finally running out of breath, she looked expectantly at Roberta, who didn’t know whether to be appalled or impressed. Clearly, the eager young astronomer had spied the Botany Bay during its brief [412] stay in orbit. What’s worse, she had even picked up on Roberta and Seven transporting home right before the hijacked sleeper ship took off for parts unknown.
Pretty good detective work, Roberta admitted, admiring Robinson’s obvious spirit and initiative. In some ways, Rain reminded her of another excitable young woman, a wide-eyed hippie chick who had once found a job as a secretary for a small New York firm specializing in encyclopedia research. ...
“So,” she asked Rain right back, “you interested in saving the world?”
EPILOGUE
Captain’s log, stardate 7004.2.
The Klingons have departed, for now. With the Paragon Colony’s force field and protective dome repaired, the immediate crisis appears to have passed, with the only casualty being the Columbus-2, which did not survive its prolonged encounter with the planet’s deadly atmosphere. Thankfully, Lieutenant Lerner and I managed to avoid the shuttle’s fate by successfully beaming into the colony through the temporary gap in its force field.
Still, my original mission remains: should I recommend Sycorax for membership in the Federation, despite or because of its expertise at human genetic engineering? As I conclude my historical survey of the Eugenics Wars, I confess that my mind is far from certain on the matter. ...
KIRK CLICKED OFF THE COMPUTER TERMINAL that the colony had thoughtfully provided him with, [414] finished at last with the comprehensive data files he had brought with him from the Enterprise. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. Thanks to a shower and a clean uniform, he was none the worse for wear after his harrowing shuttle flight earlier that day, although he was aware that things could have easily turned out very differently.
“Well?” McCoy asked him. “Made up your mind yet?”
The doctor sat in a comfy easy chair in the northwest corner of the Paragon Colony’s deluxe VIP suite. Varnished walnut panels adorned the walls, while the bioluminescent ceiling, another product of applied genengineering, provided more than adequate lighting. Hardwood floors and oak furnishings, along with the ivory switches and knobs, also displayed the colonists’ preference for organic materials.
A dog-eared medical journal rested upon the lap of the Enterprise’s chief medical officer, who had graciously volunteered to sit up with Kirk while the captain prepared for his final meeting with Masako Clarke and her advisors tomorrow morning. Lieutenant Lerner, exhausted from his trials aboard the Columbus-2, had already turned in for the evening. Kirk momentarily envied the young security officer, who was not responsible for deciding the future of an entire colony—and perhaps the Federation itself.
“I just don’t know, Bones,” he admitted. “Khan’s infamous career, not to mention our own nearly-fatal run-in with him, make a strong argument against genetic supermen.” A phantom pain tweaked his lungs as he remembered how Khan had tortured him in the Enterprise’s own medical decompression chamber. [415] “But what about Gary Seven, who stands as a compelling example of an enhanced human being who accomplished a great deal of good? And is it fair to punish the Paragon colonists for the sins of a previous generation of superhumans?”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to take these folks entirely off the hook,” McCoy observed candidly. “True, they’re not the monster Khan was, but they’ve got a bit of the same attitude when it comes to us lowly, inferior human beings. You and I have both felt it. Who’s to say they wouldn’t get even more overbearing, and perhaps even dangerous, once they’re accepted into the Federation?”
A scary thought, Kirk conceded, even while continuing to play devil’s advocate. “I’m reluctant to condemn an entire people just because they’re a trifle high-handed. I seem to recall that our not-so-distant ancestors originally found the Vulcans a bit condescending and aloof.” A smile crossed his lips as he recalled some of the more amusing anecdotes he’d heard about Jonathan Archer’s early dealings with the Vulcans. “But today human-Vulcan relations have never been stronger.”
His light tone evaporated as his thoughts turned back toward the Eugenics Wars. “The question is: what made Khan a monster, his DNA or his times? Remember, Khan was a product of both genetic engineering and twentieth-century barbarism. That was three hundred years ago. Perhaps our civilization has evolved to the point where we can absorb this sort of superhumans into our society, without all the wrenching turmoil Earth went through in the 1990s?”
“Well, you know what I think,” McCoy [416] commented, never reluctant to express his opinion. “I’m all for responsible gene therapy when it comes to preventing and curing hereditary illnesses and mutations, but tampering with the very stuff that makes us human?” He shook his head uneasily. “Three hundred years or not, I don’t believe we’re ready for that kind of power, Jim.”
Kirk knew exactly how he felt, but there were also other issues to consider. “What about the Klingons?” he asked. “We know that the Klingon Empire most definitely does not want the Paragon Colony to join the Federation, but is that a good enough reason to overturn a centuries-old ban on human genetic engineering?”
McCoy shrugged. “I’m a doctor, not a defense minister. The whole thing still makes me leery, no matter what the Klingons or the Romulans may be up to.” An unintended yawn, escaped his lips. “Sorry about that,” he apologized. “It’s been a long day.”
Kirk glanced at the coral-and-ivory timepiece mounted on the wall; it was almost 11:05, local time. “You might as well get some sleep, Bones,” he urged the doctor. “I suspect I’m going to be burning the midnight oil on this one.”
“Well, far be it from me to ignore sound medical advice,” McCoy said, rising slowly from the sea-sponge padding of the easy chair. He passed by Kirk’s borrowed work station on the way to his own guest quarters. “Do yourself a favor, Jim,” he offered as one last bit of doctorly wisdom. “Don’t let this eat you up inside. You’ve already saved the universe from Khan once. You don’t have to do it again.”
Let’s hope not, Kirk thought sincerely.
[417] A pregnant silence fell over the suite after McCoy exited the room, as Kirk wrestled with the thorny issues presented by the Paragon Colony and its inhabitants. Masako Clarke was expecting his answer in the morning, knowing that whatever Kirk recommended would likely determine the Federation’s policy toward the colony.
He paced across the polished teak floors. Tomorrow Spock would send down a fresh shuttle to pick up Kirk and the rest of the landing party. Kirk wanted to leave Sycorax knowing that he had made the right decision. Was it possible to condone human genetic engineering without risking another round of Eugenics Wars?
“Dr. McCoy is quite right, you know,” a surprising voice interrupted his thoughts. Kirk reached for his phaser, resting on a carved wooden end table next to the couch, before he recognized the stranger stepping through the open doorway to the adjacent bedroom.
Gary Seven looked much older than Kirk remembered, more like he was depicted in the latter sections of the historical files Kirk had just been reviewing. Considering that those events took place almost three centuries ago, the silver-haired gentleman intruding on Kirk’s privacy struck the captain as remarkably well-preserved.
“Mr. Seven,” Kirk acknowledged, lowering his phaser. Although he and Seven had certainly had their differences in the past, mostly regarding Seven’s inherent disregard for the Prime Directive, especially where primitive Earth was concerned, Kirk no longer regarded the a
lien operative as a threat. “To what do [418] I owe the privilege of this unexpected visitation, time travel or extreme longevity?”
“A little bit of both, Captain,” Seven said cryptically. He was wearing, Kirk noted, a dark gray suit of twenty-third century design, such as a particularly colorless Federation bureaucrat might don. Moving easily under his own power, the older man approached the chair McCoy had vacated not long before. “Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked.
“By all means,” Kirk responded, finding Seven’s geriatric state oddly unnerving. He was used to thinking of himself and Seven as being roughly the same age, albeit three hundred years apart. “I was just reading about some of your experiences during the Eugenics Wars,” Kirk commented. “My condolences regarding your cat.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Seven said, settling into the easy chair. “That was. some time ago, objectively and subjectively.”
Kirk felt a headache coming on, so he made an effort to overlook any and all temporal paradoxes for the time being. “I take it this visit is no coincidence.”
“Hardly, Captain.” Seven looked over at Kirk with a concerned expression. “I am aware of Sycorax’s petition to join the Federation, with all its troubling implications, and thought that you might welcome another perspective on the subject, from someone who lived through the worst of the Eugenics Wars.”
Kirk’s pride was briefly wounded by the suggestion that he might benefit from the other man’s advice, but he swiftly overcame his irritation, recognizing that it could hardly hurt to hear what Seven had to say. Spock, he reflected, would no doubt encourage me to [419] keep an open mind—and take advantage of all available resources.