STAR TREK: TOS - The Eugenics Wars, Volume One

by Greg Cox

  Three Klingon soldiers, in full uniform, joined the regent at the front of the delegation. The leader of the Klingons, his hands resting arrogantly upon his hips, smiled coldly at Kirk. Gray eyes held a glint of wicked amusement.

  “Permit me to introduce our other guests,” Clarke stated amicably. “I believe you already know Captain Koloth.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “MY DEAR CAPTAIN KIRK! How delightful to see you again!”

  Koloth greeted his old adversary with mock hospitality. With his arched black eyebrows, widow’s peak, and neatly trimmed goatee, the urbane Klingon commander was arguably even more satanic-looking than Spock. His silver-and-black military uniform glittered beneath the glare of the hangar’s overhead lights. Two lieutenants, whom Kirk thought he recognized from that incident at Deep Space Station K-7, flanked Koloth, glaring at the Starfleet officers with unconcealed hatred and contempt.

  “Captain?” Lerner asked, his hand on his phaser. He sounded ready to give the Klingons a fight if that’s what they wanted. Kirk admired his spirit, but questioned the timing.

  “Stand down, Lieutenant,” he instructed, as his brain raced to catch up with this unexpected (and unwelcome) turn of events. Klingons? On Sycorax? What did this mean? “I must admit,” he said to Koloth, “it’s a ... surprise ... to see you here as well.”

  Masako Clarke stepped between the rival starship captains. Although she maintained a scrupulously neutral demeanor, Kirk could tell that the regent was conscious of the tensions between the two parties. “The Klingon Empire,” she explained, “has also expressed an interest in, well, absorbing our colony into their alliance.”

  “I see,” Kirk said skeptically. He was only too aware that, where the Klingons were concerned, “alliance” was merely a euphemism for out-and-out conquest and tyranny. He suspected that the regent knew [258] this, too. So why invite the Klingons here? he wondered. Unless she had no other choice?

  “We feel it is in the best interests of the Paragon Colony to accept the protection of the Klingon Empire,” Koloth stated in a deceptively agreeable manner. Kirk knew better than to take his peaceful pose at face value.

  “Protection?” he asked, recognizing a veiled threat when he heard one. “Protection from whom, exactly?”

  Koloth flashed Kirk a devilish grin. “The galaxy is full of dangers, as I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Captain.” Lean and lanky by Klingon standards, the enemy commander had always struck Kirk as more of a schemer than a warrior, but Kirk felt certain that Koloth could be lethal if crossed; you couldn’t rise to captain in the Klingon military without getting your hands bloody now and then. “I am here to convince the regent that only the Klingon Empire can truly guarantee her colony’s safety.”

  “Safety, my left foot!” McCoy growled acerbically. “Talk about putting the foxes in charge of the henhouse!”

  “That will be all, Doctor,” Kirk said, shushing McCoy’s overly candid remarks. He agreed with the sentiments, but now was not the time or the place; Kirk wanted to get a better sense of the situation before proceeding to open confrontation. “Remember, we’re guests here.” The Enterprise’s captain eyed Koloth suspiciously. “So what does your empire get, in exchange for your vaunted ‘protection’?” He gave that last word an unmistakably sarcastic spin. “Sycorax is too out-of-the-way to be of strategic value.”

  “Ah, but their scientific expertise far exceeds the value of their remote location!” Koloth observed enthusiastically. “Our intelligence informs us that the geneticists bred here are second to none in their knowledge of advanced genetic-engineering techniques.” He looked the regent and her staff over appraisingly, as though registering their obvious physical perfection. “The Empire would welcome adding their technological expertise to our own.”

  “I’ll bet you would!” McCoy exclaimed, only slightly less acidly than before. “I don’t imagine your leaders would have any qualms about applying genetic engineering to your own people.”

  [259] One of Koloth’s lieutenants, a younger Klingon with a thick head of tangled brown hair, laughed derisively. “Only Earthers would devise a means to create a race of conquerors—then forbid its use!” He sneered at McCoy and the other humans. “Weaklings.”

  Koloth made no effort to curb his subordinate’s intemperate remarks. He merely gestured toward the young Klingon instead. “You remember my second-in-command, Korax?”

  “Yes,” Kirk said dryly. “I believe he once compared me to a Denebian slime devil.” Kirk had not actually been present at the time, but the insult, along with several equally unflattering comparisons, had been dutifully recorded in Scotty’s report on the incident, which had provoked a full-fledged brawl between various members of Kirk’s and Koloth’s crews. Judging from the smirk currently residing on the Klingon’s swarthy face, Korax had not repented of his role in that un-sanctioned free-for-all, nor of his strenuous efforts to slander Kirk. Remind me to thank Scotty for pounding his face in, the captain thought to himself.

  “Ancient history!” Koloth insisted, dismissing the entire episode. “We mustn’t bore our hosts with our dusty old war stories. After all, there’s important diplomatic business to attend to, is there not?”

  “Yes,” Masako Clarke assented. “Of course.” Without being obvious about it, she appeared anxious to get this tense encounter over with. “Naturally, we intend to give the Klingons’ proposal all due consideration, but before taking such a momentous step, it seemed wise to consult the Federation as well, especially since our original gene pool is derived from Earth’s human population.”

  “Human genes, hmmph!” Korax grunted. “Klingon DNA makes Earther seed look like worthless chaff.” The third Klingon soldier, a hulking bald warrior whose face was scarred by an old, untreated disruptor burn, snickered in agreement.

  “Be that as it may,” Clarke stated tactfully, “I would certainly like the opportunity, Captain Kirk, to discuss this matter with you more fully sometime soon. In private.”

  Koloth frowned, but Kirk thought he grasped the bare essentials of the situation. Obviously, Clarke did not feel free to refuse the [260] Klingons’ dubious “protection” outright, yet entertained hopes of joining the Federation instead. The Klingon threat, he guessed, was probably what prompted the Paragon Colony to contact the Federation in the first place.

  “By all means,” he assured the regent. “I’m anxious to sit down with you whenever’s convenient.”

  “As am I,” Koloth insisted. “I’m sure I can be equally as persuasive as the good captain here.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Kirk said boldly. He was about to remind Koloth of just who had come out on top at K-7 when his communicator beeped urgently. A message from Spock, no doubt. “Excuse me,” he apologized, stepping away from Clarke, Koloth, and the rest of the delegation. A deft flick of his wrist lifted the protective lid of the handheld communicator. “Kirk here. What’s happening?”

  Spock wasted no time getting to the point. “A Klingon battle cruiser, class D7, has revealed itself in orbit around Sycorax. Previously, it had hidden from our sensors by keeping the planet between itself and the Enterprise, but apparently the Klingons no longer consider stealth necessary.” Spock’s voice was grave as he conveyed the news to Kirk. “Logic suggests, Captain, that the Klingon Empire has designs upon the Paragon Colony and its unique scientific resources.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Kirk saw Koloth watching him smugly, almost certainly aware of what was transpiring in orbit, hundreds of kilometers overhead. “Tell me about it,” Kirk said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  NAI SARAK BAZAAR

  DELHI, INDIA

  NOVEMBER 1, 1984

  MONSOON SEASON WAS OVER, but another storm was brewing. Fourteen years old, Khan Noonien Singh could feel the tension in the air as he sifted through the used books piled high in one of the many stalls lining the crowded market street. It was only ten in the morning, but the bazaar was already crammed with shoppers,
vendors, beggars, and tourists. Dozens of voices haggled over jewelry, books, fabric, sweetmeats, and other items, competing with the blaring horns of taxis and bicycle-rickshaws as the vehicles inched through swarming crowds and impossibly jammed traffic, belching their exhaust into the smoggy city air. Crippled beggars, baby-clutching young mothers, and impoverished elders pleaded for bread or rupees, while dirty, barefoot children scurried to shine shoes and pick pockets. Banners advertising fantastic bargains were strung over the narrow alley like laundry, above countless signs and billboards, mostly in English. The spicy scent of cardamom, tumeric, and ginger teased Noon’s nostrils. Shrill pop tunes, playing loudly from transistor radios and the doorways of various shops, assailed his ears. Stray dogs and sacred cattle wandered through the litter-strewn street, adding to the crush and congestion.

  All of this was normal enough, routine even, but there was something different about today. Beneath the usual hustle and clamor, [262] Noon sensed darker impulses at work. He heard an edge in the market’s collective voice, and an almost palpable mood of anger and apprehension, building steadily all around him. Even the beggars seemed distracted and worried, targeting the tourists without their customary zeal and histrionics. The owner of the bookstall eyed Noon suspiciously, scowling as the turbaned teenager handled his wares. Perhaps going shopping today was a mistake, Khan thought. Was it just his imagination, or did he really feel the gaze of hostile eyes upon him, prickling the skin at the back of his neck?

  Yesterday, only slightly more than twenty-four hours ago, India’s controversial prime minister, Indira Gandhi, had been assassinated in her garden by her own Sikh bodyguards, who had reportedly filled her body with over thirty bullets. The killing had been in retaliation for Mrs. Gandhi’s military assault on Sikhism’s holiest site, the Golden Temple in Amritsar. Thousands had been killed in the attack, and a library of sacred scriptures incinerated, and Noon feared that the sectarian bloodshed had only begun.

  His friends back at the university, where he was working toward a doctorate in engineering, had cautioned the young prodigy not to leave the campus this morning, given the heated emotions raised by the prime minister’s murder, yet Noon had never been one to let fear determine his actions. Now, however, he began to wonder if his pride had overcome his judgment. He stroked his cheek thoughtfully; although his first beard was just beginning to come in, his sparsely whiskered face, along with his turban and steel wristband, clearly identified him as a Sikh, albeit one barely grown.

  An unexpected odor attracted his attention. Amid the omnipresent reek of spices and smog, was that smoke he smelled? He sniffed cautiously. Yes, something was definitely burning nearby. Had a building caught fire? He looked up and down the busy street, but all he could see was the constant press of bustling humanity. Straining his ears, he heard angry shouts coming from the direction of the smoky aroma, followed by screams and the sound of breaking glass. What’s happening? he wondered with concern, his heartbeat quickening as every nerve ending in his body screamed at the approach of danger. What is burning?

  [263] Without warning, the book merchant snatched a dog-eared history text out of Noon’s hands. “Get out of here, you filthy Sikh,” the man barked at Noon, spittle flying from his lips. His eyes burned with murderous hatred. “Get away from my books!”

  Caught off guard by the ferocity of the vendor’s bile, Noon stepped backward into the street. How dare he speak to me like that? he thought, ire rapidly overtaking surprise. Without meaning to, he jostled a passing pedestrian, who shoved him back roughly. “Watch where you’re going, you murdering dog!” the other man said, then spit at Noon’s feet. “You’ve got your nerve, showing your ugly face today!”

  An angry retort sprang to Noon’s lips, but he held his tongue, suddenly very aware of the wrath-filled eyes that glared at him from every direction. Noon’s hand went instinctively to the silver-plated dagger tucked in his belt. Until today he had only carried the brightly-polished kirpan for tradition’s sake; never before had he needed it for self-defense. He hesitated to draw the blade, though, lest that provoke the mob further. “Leave me alone,” he warned. His adolescent voice cracked, undermining his show of defiance. “I mean you no harm.”

  But it was already too late to avoid violence. The smell of burning timbers grew stronger and Noon glimpsed tendrils of ash and smoke rising above the sales banners festooning the buildings less than a block away. He heard gunshots, and the horror-stricken cries of men and women, as the angry shouting drew nearer. “Blood for blood!” roared many raging voices, sending a shiver down Noon’s spine. Although he had lived a fairly sheltered life since his mother’s death so many years ago, he knew a riot when he heard one. “Death to all Sikhs!”

  The crowd surrounding Noon took up the cry. “Blood for blood!” Women grabbed their children and hurried for safety while their menfolk surged toward the outnumbered teenager. Brahmans and beggars, old men and grinning youths, joined the gang threatening Noon, hurling jeers and obscenities. Very well, he resolved, unsheathing his blade. They will find that I am far more than I appear.

  “Stay back!” he shouted, waving the knife before him to carve out a swath of empty space between him and the mob. His eyes narrowed shrewdly as he waited for his foes to make their move.

  [264] He did not have to wait long. A man charged at Noon from behind, trapping the youth in a crushing bear hug that pinned Noon’s arms to his sides. But the man had not counted on the teen’s enhanced muscle density; Noon effortlessly broke free from the larger man’s clasp, then rammed his elbow into the attacker’s gut. The resulting grunt of pain was music to Noon’s ears, and he savored his easy victory. That will teach these rabble, he thought, to accost a superior being!

  Then a rock struck him soundly in the face, bruising his cheek. “Got him!” someone yelled and the crowd laughed raucously. More missiles followed: rocks, bottles, books, cans, even fist-sized pieces of dung snatched up from the trash-covered street. Jagged stones and broken glass pelted his body, and he staggered upon the pavement, trying to shield his face with his hands. Pain struck from all around, smashing into his back, his shoulders, his ribs. Something wet and sticky leaked from a cut above his eye, and he tasted blood on his lips. “Get him!” the bloodthirsty crowd screamed. “Kill the dirty Sikh!”

  As much as it galled his soul, Noon realized he had to flee for his life. The mob was out of control, and there were simply too many of them to defeat all by himself. A wounded lion can be torn apart by jackals, he thought, rationalizing his retreat as he barreled through the human net surrounding him, tossing grown men aside like bags of flour. His knife gripped between his teeth, he ran headlong through the bazaar, dodging traffic and shrieking tourists. They should have known better than to venture into the streets today, Noon thought, feeling little sympathy for the hysterical sightseers. As should have I.

  As he sprinted, adrenaline fueling his athletic legs, he saw with horror that he was not the only victim of today’s furor. The hate-crazed mob was taking vengeance on every Sikh in sight, while setting fire to any shops or stalls that might conceivably belong to a Sikh. The air was soon thick with smoke and the sickening smell of burning flesh. Racing north up Nai Sarak, he saw a gray-bearded taxi-wallah dragged from his cab, then doused with kerosene and set aflame. Khan wanted to strike back, to defend his innocent kinsmen, but there was nothing that a single youth, even one such as he, could do against the insane [265] conflagration erupting in the streets. Someday, he vowed, choking back tears of rage, I will put an end to such madness.

  But where could he run to now? Old Delhi, as this sector of the city was called, was a maze of narrow alleys and overpopulated markets, but, no matter how swiftly he raced, he could not outrun the riot, which was spreading even faster than the blazing inferno it had spawned. Vengeful fingers grabbed at Noon as he ran, tearing the fabric of his dung-spattered Nehru jacket and unraveling his turban, so that his uncut black hair streamed behind him. Hateful insults and profanities
chased after the fleeing teenager, while rocks and bottles continued to bounce off his bruised back and shoulders. Overturned cars and trucks, flames licking their exposed underbellies, blocked his way, but Noon leaped around and over any obstacles, only to find more mayhem directly in his path. Looters ransacked Sikh businesses and homes, before setting them to the torch.

  I must get away, Noon thought, his lungs laboring to keep up with the extreme demands placed on them by his desperate flight. But where was safety to be found? The university was too far away, in a newer part of town. There was no chance of getting there alive and intact, but he knew he had to find refuge as soon as possible. Even his superhuman strength and stamina had its limits, while the homicidal bloodlust of the crowd appeared boundless. Already the aching muscles in his legs were slowing down.

  Scouring his brain, he recalled a gurudwara, a Sikh temple, on Chandni Chowk, maybe half a dozen blocks away. Would such a site provide sanctuary, he wondered, or merely serve as even greater target for the rioters’ wrath? Possibly the latter, he feared, but there was also a police station on the same street, only a few doors down from the temple. Perhaps the police could provide the gurudwara with some measure of protection, even in the face of total chaos and anarchy?

  It was a slim chance, but the best one that presented itself. He paused momentarily to get his bearings, using his knife to fend off any looters who might want to spill more Sikh blood. “Keep away from me!” he threatened, slashing the air with his blade. His voice, [266] mercifully, did not crack this time. “Leave me alone, or I swear I shall kill you all!”

  Through the smoke and haze, he spotted the gleaming minarets of Jama Masid, the largest mosque in India, rising southwest of where he now stood. That meant Chandni Chowk, the market district’s main thoroughfare, was straight ahead, to the north. So be it, he resolved, his course set. Before he could resume his flight, however, a drenching splash of liquid struck him in the face, soaking his head, hair, and shoulders. The oily fluid stung his eyes, while harsh fumes filled his nostrils. No! he thought, realizing with horror that he had been doused with kerosene.