STAR TREK: TOS - The Eugenics Wars, Volume One

by Greg Cox

  “No!” Noon blurted. He held his dagger at his side, unwilling to sheathe his knife despite its failure to inflict any lasting harm on Evergreen. “This is a trick! It’s not possible.”

  “Yes, it is,” Seven corrected him brusquely, “and put away that barbaric weapon right now.” He returned his attention to Evergreen, who now regarded Seven with open curiosity and respect. “If I may ask, Doctor, exactly how old are you?”

  Evergreen shrugged, apparently seeing no point in further pretense. “I was born in Mesopotamia over six thousand years ago,” he divulged, “and have survived much more than your young accomplice’s knack for knife-throwing. I’ve lived many lives, as Solomon, Alexander, Methuselah, and others. Believe me, the unmoving sun above us [303] would be setting before I finished listing all my past identities and accomplishments.” He chuckled dryly. “Consider yourselves privileged, gentlemen. You’re in the presence of living history.”

  So it seems, Seven reflected. The only other possible explanation, that Evergreen was some manner of extraterrestrial entity, was even less probable; Seven tried hard to keep track of any alien visitations to this era (although the Q had occasionally been known to slip beneath his radar). The shattered remnants of the ageless scientist’s highly unusual pocket calculator caught Seven’s eye and he nudged the broken bits of plastic with the toe of his boot. “For a man immune to mortal injury, you come surprisingly well armed.”

  Evergreen snorted acerbically. “One does not live through six millennia of human history, much of it bloody, without learning to be prepared to defend oneself at all times. Paranoia, I fear, is a natural consequence of long acquaintance with mankind.” He sighed at the mess Noon had made of his ingeniously concealed taser weapon. “Besides, I’m an inveterate tinkerer. Well, at least since the Renaissance.”

  Seven wondered what else the man now known as Evergreen might have invented over the last sixty centuries. “I wish I had more time to inquire as to your personal history, Dr. Evergreen. As one deeply concerned with the future of humanity, I would value your perspective on the past.” Despite his and Roberta’s occasional forays into time travel, there was still much of Earth’s tumultuous history that defied reason and comprehension. “Nevertheless, I must return to the matter at hand.” Stern gray eyes surveyed the computers and control panels lining the walls around them. “I confess that I am puzzled to find you, with all your accumulated experience, engaged in such a reckless endeavor. If nothing else, surely you are aware that military activities in Antarctica are expressly forbidden by international treaty?”

  “Military?” Offended by the very suggestion, Evergreen turned away from Seven to contemplate a control panel composed of numerous switches, buttons, and gauges. “To the contrary, sir, my work here is expressly designed to rescue mankind from its own foolhardiness. Rampant abuse of CFCs, in aerosol sprays and such, is literally eating away at Earth’s protective ozone layer; in fact, close to three percent [304] of the world’s ozone has disappeared in the last five years alone. If nothing is done, the increased ultraviolet radiation will drastically increase skin-cancer rates, kill the vital phytoplanktons at the base of the marine food chain, and even accelerate global warming.”

  Seven appreciated the scientist’s foresight and concern, but had little time to listen to lectures on rudimentary atmospheric maintenance. “I am fully aware of the ‘greenhouse effect’ and its implications, Doctor. I am concerned that your cure may be just as dangerous as the crisis you hope to avert.”

  “Nonsense,” Evergreen asserted testily. “My solution is elegance itself.” He gestured at the generous array of computers and apparatus surrounding them. “By manipulating Earth’s own magnetic field, via a geostationary satellite secretly launched into orbit by the space shuttle Discovery, I hope to use the Van Allen radiation belt surrounding the planet to convert free oxygen into ozone, thus repairing the damage done to our atmosphere.” He glanced upward, beyond the ceiling. “If I can close the hole directly above us, as I have every reason to believe I can, then humanity will have the means to undo the hurt done by our chemical carelessness.”

  “All very well and good, Doctor,” Seven conceded, “but let me ask you this: Couldn’t the same technology be used to create holes in the ozone layer, say above an enemy nation?”

  Evergreen scratched his chin, looking disturbed by the suggestion. “It’s possible, I suppose, but surely no one in their right mind would. ...” His voice trailed off as the dire implications of such a scenario sank in.

  “Would what, Dr. Evergreen?” Seven asked, pressing his point home. “Want to inflict an ecological catastrophe—including pandemic cancer, blindness, famine, et cetera—upon another country? Or, at the very least, desire the ability to threaten as much?” He subjected the immortal scientist to a penetrating stare. “After six thousand years, you must be aware of the human capacity for warfare—through every means possible.”

  “But that’s not what this experiment is all about!” Evergreen protested, more than a little defensively. “Why, our funding comes [305] straight from the Environmental Protection Agency and the National Institute of Science. We have nothing to do with the Pentagon.” He glanced over at the slumbering soldier. “Well, aside from a reasonable need for security, that is.”

  Seven could tell that, despite the scientist’s very vocal objections, he was getting through to Evergreen. Too bad I can’t tell him what ozone-depleting weapons did to the Vyyoxi homeworld, he reflected somberly, or how the Zakpro managed to completely wreck their environment. Stratospheric warfare had proved disastrous on every planet where it had been pursued, so Seven had no intention of letting humanity head down that road, not if it could possibly be avoided.

  “I’m afraid I have to disillusion you further, Doctor.” Seven retrieved a floppy disk from one of the inner pockets of his insulated nylon vest and handed it to Evergreen. “As you can see, not only does the majority of your funding come, albeit indirectly, from the United States Defense Department, but military applications of your technology are already being developed and analyzed by top Pentagon strategists.”

  Looking more and more unhappy, Evergreen inserted the disk into a nearby PC and began scrolling through the documents displayed on the monitor. His expression darkened as he skimmed the various classified reports and memos Seven had, with varying degrees of difficulty, extracted from the shadowy recesses of the military-industrial complex. “Those bastards,” Evergreen muttered angrily, the phosphor glow of the screen casting mauve shadows upon his remarkably well preserved face. “Those lying, two-faced—”

  His heartfelt stream of invective ended with an ancient Mesopotamian obscenity. Or so Seven assumed; his briefing on Terran cultures and history, although extensive, was not quite that comprehensive.

  Finally, after several minutes, Evergreen looked up from the monitor. “I don’t suppose,” he said morosely, “that there’s any possibility these are masterfully done forgeries?”

  Seven shook his head. “If necessary, I can provide you with additional evidence regarding the provenance of these documents, but I [306] trust that won’t be necessary. You strike me as perceptive enough to recognize the truth when you see it, no matter how distressing.”

  “You want proof?” Noon said, intruding into the discussion. He pointed the tip of his dagger, whose blade still glistened redly, at the insensate guard. “Let me wake him up. I can get the truth from him.”

  A cruel glint in his dark eyes left no doubt as to his intentions, much to Seven’s dismay. Now the youth wanted to beat or torture a helpless prisoner for information? Seven wasn’t sure what horrified him most: Noon’s unfeeling ruthlessness, or his own failure to spot this aspect of his protégé’s character earlier on. Is this something he inherited from his Machiavellian mother, Seven wondered mournfully, or a response to nearly being burned alive a few months ago?

  If the former, then perhaps Sarina Kaur was having the last laugh after all, with her son’s callousness
proving a disheartening testament to the power of genetics. A deadly arrogance, it seemed, was coded into his very DNA.

  Evergreen forestalled Noon’s brutal intentions before Seven had a chance to reprimand the Indian youth. “That won’t be necessary, young man,” the ageless scientist said, his voice suffused with resignation along with profound regret. His head drooped in front of the PC, his fingers massaging his brow as he cradled his skull upon his hands. “How could I have been so naive?” he asked himself accusingly. “I suppose I wanted to think that mankind had advanced beyond such things, that we were truly on the verge of a more peaceful, more enlightened era.”

  “Soon,” Seven assured him, “but not right away.” He looked askance at the high-tech hardware filling the metal hut. “And weapons like this will only postpone, perhaps for centuries, the fulfillment of humanity’s bright promise.”

  Evergreen shrugged fatalistically. “Well, I’ve waited six millennia for utopia; I suppose I can wait a while longer.” He rose slowly from his seat before the PC, suddenly seeming to feel the full weight of his myriad years and identities. A melancholy tone entered his voice. “The longer I live, though, the more I sometimes want to withdraw [307] from history altogether, sequester myself away on some remote island or planetoid, far away from the ceaseless Sturm und Drang of mortal men and women.” He chuckled bleakly. “I suppose, after all I’ve seen and experienced, that it’s something of a miracle that I haven’t completely transformed into some flinty old misanthrope.”

  Seven sympathized with the immortal’s acute disappointment. If I sometimes grow impatient with the twentieth century’s unsteady trek toward a new millennium, he reflected, how much more world-weary must be someone who has suffered through humanity’s growing pains since the very beginning? “Believe it or not, Dr. Evergreen, I have faith in the human race to evolve into a species—and a society—embodying their highest aspirations.”

  Stepping past Evergreen, he reclaimed the incriminating floppy disk and deleted the data from the scientist’s PC. “But society is not ready for this technology, I’m sorry.”

  “I am as well,” Evergreen said. “After I’ve repaired the hole above us, I will destroy all my files and fake my own death once again.” He sighed gloomily, sounding more bored than dismayed at the prospect. “Lord knows I’ve ‘died’ enough times already. At this point, I have it down to an art.”

  “So I imagine,” Seven stated, wondering how many different lifetimes and identities the immortal had lived through. No wonder I couldn’t pinpoint his origins. “Before you act to close the gap in the ozone layer, however, consider: “Wouldn’t it be wiser to leave the hole as it is, as a warning to humanity?”

  “What?” Evergreen exclaimed, startled by Seven’s suggestion. He stared at Seven in disbelief. “You can’t be serious!”

  “I am seldom otherwise,” Seven insisted. Clearly, Evergreen required more persuasion. “The other problem with your technique, Doctor, besides its potential military applications, is that it provides the people of the world with little incentive to modify their environmentally careless behavior. You’re offering the world a technological quick fix—a convenient Band-Aid of sorts—when what is really needed is a deeper, global awareness of the long-term impact of chemical pollution.”

  [308] Reluctantly, Evergreen digested Seven’s arguments. “I see your point; the hole would certainly serve as a cautionary example, should its existence become widely known.” He grimaced, as though his admission had left a bad taste in his mouth. “I hate the idea, though, of leaving the sky so injured when it’s within my ability to heal the wound.”

  “But repairing the hole would also prove, beyond any shadow of doubt, the efficacy of your technology,” Seven pointed out, “which would almost surely spur an all-out effort, on behalf of your sponsors in the Defense Department, to re-create your work.” He crumpled the floppy disk within his fist, then deliberately tore the primitive storage mechanism in half. “Better that your theories remain untested, at least as far as the world is concerned.”

  “You’ve thought this all out, haven’t you?” Evergreen didn’t bother to conceal the resentment in his voice. “What would you do if I decided not to go along with this scenario?” He looked suspiciously at the knife-wielding young Sikh standing nearby. “Is that what he’s here for?”

  “Assassination is not my business,” Seven assured the aggrieved scientist, who was certainly entitled to some hard feelings, given that Seven was forcing him to abandon the work of many years. “Had you not cooperated, I would have taken control of your apparatus to create a massive electronic pulse that would have temporarily disrupted electronic equipment throughout this entire continent, thus alerting every other scientific outpost in Antarctica to your unsanctioned experiments here. I would have also used this command center to order the satellite above us to self-destruct, thus putting you months, if not years, behind your original schedule.”

  Evergreen flinched at the prospect of destroying his specialized satellite, but Seven continued to outline his backup plan, if only to convince the skeptical genius of just how committed he was to his goal of calling off this perilous scientific endeavor. “With luck, the resulting international outcry would cause this entire project to be shut down indefinitely. Or, at the very least, I would have bought myself—and the world—time enough to pursue other means of defusing the threat posed by your discoveries.”

  [309] Evergreen gaped at Seven, nonplussed. “Who are you anyway?” he asked with more amazement that the jaded immortal was probably accustomed to feeling. “Where did you come from?”

  “That’s a conversation for another day,” Seven answered. Kneeling to search through the deep pockets of his discarded parka, he produced a handful of miniaturized explosive charges. “The point is that I would much rather secure your own assistance in this manner, rather than provoke an international incident. But we need to move quickly, before your tranquilized colleagues and guardians can interfere.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Evergreen said, frowning. He looked wistfully around the south polar laboratory, knowing that he would never see this place again. Or not for a century or two, Seven corrected himself. Perhaps someday, when civilization was ready, the undying genius could return to Antarctica to finish his experiment.

  Seven wanted to think so.

  Less than forty-five minutes later, the three men watched from the safety of a snow-covered ridge as the metal hut containing Evergreen’s one-of-a-kind apparatus imploded before their eyes, turning into a smoldering, smoking pit at the center of the top-secret outpost. Seven had carefully rigged his explosive charges to keep the destructive force of the detonation confined within the perimeter of the now-empty laboratory, thus preserving the rest of the buildings to serve as shelter for base’s personnel.

  Mission accomplished, Seven thought, an icy wind carrying the smell of burning circuitry and insulation across the frozen barrens, despite too many unpleasant surprises. Their departure had been delayed only by Seven’s insistence on personally transporting the tranquilized guard to a safer location within the base; after Noon’s murderous attack on Evergreen, Seven was not about to delegate care of another hostage to the merciless young superman. Only an impossible stroke of luck, he realized, had kept this mission from resulting in a needless death. I can hardly count on Noon’s next victim to be unkillable as well.

  Sullen and silent, Noon stood in the snow a few yards away, pointedly keeping his distance from the two older men. The youth’s pride [310] was still smarting, apparently, from Seven’s reprimands earlier. He had paid careful attention, however, to Seven’s placement of the plastic explosives, something that his would-be mentor found more than a little troubling.

  But now was not the time to fret about Noon’s apparent aptitude for sabotage and warfare, not out in the open in subzero temperatures. “How many other copies of your research and designs exist?” Seven asked Evergreen, shouting over the wintry Antarctic gusts.
Somewhere above them, he knew, a one-of-a-kind satellite had already plunged toward Earth, burning up in reentry. Evergreen himself had sent the self-destruct command to his orbiting panacea, only minutes before they had fled the sabotaged control room.

  “Just the master copy, in my office in Los Alamos.” Evergreen rubbed his gloved hands together vigorously, struggling to keep warm. “Like I’ve said, I’ve gotten paranoid in my own[2] age. Over the years, too many greedy people have stolen the credit for my discoveries and inventions—don’t get me started about Edison. These days, nobody sees my work until I’m good and ready to unveil it myself.”

  “Good,” Seven acknowledged. That made containing the knowledge much easier. “We can get you to New Mexico before news of this incident reaches America, and long before anyone realizes you survived the explosion. After that, I’m more than willing to lend you whatever assistance you need to set up a new identity elsewhere.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Evergreen stated. “I’ve already made all the necessary arrangements to start over again.” He ruefully contemplated the cremated remains of one lifetime’s work. “I just didn’t think I’d be doing so quite so soon.”

  On that somber note, Seven proceeded to transport all three men out of the cold. Ordinarily, he went out of his way to avoid using matter transmission in front of civilians, but Da Vinci Base’s remote location had left him very little choice. He felt he could trust Evergreen, however; the ageless scientist had too many secrets of his own to risk exposing Seven’s. We make an unusual trio, he reflected, as the luminous blue mist enveloped them. An immortal, a genetically engineered superman, and an enhanced human raised on another world. Who would have [311] ever thought that twentieth-century Earth could yield such unlikely allies?

  What a shame, Seven thought, that Noon proved so dangerous and unreliable. He’d had the potential to become an excellent agent, maybe even a planetary supervisor someday. Was there any way to salvage the youth’s tremendous promise—or were all his extraordinary gifts doomed to go to waste?