STAR TREK: TOS - The Eugenics Wars, Volume One

by Greg Cox

  Khan laughed at her desperate bluff. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ms. Lincoln. Seven is in Bulgaria; my spies spotted him there less than twenty minutes ago, along with that remarkably long-lived cat of his.” His gaze shifted to the empty matter-transmission vault. “Still, we are quite prepared should he attempt a sudden return via that quite miraculous device.” He crossed over to the open door of the vault, [384] where he proceeded to physically rip out the switches and knobs controlling the transporter. With just one hand, he tore apart the dense solid-steel plating, exposing the flashing crystalline circuitry beneath. Then he stepped back and fired his gun directly into the naked apparatus. Fiery red sparks flashed as the delicate instrumentality was disrupted by a round of 9mm ammo.

  Roberta’s heart sank. Nobody was ’porting anywhere, she realized, until some serious repairs were made. Guess I’m not getting to Berlin tonight. “Okay, now what?” she asked Khan glumly.

  “Now you remain quietly seated,” he informed her, “while I help myself to some key information that I suspect your sanctimonious employer had no intention of ever sharing with me.” He looked at his looming flunkies, then nodded at the unarmed woman behind the desk. “Watch her,” he ordered curtly, putting away his gun. He turned his back on Roberta and marched over to the Beta 5. The big Arab lumbered around the desk so that he could stand right behind the worried hostage. Meaty hands landed heavily on her shoulders, driving her deeper into the black suede chair.

  “Hey, watch the hands, Bluto!” she protested indignantly, eliciting only a grunt in response. Khan’s other henchman stood, his arms crossed belligerently, in the empty space where the kicked-in door had once stood, blocking the only exit from the office now that the transporter had been disabled. This isn’t good, Roberta thought, taking stock of her increasingly precarious situation. The green cube tantalized her, glinting atop the desk several inches away, not far from the spidery network of cracks radiating from the bullet hole Khan’s automatic had left in the desk’s black obsidian surface. The cube was easily within reach, if only the giant Arab were not watching her like a hawk. So near and yet so hard to get ... !

  Khan faced the Beta 5. He stroked his thick black beard as he inspected the protruding control panel. Roberta found it hard to imagine that he could actually figure out how to operate the alien supercomputer, but, then again, who knew what his genetically engineered intellect was capable of?

  “Computer!” he commanded imperiously. “Cease transmission.”

  [385] Multicolored strips of light blinked above the control shelf. “Voice pattern unknown,” the Beta 5 announced. “Please identify.”

  Roberta experienced a surge of hope. If anything on Earth could stand up to Khan Noonien Singh’s indomitable will, it would be that snooty supercomputer. She still had no idea what exactly Khan wanted from the Beta 5, but she crossed her fingers and prayed that the computer would guard its precious data files like a mother Horta protecting its eggs.

  Khan scowled, not used to being disobeyed, then fished a small electronic patch from his pocket and placed it against his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was a dead-on re-creation of Gary Seven’s somber intonations. Hey, Roberta protested silently, I thought only Seven could do that trick!

  “Computer,” he began again, this time sounding far too much like Seven. “Cease transmission.”

  To Roberta’s chagrin, the deception appeared to work. “Voice pattern acknowledged. Identity confirmed, 194.” A series of electronic beeps accompanied the blinking lights. “Ceasing transmission.”

  CNN disappeared from the monitor, leaving the white circular screen blank. Khan nodded in approval, smiling coldly. “Computer, assemble all data concerning the status and current whereabouts of the genetically modified children conceived in India during the early 1970s. Check references for Chrysalis, Rajasthan ... and Dr. Sarina Kaur.”

  “No!” Roberta blurted loudly, realizing what Khan was up to. He wants to find the other superkids! “Computer, override previous command! Maximum security!”

  The hulking Arab snarled and clamped an immense hand over her mouth. The other Terminator clone stalked toward Roberta angrily, raising his hand as if to strike her across the face. These guys remind me too much of my old sparring partner, Carlos, she decided, wincing in anticipation of the blow.

  “Hold!” Khan barked, fingering the patch at his throat so that he reverted to his own voice for the moment. He waved his hand, and the African enforcer retreated back to the doorway. “There is no need to injure a defenseless woman. Yet.”

  [386] Roberta’s sigh of relief was muffled by the intrusive palm covering the bottom half of her face. Nice to know Khan still has some scruples, she thought, even as she wondered how long his forbearance would last if he didn’t get what he wanted. He’s not getting anything out of me without a fight, she vowed.

  “See to it she remains silent,” Khan added, turning his attention back to the Beta 5. He took a deep breath, preparing himself, then spoke once more in Gary Seven’s voice. “Computer, resume search for data concerning the Chrysalis Project and all surviving offspring engineered during its years of operation.”

  The computer beeped testily. “Unable to comply. All data relating to Chrysalis Project has been classified Highly Confidential. Zeta-level security protocols required to access data.”

  Khan frowned and shot a murderous glance at Roberta, who felt her projected life span shrink accordingly. “Computer,” he insisted firmly. “This is Gary Seven, 194. Disregard prior command by subordinate Roberta Lincoln. Access data immediately.”

  “Prior command irrelevant,” the Beta 5 stated stubbornly, not making things remotely easy for Khan, bless its obstructionist algorithms! “All material relating to Chrysalis was classified Highly Confidential by Supervisor 194 as of Terran date December 4,1984. Zeta-level protocols required.”

  Snarling, Khan clenched his fists in frustration while Roberta savored his apparent defeat. How about that? she thought, impressed by Seven’s obvious foresight. December ’84 ... let’s see, that would have been right after that big blowup in Antarctica—and that horrible disaster in Bhopal. Seven must have locked the Chrysalis files down tight as soon as he realized that Khan was likely to become a problem. Beneath the hand clamped over her face, a sassy grin appeared. For all Khan’s brilliance and Taj Mahal-sized ego, Seven was already way ahead of him!

  But the determined wunderkind refused to give up. Concentrating with fierce intensity upon the Beta 5’s control panel, he began operating the instrument. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed and confidence, his fingers danced over the controls, flipping switches and keying in commands at a frightening pace. In response, [387] the blinking colored lights started flashing faster and faster, while the Beta 5’s high-pitched electronic voice acquired an almost hysterical tone.

  “Error! Error!” the computer chirped. “System parameters under attack. Halt! Cease illegal operations immediately. Error! Reporting unauthorized breach of autonomous analytical criteria. Stop! Halt! Error! Security protocols degrading. Error! Error! Error. ...”

  I don’t believe it! Roberta thought aghast. He’s hacking into the Beta 5!

  She didn’t think it was possible, but within minutes the computer’s frantic protests fell silent while Khan continued to manipulate the Beta 5’s controls as though he were some cyberpunk computer cowboy straight out of a William Gibson novel. “Accessing all relevant files on Project Chrysalis,” the Beta 5 reported robotically. Roberta half-expected the lobotomized computer to start singing “Daisy” at any moment. “Preparing storage medium as requested.”

  Greenish radiation flashed briefly and a high-density compact disk materialized in the replicator tray next to the controls. Khan plucked the CD from the tray and held it up to the light, beaming triumphantly. “Excellent,” he pronounced, giving the Beta 5’s control panel an affectionate pat. For a moment, Roberta thought he was done ransacking the computer’s confidential files, but then Khan return
ed to the keyboard on the control shelf.

  “One more thing,” he added, almost as an afterthought, while manually overriding the computer’s better judgment and inhibitions. “Access all files regarding ozone manipulation technology, developed by Dr. Wilson Evergreen, circa 1984. Include all relevant technical specifications and diagrams.”

  Roberta groaned inwardly This just keeps getting worse and worse, she lamented. Not content to loot the Beta 5 for the current addresses of all his genetically souped-up siblings, he now wanted the know-how to control Earth’s ozone layer if he felt like it. And there’s nothing I can do to stop him!

  The brainwashed computer beeped obediently, and another CD was conjured up in a bright green flash. Khan tucked the two bootleg disks into the interior of his jacket and nodded in satisfaction. “That [388] will do ... for now,” he declared, peeling the adhesive patch off his throat, and drawing out his Glock once more.

  Realizing what he intended, Roberta attempted to leap from her seat, but the huge Arab henchman shoved her back down forcibly. “No! Wait!” she cried out, but her terrified pleas were muffled by the thug’s immovable palm. She could only look on in horror as Khan fired the automatic weapon at the Beta 5. The blank viewscreen exploded into white Plexiglas shards, the prismatic radiation gauge above the monitor was shot to pieces, and acrid gray fumes rose from the perforated black screen against which the vibrant colored lights had previously flickered in time with every pulse of the Beta 5’s cybernetic synapses. Roberta felt as though an old friend, albeit a somewhat cranky one, were being murdered right before her eyes.

  Khan emptied his pistol into the computer, then coldly walked away from the butchered machine. He gestured at the Arab, who responded by finally lifting his huge hand off Roberta’s lips. “You monster!” she raged at Khan, tears of anger leaking from her eyes. “Whatever happened to the precocious little boy I met in India so many years ago?”

  Khan accepted her fury calmly. “He is fulfilling his destiny, Ms. Lincoln. That is all.”

  On an end table by the couch, the fax machine clattered noisily. Curious, Khan strolled over to the brand new appliance and tore the newly printed message from the machine. His dark eyes quickly scanned the communiqué and he chuckled softly to himself before striding back toward Roberta with the curled fax paper in his fist.

  “This appears to be the text of a resignation speech to be delivered by President Todor Zhivkov of Bulgaria. Written by Gary Seven, of course. He wishes your editorial input, Ms. Lincoln, before delivering the final text of the speech to his contacts in the Bulgarian government.” Khan shook his head and sighed theatrically. “Seven was always good at making speeches, I’ll give him that. A shame he can be so fainthearted when the sword is required.”

  Khan tossed the crumpled fax onto the floor. “I have a message as well, Ms. Lincoln, which you may deliver to your employer when he [389] returns to America. Tell him I have no objections if he continues to perform good works here and there about the world, scribbling insignificantly in the margins of history.” Roberta couldn’t tell if he meant to be conciliatory or just condescending. Probably the latter, she supposed. “After all, our ultimate goals are largely the same.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Roberta said acidly.

  Khan ignored her barb. “Nevertheless,” he said, his voice taking on a more menacing tone, “warn the indefatigable Mr. Seven that he must in no way interfere with my operations and activities in the months and years to come. I shall be stepping out onto a larger stage, Ms. Lincoln, and I will not tolerate either you or your employer getting in the way of my inevitable ascent.”

  A bright green glow suddenly emanated from within the stationary cube upon the desk, which also beeped insistently. Seven’s doing, Roberta guessed, no doubt in response to his discovery that the transporter would not respond to his signal. He must be trying to activate the transporter via the remote interface, not realizing that Khan has pretty much wrecked the primary controls. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do to help Seven out at the moment. Khan had even taken her servo.

  Intrigued, Khan picked up the glowing cube and inspected it quizzically, turning it over in his hand. “Another of Seven’s amazing toys?” he asked. When Roberta declined to answer, he merely shrugged and held the cube up before him. “No matter,” he declared. “My message remains the same.” He squeezed the crystal cube tightly within his fist, until the alien device imploded under the pressure. Releasing his grip slowly, he let the powdered remains of the cube rain softly onto the carpet. “I trust I make myself absolutely clear?”

  Crystal, Roberta thought, nodding unhappily. Or what’s left of it.

  “Then my business here is concluded.” Khan clapped his hands together and his bullying minions marched out of the office. “Farewell, Ms. Lincoln,” he said, bowing courteously as he lingered in the doorway. “Let us hope we need not meet again.”

  She waited until she heard the outer door slam shut before rising shakily from Seven’s chair. Pale and wobbly, she swept her shell-shocked gaze over the devastated office, which seemed everywhere to [390] display the aftereffects of Khan’s destructive wrath: the broken door lying flat upon the floor, the smoking shell of the bullet-ridden Beta 5, the mangled transporter controls, and the pulverized residue of what had once been the chirpy little green cube.

  And to think that, less than an hour ago, I thought the whole world was hunky-dory. A chill that had nothing to do with temperature swept over her and she hugged herself as though she were standing outside in a bitter wind blowing straight from an underground cavern buried deep beneath the deserts of western India. The Cold War might have ended, but somehow, standing in the ruins of the violated office that had been her home away from home for over twenty years, Roberta Lincoln knew that the worst was yet to come. ...

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE PARAGON COLONY

  SYCORAX

  STARDATE 7004.1

  “GOOD LORD, JIM, IT’S A PLANET OF SPOCKS.”

  McCoy joined Kirk at the table, arriving a few minutes late at a banquet being held in honor of the Paragon Colony’s distinguished guests. The feast was taking place at a roomy outdoor plaza beneath the great green dome protecting the colony from the planet’s unforgiving environment. Strategically planted redwoods rose like Doric columns around the perimeter of a rectangular courtyard, mimicking the look of some ancient Grecian temple. Polished basalt tiles, doubtless mined from the volcanic plains outside the dome, gave the floor a glossy black sheen, while Regent Clarke and her honored guests, including Kirk and McCoy, dined at an elevated pine table surrounded by easily a dozen smaller satellite tables. McCoy sat down at the vacant seat to Kirk’s right, his medical tricorder still hanging from a strap over his shoulder. “I mean it, Jim! I just spent the last several hours reviewing the colony’s medical records, and you’ve never seen such a terrifying glut of physical and mental fitness. Muscular density, cardiac strength, respiration, you name it ... everyone here would be in the upper percentile, health-wise, on any other planet in the Federation. They have superior recall and cognitive functions, too. You should see what sort of enormous calculations these people can [392] effortlessly perform in their heads.” McCoy’s expression soured. “Like I said, Spock would feel very at home here.”

  “Hello, Bones. Good of you to make it,” Kirk replied wryly. He knew the doctor well enough to realize that “a planet of Spocks” wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement where McCoy was concerned. Better a world of Spocks than a planet of Khans, the captain reflected, making a mental note to take a closer look at McCoy’s medical findings later. He was curious to get the doctor’s impressions of the colonists’ overall psychological stability, although he could hardly grill Bones on that subject right in front of their hosts.

  McCoy nodded deferentially at the regent as he settled in at the table. “My apologies for my tardiness, ma’am,” he drawled. Like Kirk, he was decked out in his full dress uniform, metallic
gold piping sprucing up his blue medical tunic. “An occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”

  “So I understand, Doctor,” Masako Clarke said graciously, “although, thankfully, we have little need for physicians here, having largely eradicated disease and disability, except in the extremely aged. We’ve made considerable strides in geriatric medicine as well, which I’m sure our medical researchers will be happy to discuss with you later.”

  “Thank you, Madame Regent,” Kirk said, seated between Clarke and McCoy. Gleaming bone plates and utensils rested atop the pristine silk tablecloth. “That’s very generous of you.”

  “Masako, please,” the regent insisted once more. “And my motives aren’t entirely altruistic, I fear. I have a favor to ask of you as well. Our scientists would dearly like to obtain DNA samples from you and your crew, Captain, just in case any interesting mutations have developed in the human species since our ancestors left the Federation.”

  Seated to Clarke’s left, Koloth chuckled disparagingly. “You may be disappointed with what you find,” the sardonic Klingon commander remarked. For this formal occasion, he wore a silver sash, adorned with glittering medals, across the chest of his military uniform. “It is the indisputable opinion of the finest Klingon minds that the human genome has actually degraded under the decadent regime of the Federation. Survival of the fittest, the fundamental principle of evolution, [393] has, alas, been supplanted by a debilitating doctrine of survival of the mediocre,’ in which the weak and infirm are coddled by a system unwilling to cull even the most unworthy specimens from its collective gene pool. Unlike the Klingon Empire, of course, whose bloodlines are kept strong and vigorous by the bracing demands of honorable combat.”

  McCoy bristled at Koloth’s snide attack on humanity’s genetic health. “Indisputable, my aunt Fanny. That’s pure Klingon propaganda, and bad science to boot! The evolutionary progress of a sentient species is measured by a heck of a lot more than the ability to swing a bat’leth or fire a disrupter. Some of the greatest advances in human thought and civilization have been brought about by individuals who would have been dismissed as genetically unfit by less discerning minds. Stephen Hawking, for instance, or, more recently, Dr. Miranda Jones, a blind woman who became the first human being to achieve a telepathic link with a Medusan.”