The Eugenics Wars, Volume Two

by Greg Cox

  “Do you really think the Klingons will withdraw?” Sulu asked Spock, looking away from the targeting scanner. “I didn’t think ‘retreat’ was in their vocabulary.”

  “I believe the precise term is ‘HeD,’ ” Spock informed the helmsman. The guttural syllable felt singularly out of place on his Vulcan tongue. “And, unless I am severely mistaken, Captain Koloth is too pragmatic a commander to sacrifice his ship to no good purpose.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Lt. Uhura reported, a touch of amusement in her voice, “he’s hailing you now, sir.”

  “Onscreen,” Spock requested, while signaling Landon to halt her phaser assault on the Klingon ship.

  Koloth’s overly familiar visage appeared on the viewscreen. Spock noted that the usually urbane commander was looking rather less than his best. Koloth’s widow’s peak of black hair was in disarray, while his silver-and-black military uniform was rumpled and stained with soot. Peering past Koloth’s disheveled head and shoulders, Spock thought the Klingons’ bridge seemed even smokier and more dimly lit than it had before. Flames licked the surface of the visible control consoles. He heard groans and coughing in the background.

  “Spock here,” he stated flatly. As a Vulcan, he felt no need to gloat over the Klingons’ sorry state. “How can I help you, Captain?”

  “You could never have been born,” Koloth answered wearily. A mirthless smile tweaked the corners of his lips. “Be that as it may, I applaud your ingenuity, Vulcan. Please extend my compliments to Captain Kirk on his excellent choice of first officer.” His sardonic manner faded as his face took on a graver expression. When he spoke again, there was no trace of mocking humor in his voice; he was deadly serious. “But do not be mistaken: this matter is not over. Be warned that the Klingon Empire will never tolerate any alliance between the Federation and the Paragon Colony.”

  The transmission ceased abruptly, as though Koloth felt that he had said all that was needed. Spock watched thoughtfully as the wounded battle cruiser warped out of sight, leaving only subspace ripples behind.

  “Contact the captain,” he instructed Uhura. “Inform him that the Klingons have departed—for now.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PALACE OF THE GREAT KHAN

  CHANDIGARH, INDIA

  JUNE 14, 1993

  WHEN THE BLAST OF WAR BLOWS IN OUR EARS, KHAN THOUGHT, SEEKING inspiration in the immortal words of the Bard, then imitate the actions of the tiger. Seething with justifiable fury, he descended the marble steps of his palace, too impatient to wait for an elevator. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage; then lend the eye a terrible aspect. . . . The control room for the Morning Star satellite was hidden in the lowest level of the palace, below even the bombproof bunker that had just hosted the ill-fated summit meeting. Khan had designed the underground chamber to survive anything short of a nuclear attack, and perhaps even that; should his entire fortress be reduced to ashes, he would still be able to retaliate with the destructive power of the satellite.

  He had hoped never to use Morning Star’s ozone-destroying capabilities, but that was before his fellow supermen revolted against him. They brought this on themselves, he thought bitterly. Anger flooded his veins like a drug. They must learn that defying me carries a heavy price.

  A pair of Exon warriors, armed with automatic rifles, guarded the door of the control room. They saluted and stepped aside as Khan approached the dense titanium door, which was merely the second line of defense standing between the satellite controls and any unauthorized trespasser. He keyed today’s ten-digit code number into the touchpad to the right of the door and, with a whoosh of released air, the titanium barrier slid out of his way.

  Khan strode decisively into the chamber beyond, where two of his most trusted security officers, Suzette Ling and Vishwa Patil, manned the outer booth, carefully monitoring both the satellite and the space surrounding it. They rose in attention at Khan’s entrance, but he dismissed such formalities with a wave of his hand. “What is the status of Morning Star?” he demanded without preamble, as the massive door slid shut behind him. “Is the satellite in any danger?”

  “All is well, Your Excellency,” Ling reported promptly. Glowing radar screens cast a green glow upon one side of her face. A matte-black phone built into the console provided her with a hotline to notify Khan if anything was amiss. “Morning Star remains fully operational, nor is there any indication that it is under attack.”

  The orbiting satellite was monitored twenty-four hours a day, both from Chandigarh and Muroroa, lest any of Khan’s many enemies attempt to put Morning Star out of commission. Although Morning Star was equipped with a force field generator, to shield it against both particle beams and Gary Seven’s insidious transporter device, the satellite’s best defense remained under Khan’s constant vigilance; he had made it known that, should any foreign satellite, missile, or spacecraft even come within ten kilometers of Morning Star, he would immediately launch a preemptive strike against the aggressor, burning a nation-size hole in the ozone layer directly above any country rash enough to threaten his ultimate weapon.

  “Good,” he said, gratified that he still had the upper hand where Morning Star was concerned. “Continue your watchfulness; these are perilous times.” With the woeful collapse of the summit only an hour ago, his list of enemies had just grown accordingly. Who knew when Vasily Hunyadi, Hawkeye Morrison, or one of the other rebellious supertraitors might grow bold enough to move against him? All the more reason to strike quickly, he resolved. As the Bard also wisely wrote: “Delays have dangerous ends.”

  A second titanium door, even more impregnable than the first, stood between these monitoring stations and Morning Star’s actual firing controls. Only one other person besides Khan knew the sixteen-digit numerical sequence required to gain entry to the inner chamber. He used his body to shield the touchpad from the view of the two security officers as he expertly keyed in the entire sequence from memory. It was not that he mistrusted Ling and Patil, but some privileges, like the ability to activate Morning Star, were best kept in the fewest possible hands.

  The secondary door admitted him, and he stepped inside the control booth. A single molded plastic chair faced a state-of-the-art ergonomic control panel, dominated by a large red button beneath a transparent sheet of unbreakable plastic. An illuminated map of the world stretched above the control panel, the shifting national borders constantly updated by an artificially intelligent computer program attuned to the ever-changing fortunes of war and politics. A blinking green dot tracked Morning Star’s location as the satellite orbited continuously above the planet.

  Khan took his seat and rested his hands on the controls. Without hesitation, even as the door automatically closed behind him, he swiftly entered the final twenty-digit command code into the computer.

  “Command authorization approved,” the computer greeted him in Punjabi. High-powered cybernetic hardware hummed and clattered. “Please select target.”

  He stared balefully at the illuminated map. Which of the treacherous supermen should be the first to feel his wrath? Amin? Gomez? Arcturus?

  Hunyadi, he decided after only a moment’s consideration. Geographically, the one-eyed Romanian war criminal possessed the largest power base at present; in addition, he had been the first attendee to walk out on Khan’s summit, spurring the others to do the same. Let him then serve as an example.

  Khan’s dark gaze zeroed in on the territory currently controlled by the Serbian government, including key areas of Bosnia-Herzegovina. The nebulous borders flickered visibly before his eyes, reflecting the most recent developments in the ongoing Balkan conflict. Khan fed the appropriate coordinates into the targeting computer and watched with satisfaction as, on the glowing map, the Serbian possessions acquired a damning crimson hue.

  “Target selected,” the computer confirmed. Symbolized by the flashing red dot, Morning Star began moving into position above Serbia. “Please stipulate op
erational parameters.”

  It was in Khan’s power to choose the precise degree to which the ozone layer was devoured above Hunyadi’s domain, to heighten or temper the corrosive effect as he so desired. Today, frustrated by the collapse of his planned global alliance, he was not in a merciful frame of mind.

  He typed 100%. He smiled coldly, recalling that it was now almost summer in Eastern Europe. Let them feel the full force of the sun. Perhaps a sudden outbreak of blindness, cancer, and starvation would be enough to chasten the arrogant Romanian—and put the fear of Khan into the rest of his insubordinate siblings.

  “Parameters selected,” the computer announced. “Arming satellite.”

  On the screen, the once-green dot changed to a cautionary shade of yellow, indicating that the satellite was in standby mode. Khan tracked the flashing amber marker with his eyes, as Morning Star, propelled by its powerful directional jets, maneuvered into place, one thousand kilometers above the Earth. Soon, Khan thought with vengeful anticipation. Very soon.

  Finally, in less than thirty minutes, Morning Star came to rest above its target. “Satellite in position,” the computer informed him, as the blinking yellow dot turned the same brilliant shade of red as the designated area on the global map. “All systems armed and ready.”

  On the control panel, the clear plastic shield slid away, exposing the oversize red button. This was the final firing mechanism, which would signal Morning Star to begin its deadly work. His right hand drifted inexorably toward the waiting button.

  “Lord Khan,” a concerned voice interrupted. “What do you think you are doing?”

  Khan spun around in the chair to find Ament standing in the open doorway. Although startled, he was not surprised to find the graceful Egyptian woman here; Ament was the only other person, besides himself, to whom Khan had entrusted the command codes for Morning Star, in the event that he was killed or incapacitated during a sneak attack. Her cool temperament, thoughtful manner, and incorruptible conscience made her the ideal custodian of the satellite’s apocalyptic power during any such emergency. He knew he could trust Ament to wield this most awesome of weapons wisely.

  At the moment, however, he might have preferred a touch more privacy. “Your tread is admirably light, Lady Ament,” he said wryly. “I did not hear you approach.”

  She stepped fully into the control booth, letting the door slide completely shut; this discussion was not for the ears of Patil or Ling. “I ask again, my lord: What are you doing?”

  “Showing my insolent siblings that I am not to be disrespected in my own palace,” he said. “You were there, my lady. You saw how they defied me.” His face hardened at the memory, still fresh enough to stoke his ire anew. “They must learn that they reject my authority at their own peril.”

  “Indeed, Lord Khan,” she agreed readily, “but would you inflict untold misery upon countless innocents, merely to punish their leaders?” Her amber eyes found the luminous map, noting the telltale red stain spreading over Serbia. “It is not Hunyadi who will suffer the most, but the hapless men, women, and children under his rule.”

  Khan winced inwardly at this undeniable truth, but remained committed to the course he had chosen. “Such are the cruel realities of war,” he observed reluctantly. “It is unfortunate, but sometimes innocents must be sacrificed in pursuit of a larger goal.”

  “Perhaps,” she admitted, “but can you not find a more precise, more surgical means of striking out at Hunyadi and the others? A scalpel rather than a flamethrower?” She shook her head mournfully, a pensive frown upon her ruby lips. “Morning Star is a weapon of mass destruction, best employed as a last resort or deterrent.” She nodded at the map above their heads. “I fear also, my lord, that reckless use of Morning Star might invite an armed response from the great powers of the world, who, at present, are resigned to letting us be. Once you actually deploy the satellite, it becomes less of a deterrent and more of a threat requiring immediate action.”

  Khan leaned back against the molded support of his chair, compelled, against his inclinations, to consider the merits of Ament’s argument. His wrath was great, and he was in no mood to be second-guessed thus, yet he could not deny that her counsel held, as ever, a substantial measure of wisdom.

  It would be enormously satisfying to press that red button, to inflict vengeance of Biblical proportions upon his enemy with but the tap of his finger. Hunyadi and his seditious peers deserved no less. However, as Ament suggested, perhaps a truly superior ruler would rise above such a temptation, no matter how justifiable, and pursue other options before resorting to something as vast and terrible as Morning Star.

  The red button waited, as did the satellite hovering over Eastern Europe.

  “Curse you, woman,” Khan said finally. He pressed the Cancel command on the control panel. The plastic sheath slid back over the fateful red button, shielding it from his touch. On the map, the blinking crimson dot turned green once more, then resumed its original orbit.

  “Targeting sequence terminated,” the computer stated. “Aborting procedure.”

  “You have chosen wisely,” Ament said.

  Have I? Khan wondered dourly. His thwarted rage festered inside him like a loathsome parasite gnawing upon his entrails. “Hunyadi shall pay,” he promised darkly, more to himself than to her.

  “Of course, Lord Khan.” She pressed a rectangular button next to the exit, opening the door to the outer chamber.

  “They shall all pay, and dearly.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” She lingered in the doorway, as if reluctant to leave Khan alone in the control room, lest he revert to his original intention.

  Fear not, he thought wearily. With a heavy sigh, he rose from the plastic chair to follow his sagacious, if sometimes inconvenient, advisor out of the control room. Ling and Patil did not look up from their monitors, curbing whatever curiosity they might have felt about what had just transpired in the inner chamber. Khan did not consider informing them.

  Hunyadi will pay, he vowed once again.

  But not today.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ISLE OF ARRAN

  OFF THE COAST OF SCOTLAND

  SEPTEMBER 10, 1993

  PRIMITIVE AS IT WAS, GARY SEVEN HAD TO ADMIT THAT EARTH WAS A beautiful planet. He stood upon a winding hillside trail, looking out over the rolling farmland below. His elevation offered him a panoramic view of the quiet Scottish island, with its verdant glens, clear running streams, and fathomless lochs. Purple heather was ankle-deep in the brush beside the dirt path, competing with the brown and green mountain grasses. Many yards below, at the bottom of the trail, a barking dog herded a flock of recalcitrant sheep, while, in the distance, Seven glimpsed the rooftops of the nearest village, a tiny fishing community bearing the unlikely name of Blackwaterfoot, which he had always thought sounded like something badly translated from Andorian.

  He rested his weight upon a gnarled hazelwood walking stick, contemplating the exotic locale where he had so improbably ended up. The isle, along with the rest of Earth, bore little resemblance to the distant world where he had been born and reared: a highly advanced, cosmopolitan planet, populated by representatives of every known (and unknown) intelligent species. Now he could barely remember the last time he saw a Horta, and he still occasionally missed the tangy taste of hot plomeek soup, despite Roberta’s best efforts to replicate the recipe from his description.

  Have I truly lived on Earth for over a quarter of a century? he pondered. The thought boggled his mind, yet he had few regrets. Earth—and humanity—were well worth the years he had spent striving to assure their survival. At times he had been tempted to head back to more civilized quarters of the galaxy, delegating affairs on Earth to able lieutenants such as Roberta, but the situation here had always been too precarious, too fraught with potential catastrophe, to risk trying to supervise things from hundreds of light-years away. How could he leave Earth, the planet of his ancestors, with the likes of Khan still running amok.
r />   “Tuppence for your thoughts?”

  Seven pivoted slowly upon his cane to see Roberta trudging up the hill toward him. Several paces behind her, a wisp of white smoke rose from the chimney of the refurbished stone farmhouse that now served as their new headquarters; following the London fiasco, he and Roberta had decided to stay away from major population centers, thereby endangering fewer civilians by their presence. After all, they had reasoned, when you have a transporter, you can set up shop almost anywhere.

  “Simply enjoying the afternoon, and the view,” he replied, not entirely honestly. Why spoil Roberta’s mood with his own dour ruminations? He leaned upon his cane as she joined him at the crest of the hill, puffing slightly from the climb.

  “It is gorgeous here,” she agreed, smiling as her gaze swept over the scenery below. Not for nothing had the Isle of Arran been described as “Scotland in miniature,” with all manner of picturesque terrain, including marshes and mountains, rocky cliffs and cozy beaches, crammed onto one small island, only twenty-five miles long and ten miles across. Looking north, one could see a ring of standing stones rising like petrified fingers from the boggy, peat-covered surface of a lonely moor. The ancient megaliths, which dated back to the Neolithic period, reminded Seven of how far Homo sapiens had come in the last few millennia—and how far they still had to go.

  “Remember the first time we visited these islands?” Roberta watched a kestrel circle beneath the cloudy blue sky, on the lookout for an unsuspecting hare. “Back in seventy-three?”

  Seven nodded, letting his memory drift forward to a time considerably more recent than the Stone Age. They had been investigating, on behalf of an old friend, the mysterious disappearance of a Scottish policeman on a nearby island, which had proved to be home to a bloodthirsty pagan cult. “A rather unsettling excursion, as I recall.”