The Eugenics Wars, Volume Two

by Greg Cox

  To his surprise, the confiscated item turned out to be a miniaturized walkie-talkie of some sort. Had the Russian been transmitting their meeting to parties unknown? Khan held the incriminating device up to his mouth and pressed the Speak button. “This is Khan Noonien Singh,” he said angrily. “Who is this?”

  “Good evening, Khan, or should I say good morning?” He recognized the heavily accented voice of Vasily Hunyadi. “I am gratified to hear that you are indeed there in person, just as I hoped.” Khan could easily visualize the sardonic amusement in the Balkan dictator’s sole remaining eye. “I am so sorry to hear about the tragic earthquake in your country.”

  Earthquake? “What do you mean?” Khan barked into the transmitter, while continuing to pin Strigoi to the wall with his left hand. Adrenaline flooded his system as he sensed the jaws of a trap closing on him. “Explain yourself!”

  “Interj, Khan,” Hunyadi said, bidding him farewell in Romanian. The transmission broke off at the other end, so that only static came from the plastic communicator. Khan crushed the useless device within his fist, intending to do the same to the captive Russian if he was not immediately forthcoming with answers.

  Then the first tremor struck.

  A deafening roar arose from the earth beneath his feet. The floor of the ancient temple shuddered violently, almost throwing Khan off-balance. Dust and debris rained down from the ceiling, followed by heavier chunks of solid granite. Releasing his grip on the Russian’s throat, Khan watched in alarm as the massive columns tottered unsteadily, threatening to topple entirely—and bring the entire shrine down upon their heads.

  His usually stolid face alight with panic, Joaquin tried to call out a warning, but his words were lost in the clamor of the quake. The jarring vibrations shook the flashlight loose from his grip. The dislodged electric torch hit the ground hard, then rolled across the quaking floor, causing the light to race erratically across the chamber, adding to the nightmarish chaos. “What have you done?” Khan shouted over the din, more furious than frightened by Hunyadi’s apparent perfidy. “What is this?”

  Crouching on the floor, unable to stand atop the shaking ground, the Russian laughed hoarsely. “The darkness I spoke of, Khan Singh.” Stirred-up dust aggravated his already failing lungs, forcing him to cough convulsively between every other syllable. “It has been decided that you should join me there, rather sooner than you may have expected!”

  There is no classified Soviet data, Khan realized with dreadful certainty. Struggling to stay upright, he clasped a hand over his mouth and nostrils, trying to keep out the dust and powdered stone. This entire exercise has been a suicide mission, aimed directly at my life. Small wonder Hunyadi chose a terminal man as his stalking-horse! But how had Hunyadi managed to trigger an earthquake at will? Time enough to discover that later, he counseled himself pragmatically, should I survive.

  Despite the peril to his own safety, Khan was tempted to slay the deceitful Russian with his bare hands. At least let me take my assassin with me, he thought, but a falling fragment took that option out of his hands, striking Strigoi in the head, flattening his skull. Khan saw that, ironically, the man was killed by a sculpted frieze bearing the image of Shiva, the destroyer, crushing the demon Ravana beneath his toe.

  Khan feared that he and Joaquin, too, would soon go the way of Ravana. Shards of broken granite bounced off his back and shoulders, bruising him to the bone. Khan turned toward his faithful servitor only to see an outcropping of solid rock rear up from the floor beneath Joaquin’s feet, knocking the ponderous bodyguard to the ground. The breath knocked out of him, unable to shield himself from the falling rubble, Joaquin was struck by heavy lumps of shattered stone. He flailed uselessly against the bombardment for a heartbeat, then fell alarmingly still.

  “My friend!” Khan cried out. Keeping his head low, he stumbled across the swaying floor to Joaquin’s side. Throwing aside the jagged rocks that threatened to bury the unconscious bodyguard, he grabbed hold of Joaquin beneath his arms in hopes of dragging him to safety.

  But where? Khan looked about desperately for shelter, his eyes straining to penetrate the dust and murk. Perhaps between two of the sturdy columns? He staggered across the rubble-strewn floor toward the nearest pillars, only to hear a tremendous cracking noise directly in front of him. To his horror, he saw one of the teetering columns break free from its moorings and topple toward him. Hundreds of kilos of solid stone came crashing at his head.

  Only his superhuman reflexes saved both him and Joaquin from instant death. Dropping the insensate bodyguard back onto the ground, Khan threw up his arms with lightning speed and caught the falling pillar before it smashed his skull. A grunt escaped his lips as he absorbed the impact of the gigantic column. The awesome weight pressed down upon his arms, back, and knees, but, bracing his boots against the rocky floor, he managed to keep the pillar aloft, at roughly a forty-five-degree angle to the floor, its killing weight suspended only centimeters above his head.

  Mercifully, the tremors had begun to subside, although great hunks of debris continued to fall from the earthquake-weakened walls and ceiling. In a curious twist of fate, the column that had almost killed Khan now served to shelter him and Joaquin from the plummeting rubble, at the expense of his straining muscles, which already ached from holding the uprooted pillar. Rocky detritus fell on both sides of the column, burying Khan up to his ribs in crumbling heaps of stone. Would he and his loyal servant soon be interred alive, along with the already smothered remains of the Russian traitor?

  “Help me!” he shouted, still bearing the entire weight of the leaning column. “Guards! Anyone!” The hollowed-out chaitya was now almost completely filled with debris; there was no place to throw the immense pillar even if he wanted to risk bringing more rubble down on top of him. The bouncing flashlight shattered beneath the falling stonework, casting Khan into total darkness. “Help me! We require assistance!” The ear-splitting roar of the earthquake faded away with the tremors, so that Khan heard only his own voice and the unnerving sound of loose granite settling all around him. One good aftershock, he feared, might bury them completely. “Someone help us, I command you!”

  No answer came. I should save my breath, he realized, unsure how much oxygen remained within the collapsed cave-temple. Forcing himself to concentrate, despite the back-breaking weight of the mammoth column, he called upon time-tested yoga techniques to control his breathing. An appropriate response, he acknowledged wryly, given that, traditionally, Shiva himself was credited with introducing yoga to mankind. Despite his Sikh ancestry, Khan was not a religious man, but right now he gladly welcomed whatever divine assistance might be available. If not for me, he bargained, then for the injured Joaquin, who fell in my service.

  Controlled breathing did little, however, to relieve the constant weight of the huge pillar pressing down on him. Agonizing exertion contorted his features. Every muscle in his body cried out in anguish. Sweat soaked his dust-covered garments and his teeth were clenched tighter than a vise. He felt like Atlas, condemned to bear the weight of the world for all eternity, or perhaps Samson, in reverse, using every ounce of his preternatural strength to raise up the pillars of a temple instead of pulling them down.

  Eons of unceasing torment seemed to pass. In the utter blackness, unable to peer at his watch, Khan had no surefire way of reckoning time. How long have we been trapped here? he wondered, thanking his exemplary genetic heritage that claustrophobia was for lesser mortals. How much longer must I endure? Even his remarkable strength had its limits; Khan knew he could not support the ponderous column forever. Would he have to choose between being crushed to death or buried alive? And which fate would he choose for Joaquin?

  “Joaquin? My friend?” Khan grunted through clenched teeth. The battered servant remained unconscious at Khan’s feet, oblivious to his master’s attempts to rouse him. Although the toppled column shielded the downed bodyguard from falling debris, Khan feared for the other man’s life. Joaquin’s breat
hing was labored and hoarse, his windpipe partially clotted by powdered stone. Racking coughs and incoherent groans rose from the unresponsive figure, the pitiful noises tearing at Khan’s heart. He knew that, superhuman stamina notwithstanding, Joaquin needed prompt medical assistance, yet it was all Khan could do just to keep the colossal pillar from squashing them both. Fear not, my friend, he vowed silently. I shall not abandon you while strength remains in my arms.

  Hunger and thirst added to Khan’s suffering. His lips were dry and cracked, tasting only the muddy trickles of sweat streaming down his face. From the angry rumbling of his stomach, reminiscent of the earthquake itself, he guessed that several hours had passed since his last meal, a small repast of minced lamb and yogurt consumed en route to the temple. Damn you, Hunyadi, he cursed silently. As he strained and sweated beneath the toppled column, which inched ever closer to his skull with each passing hour, his churning mind occupied itself devising fiendishly ingenious ways to torture the nefarious, one-eyed Romanian. I must survive, he resolved, exhausted but undefeated, if only to wreak terrible vengeance upon Hunyadi.

  He heard the drilling first, before any light reached him. Just when he thought that he could not support the column any longer, as his pain-racked arms surrendered millimeter after millimeter to the pillar’s excruciating, slow-motion descent, the sound of a power drill cutting through rock reached his ears. For a moment, he worried that he was imagining the noise, that his weary mind and body had succumbed to an auditory hallucination, but the drilling noise grew louder and he realized that a rescue team was on its way at last.

  “In here!” he shouted, risking a further cave-in. “Hurry!” It would be the bitterest irony, he thought, if his strength gave out only minutes before his rescuers reached him. He breathed in deeply, marshaling all that remained of his superior vigor and endurance. No, he thought defiantly, I shall not falter at the very brink of our salvation. Straining to the utmost, he pushed upward, actually succeeding in lifting the column a few centimeters higher. “Here!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Quickly!”

  “Your Excellency!” an excited voice yelled over the noisy reverberation of the drill. Khan heard the rattle of small rocks rolling toward the ground, then an incandescent shaft of light invaded the darkness. After uncounted hours lost in blackness, the glare seemed blindingly bright, but Khan welcomed the eye-watering blaze, knowing it to be the harbinger of his imminent release. “Hold on, Your Excellency!” a straining Exon warrior shouted through a gap in the piled debris; Khan guessed that the rescue squad had tunneled down from the central worship hall above. “We are working as fast as we can!”

  Excellent, Khan thought, proud of the able supermen he had recruited to serve him. How could I have ever doubted them? A superior human being can accomplish anything, as long as the will remains strong. He shouldered his burden gladly, content now to wait patiently for his inevitable liberation. You see, Hunyadi, you could not defeat me. The greater leader always prevails. . . .

  It took several more minutes, working with admirable care, to clear a path to Khan’s place of imprisonment. Soldiers rushed forward to lift the column higher, allowing Khan to gratefully slide out from beneath the nearly unbearable load. For the first time in who knew how many hours, the weight of the pillar did not oppress him. He could barely lower his arms, though, which were stiff and numb from their labors. “See to Joaquin,” he ordered, determined that the bludgeoned bodyguard be treated as soon as possible. “Be careful; I do not know the extent of his injuries.”

  While a team of engineers worked diligently to buttress the suspended column, along with the rest of the quake-ravaged shrine, an attentive doctor knelt beside Joaquin’s supine form, checking the unconscious man’s vital signs. “Multiple fractures of the rib cage, pelvis, and extremities,” the physician reported after a quick examination, “but his spine appears intact. There’s no indication of paralysis, although he’s suffering from shock and internal trauma.” The doctor glanced up at Khan, looking both relieved and impressed. “Given how many hours you were trapped here, I’m amazed he’s not in worse shape.”

  “Joaquin is of hardy stock,” Khan understated, grateful for the genetic genius that had endowed them both with more than ordinary recuperative powers. Even still, he knew they were lucky to have been rescued when they were. I could not have lasted another hour.

  As he watched over Joaquin, a paramedic bandaged Khan’s chafed and bleeding palms. Cool water was provided to soothe his parched throat, but he refused to leave the collapsed chaitya until he saw Joaquin carefully carried out on a stretcher. Although the bodyguard remained dead to the world, his agonized groans and whimpers mercifully subsided as powerful painkillers, administered by the well-equipped doctor, took effect.

  Another stretcher was offered to Khan, but he preferred to exit the temple upon his own two legs, no matter how sore and fatigued they were. The remaining medics and rescue workers settled for escorting him back to the surface. They draped an army blanket over his shoulders, which Khan wore as proudly as an ermine cloak.

  Ament met him beneath the arched doorway of the gopuram with a cup of hot chai. That she had been able to travel all the way here from Chandigarh, almost twelve hundred kilometers away, provided some indication of just how long he had been entombed within the wrecked temple. So, too, did the sunlight filtering through the cloudy, rain-swept sky. The rain blowing against his face felt cool and refreshing after his long, grueling internment within the temple. The dawn has risen, he observed triumphantly, consigning the darkness of the last several hours to the past. Anew day begins. . . .

  “I am relieved to find you well, Lord Khan,” Ament greeted him. His fingers were still too cramped to grip the cup, so she held the rim of the cup up to his lips for him to sip. The hot tea tasted sweet and invigorating. “Joaquin’s misfortune saddens me, but I am sure that, with time, he will recover.”

  Although Khan’s body had yet to recover from its ordeal, his mind was already thinking ahead. “The quake,” he croaked hoarsely to Ament. “Somehow Hunyadi caused it.”

  Ament looked unsurprised. “Details are fuzzy, but we suspect that someone exploded some kind of concussive device at the bottom of a nearby reservoir. In theory, sufficient force, added to the pressure of the water in the reservoir, could have overloaded an underlying thrust fault, triggering seismic activity nearby.” She wiped the caked-on dust from his face with a clean towel. “There is still much to be investigated, of course.”

  No need, he thought venomously. Anger burned inside him like a funeral pyre. I know who is responsible.

  Shortly, from the passenger seat of his private helicopter, Khan had an opportunity to witness the full extent of the disaster. A heavy rain was falling, but Khan could still make out the flattened remains of numerous small villages, many of which had been almost completely destroyed by the earthquake. Traditional stone-and-mud buildings had collapsed upon themselves, no doubt crushing the sleeping inhabitants within. Elevated water tanks had crashed to earth, their spilled contents adding to the muddy chaos enveloping the countryside, the pouring rain making rescue efforts all the more difficult. Khan looked on the devastation with mounting shock and anger. Often, all that remained of once-prosperous villages were a few thatch huts, which, ironically, came through the quake in better shape than the more expensive clay and timber structures. The earth itself was ruptured in places, with jagged scarps of fractured bedrock jutting from the ground beside open chasms and fissures. The very land is wounded, Khan discerned, as much as the pitiable wretches who dwelled upon it.

  Seated behind him, Ament provided Khan with informed commentary on the tragic scene beneath them. “Preliminary reports suggest that over twenty villages have been largely obliterated, rendering an estimated 130,000 people homeless. To make matters worse, the quake struck at exactly 3:53 A.M., when most of the residents were asleep in their homes. Fatality rates remain unclear, but the final death toll may climb as high as 30,000 victims.”r />
  Khan struggled to grasp the enormity of the catastrophe. An entire population bombed out of existence, he marveled with growing fury, and all Hunyadi’s fault. He clenched his fists, ignoring the pain to his raw and bandaged palms. The helicopter passed above a ruined brick schoolhouse, now nothing more than a heap of collapsed masonry, and Khan’s desire for vengeance against the ruthless Romanian superman took on new dimension and urgency. Hunyadi had not only tried to eliminate Khan, he had also callously butchered thousands of innocent souls whom Khan considered under his protection.

  A twinge of guilt reminded Khan that he had once contemplated a similar atrocity, deploying Morning Star against the population of Bosnia. But that had been in a moment of anger, ultimately superceded by Ament’s appeal to his conscience. Hunyadi had shown no such restraint.

  Justice demanded that Hunyadi pay for his crimes against Khan’s people, and Khan could think of no one better than himself to carry out a mandatory sentence of death. “Fiat justitia et ruant coeli,” he murmured solemnly, as the harsh rain splattered against the transparent canopy of the ’copter.

  Let justice be done though the heavens fall.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  VIC’S LOUNGE

  DUNES HOTEL & CASINO

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  UNITED STATES

  OCTOBER 1, 1993

  “NO THANKS, I’M EXPECTING SOMEONE.” Roberta sighed wearily as yet another amorous lounge lizard cruised away from her table, after offering to keep her company. Here I am trying to keep a low profile, she thought, and suddenly I’m more popular than Heidi Fleiss.

  It wasn’t like she hadn’t chosen the darkest, most shadowy corner of the lounge in which to wait for her rendezvous. From where she was sitting, at the rear of the stuffy, smoke-filled lounge, she could barely see the stage, where low-wattage country star Sonny Clemonds was performing his novelty hit, “Don’t Send Me No E-Mail Unless You’re a Female,” to a mostly oblivious and/or intoxicated audience. Judging from the way Sonny kept slurring his lyrics, she wasn’t sure he was all that sober either.