by Greg Cox
Foolishly, the insolent blonde turned her back on Joaquin as she walked beneath a metal archway toward Seven. Khan watched with interest, his adamantine face betraying nothing, as Joaquin drew forth the serrated throwing knife concealed in his ursine belt buckle. Gary Seven, preoccupied with monitoring Morning Star’s disintegration via the scanners at the computer station, did not notice Joaquin raising his knife to throw it straight at the unsuspecting woman’s back. Khan held his tongue, remembering the many times the Lincoln woman had been a particularly irritating thorn in his side. After all, he could always disavow any knowledge of Joaquin’s intentions later on. . . .
The outraged bodyguard drew back his blade.
“Roberta! Beware!”
One moment, an alert black cat sat curled atop a comfortably heated conduit. The next, a glamorous dark-haired woman threw herself between Roberta and her would-be assassin.
Snarling, Joaquin hurled his knife anyway. The blade flashed across the deck of the starship, lodging between the catwoman’s breasts. Roberta spun and stunned Joaquin with her servo, but it was too late for Isis/Ament, whom crumpled to the floor.
Seven and Roberta both rushed to their companion’s side. Seven, his aged bones moving with remarkable speed, knelt beside the wounded woman, while Roberta scanned her raven-haired counterpart with the tip of her servo. The older woman shook her head sadly, even as Ament looked up at them both and purred her last words: “What? Not curiosity after all?”
A heartbeat later, the still form of a small black cat lay lifelessly upon the floor of the hibernation deck, the brass hilt of a knife protruding from its velvety chest.
“No!” Seven uttered, his voice hoarse with grief and anger. He yanked the killing blade free from the cat’s remains, then smashed the knife against the steel floor, shattering the bloodstained blade in an impressive display of strength. “I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured. “You deserved so much better than this.”
Roberta looked speculatively at the nearest empty hibernation niche, intended for Joaquin himself. Seven shook his head. “Even if she could somehow be revived,” he explained mournfully, slowly rising to his feet, “she would be waking, wounded and at the mercy of her enemies, into an unknown situation and environment. We would be doing her no favor by trapping her spirit in expectation of such a dire resurrection.”
His blazing eyes focused on Joaquin, now slumping in a narcotized state against one of the ship’s sturdy bulkheads. Khan was curious to see whether Seven would compromise his vaunted principles long enough to exact bloody vengeance on the insensate bodyguard. “His life, of course, is yours,” Khan volunteered, unwilling to scuttle his pact with Seven, even to save Joaquin from the consequences of his rash attack upon Roberta.
Seven glared at Joaquin for a long moment, while Roberta looked on apprehensively. Then he whirled around and marched toward Khan, his lean and angular face angrier than Khan had ever seen it. “Damn you, Khan!” he raged, venting his frustrated rage. “Does no one’s life mean anything to you?”
Khan looked coldly at the feline corpse on the floor. “Do not expect me to mourn one who betrayed me,” he informed Seven bluntly. “It is perhaps simple justice. Twenty-two years ago, you and your operatives were responsible for the death of my mother; now my servant has cost you your shapechanging familiar.”
“Your mother’s death was her own doing,” Seven shot back. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides as he struggled visibly to rein in the bitter hatred seething in his veins. “But right now, part of me is wishing that I had let you and all of your power-mad siblings be exterminated at Chrysalis years ago.”
Empty words, Khan thought. Now that it was apparent that Seven could not be tempted to murder, no matter what the provocation, Khan found himself growing bored with the encounter. “No matter,” he declared haughtily, turning his back on Seven and walking away. “Let us conclude this transaction with all deliberate speed.”
If nothing else, Seven and Roberta were now understandably anxious to depart the Botany Bay, so the final arrangements were conducted swiftly and with little discussion. Khan himself prepped Joaquin for hibernation and single-handedly installed the massive bodyguard within his niche. A rectangular hatch closed over the recess, sealing Joaquin in for long decades to come. A transparent window afforded a glimpse of the slumbering superman, lying supine like a mummy in its crypt. “Sleep well, my friend,” Khan whispered. “When we wake, we shall have a new world to win.”
Then, without ceremony or trepidation, Khan climbed onto the metal shelf protruding from the bottom of his own niche. He stretched out on his back, feeling the hard, uncushioned surface of the shelf beneath him, with only his unbound dark hair providing any padding for his skull. “You may proceed,” he instructed Gary Seven, not deigning to glance in the aged American’s direction.
Hidden conveyors retracted the shelf, drawing Khan into the waiting cavity. His chin held high, he looked straight ahead at the illuminated ceiling of the nook, less than ten centimeters away from his face.
“Farewell, Khan Noonien Singh,” Seven addressed him from just outside the niche. His voice still held a bitter ring. “May you make better use of your second life.”
Khan sneered in reply, unmoved by the old man’s typically self-righteous leave-taking. I answer to no judgment but my own, he thought. The hiss of hidden hydraulics sounded in his ears as the hatch rose, cutting him off from both Seven and his peroxided amanuensis. The two Americans, he knew, planned to transport back to Earth once they were certain that neither Khan nor any of his underlings were capable of turning the Botany Bay back toward Earth. They would exit as they arrived, leaving the computerized sleeper ship to begin its epic pilgrimage across the stars.
For himself, Khan had no regrets about abandoning the world that had rejected him. Even with Morning Star destroyed, he doubted that the planet Earth would survive long without him. Inferior humanity would surely destroy themselves of their own accord, without his having to raise a hand. My curse upon them all . . .!
Frigid gases filled the niche. Khan took a deep breath, in preparation for the sleep to come. As a chilling numbness spread over him, slowing his thoughts as well as the beat of his magnificent heart, he looked for ward to conquering a lush and virgin planet . . . someday.
’Tis not too late, he mused, recalling the immortal words of Tennyson’s Ulysses, to seek a newer world . . .
To strive, to seek, to find . . .
And not to yield.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AREA 51
NEVADA
UNITED STATES
JAN 20, 1996
“YOU CAN COME IN NOW, SHANNON.” A somber Jeffrey Carlson let her into his office, then closed the door behind her. Moving slowly even for a man his age, as if he weren’t at all looking forward to this meeting, he sat down behind his cluttered mahogany desk, opposite Shannon. A scale model of the DY-100, the only version of the ship still remaining at the base, sat atop the desk, reminding them both of exactly why they were here. Removing his bifocals, he rubbed his aged eyes wearily before addressing Shannon again. “Thank you for dropping by,” he said softly, sounding uncertain how to begin.
It wasn’t like she had a whole lot of choice. For the past two weeks, ever since the spectacular departure of the prototype, Shannon had been under house arrest, confined to her own quarters at Area 51 while an intensive investigation had been conducted into the startling and mysterious events of January 5. She had endured numerous debriefings, trying to cooperate as much as possible while clinging to the cover story she and Roberta had concocted, all the while wondering what sort of consequences she was ultimately going to face. Guess I’m about to find out, she speculated.
“No problem,” she said meekly. Most of all, she regretted all the grief and upset she had caused Doc Carlson and the rest of the DY-100 development team. Kept in isolation, she hadn’t even had a chance to talk to Shaun and the others about what had happened, not that she could
really tell them all that much. It’s been two weeks, she reflected, and the world hasn’t come to an end. Does that mean that it was all worthwhile?
“I don’t need to tell you what the last couple of weeks have been like,” Carlson continued, smiling wanly. “You have no idea how tempted I’ve been to start smoking again.” He spoke gently, making an obvious effort to put her at ease. “Thank you for your patience while everything was being sorted out. I’m sure you’ve been concerned about what all this means to your future.”
If I even still have one, Shannon thought bleakly. She half-expected to spend the rest of her life in solitary confinement somewhere. Antarctica maybe, or the moon.
Carlson’s wrinkled face took on a more serious expression. “Before I inform you of the final decision resulting from our investigation, I feel obliged to ask you one last time: Are you still standing by your original story, that you were the victim of insidious Ferengi mind-control?”
Shannon nodded, feeling bad about lying to Doc Carlson, of all people. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense,” she dissembled once more, for the umpteenth time; at this point she practically believed the fabrication herself. “The last thing I remember is being in the conference room with the rest of you, then suddenly feeling an irresistible psychic compulsion to go to the launch bay. After that everything is a blank; the next I knew, I was waking up in the infirmary, with about a half-dozen armed MPs watching over me.”
That much was true. True to Roberta’s word, she had recovered from the stun-blast with no ill effects, except, perhaps, to her reputation and career.
“I see,” Carlson said thoughtfully. Shannon couldn’t tell if he believed her or not. “Fortunately for you, there is no hard evidence to contradict that interpretation of events. All videotapes and audio recordings from that evening were apparently erased by the same electromagnetic pulse that rendered you unconscious.”
Thank you, little green pyramid, Shannon thought gratefully. As far as she knew, no trace of the crystalline gadget had survived its self-destruction.
“Nevertheless, a multi-billion dollar, top-secret spacecraft has gone missing, and I’m afraid that someone has to take the fall.” Carlson offered her a sympathetic look that belied the severity of his words. “If it’s any consolation, General Wright and most of the Air Force brass wanted to lock you up and throw away the key, regardless of the lack of evidence, but, not without some effort, I managed to talk them into a slightly less drastic decision.”
Taking a deep breath, he launched reluctantly into the disciplinary phase of the meeting. “As of this moment, all of your security clearances are officially revoked. You are no longer employed at this base, and your career at NASA is over as well.” He slid a clipboard, bearing a densely typed piece of paper, across the desktop. “By signing this document, you agree never to discuss any of your work at Area 51, on pain of criminal prosecution.”
Shannon felt numb all over. Even though she knew this outcome was the best she could hope for—probably better, in fact—it still came as a blow. Years of hard work and personal progress, along with all her childhood dreams of going into space, evaporated forever. With a lump in her throat the size of a Viking space probe, she signed the confidentiality form without even reading the fine print. Ironically, she used the same shiny silver fountain pen that had gotten her into all this trouble; despite the recent investigation, nobody had ever guessed that it was more than just a fancy writing implement.
“Thank you, Dr. Carlson,” she said, sliding the signed form back to him. Her voice, which was notably husky at the best of times, was rendered even hoarser by the powerful emotions surging through her. “I want you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done on my behalf, both before and after the Incident. It’s been a privilege to work with you.”
Unsure whether her rubbery limbs would support her, Shannon stood up and headed toward the door. “Please give my regards to Shaun and the others. Tell them I’m sorry that things turned out the way they did.”
“Shannon, wait.” Carlson rose and gestured toward the chair she had just exited. “There’s something else I want to say, off the record.” He waited for her to sit down again, then took a deep breath before speaking. “I’m not sure I’ll ever really know why you did what you did, but I may understand a bit more than you might imagine. You see, I know that sometimes simple humanity, and our own private consciences, have to take precedence over the demands of science and so-called national security.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “How do you think Quark and the other Roswell aliens escaped in the first place?”
Shannon’s eyes widened. “You?”
“Don’t give me that old ‘Ferengi mind-control’ alibi,” he told her with a knowing grin. “I invented the Ferengi mind-control alibi.
“Or, to be more exact, my wife did.”
A black stealth helicopter was waiting to take her away from Area 51. Still reeling from Doc Carlson’s unexpected confession, she trudged across the tarmac, bearing a small cardboard box full of personal possessions. It was a chilly winter morning, the desert air cold and crisp.
To her surprise, she found Shaun Christopher waiting for her by the helipad. “Hey there, stranger!” he said with forced levity. “You didn’t think I’d let you leave without saying good-bye?”
“To be honest, I wasn’t sure you were still speaking to me,” she confessed. The helicopter pilot, wearing a khaki uniform conspicuously devoid of any identifying insignia, took her box from her to load onto the ’copter. “Apparently, I lost a spaceship or something.”
Shaun gave her a gleaming smile, doing his best to defuse the awkwardness of the moment. “Hey, it’s not your fault. We should have known those sneaky Ferengi would pull something like this. Guess they don’t want any competition from us uppity Homo sapiens.” His clean-cut, all-American face took on a determined cast. “But I’ll tell you one thing: this isn’t the end, not by a long shot. We’re not going to let those rat-faced E.T.’s yank the rug out from beneath us. We’re going to rebuild.” Stubborn brown eyes looked past Shannon into the future. “One way or another, I’m making it to Saturn.”
Shannon never doubted it for a minute. “I know you will,” she told him.
“Excuse me, miss,” the ’copter pilot interrupted. His breath frosted in the air between them. “Time to go.”
A clumsy, heartfelt hug later, Shannon waved good-bye to Shaun, and Area 51, from the passenger seat of the sleek black helicopter. As she adjusted her seat belt, something in her pants pocket jabbed her uncomfortably. Investigating, she pulled out the silver pen Roberta Lincoln had bestowed upon her. You again? she thought wryly.
Its propeller blades spinning almost silently, the ’copter lifted off the tarmac. Shannon took one last look at Area 51, her home away from home for over a decade, then contemplated the silver pen—and the job offer Roberta (a.k.a. “Helen Swanson”) had made to her the night of the blast-off.
Did she really want to join Roberta’s mysterious organization? Now that she had said good-bye to NASA for good, she had literally no idea what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. Maybe she ought to take the older woman up on her offer? As long as she had the pen, she knew, she could always contact Roberta.
No, she realized, coming to a decision all at once, with surprising certainty. That’s not going to happen. She glanced back ruefully, unable to even see the top-secret desert base anymore. Being a double agent had cost her far too much already.
Feeling completely confident about the choice she had just made, if about nothing else, she tossed the silver pen out the window of the helicopter. “Excuse me, miss,” the pilot asked her, looking more perplexed than upset. “What was that?”
Shannon shrugged, brushing back a strand of her auburn hair. “Nothing I’m going to need anymore.”
A new millennium, it occurred to her, was only four or five years away, depending on how picky you were about the math. Maybe by then, she thought
hopefully, I’ll have found a new life for myself.
And a new dream to pursue.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ISLE OF ARRAN
FEBRUARY 2, 1996
“YOU REALIZE, OF COURSE,” ROBERTA SAID, “THAT WE’VE UNLEASHED Khan on the rest of the universe?” “The universe has survived worse than Khan,” Gary Seven observed. “Ear th might not ha ve been so lucky.”
True enough, she conceded. In her heart, she knew that they had handled the Khan crisis the best way they could, except for what had happened to Isis, that is. At times, though, she couldn’t help wondering what Khan would be up to once he finally woke up, a hundred-plus years from now. If nothing else, it gave her something to think about besides what was just about to take place.
Gary Seven stood in front of the open transporter vault, his bags packed. Sunlight peeked through a window in the farmhouse’s venerable stone walls, offering her a glimpse of violet hills and clear blue skies beyond.
“So you’re really going?” Roberta felt herself getting misty-eyed already, and she reached for a box of Kleenex atop Seven’s—scratch that, her—oak desk.
Seven nodded. “It’s time,” he told her gently. He wore a simple black bodysuit that Roberta assumed was in fashion back on a certain cloaked planet light-years away. “My aging musculature would prefer a lower-gravity environment, and, to be honest, a change will help me get over the pain of Isis’s death.” A bittersweet tone crept into his voice as he mentioned his once-constant companion. “Besides, I know Earth’s future will be in good hands, Supervisor 368.”
Roberta would have blushed if she hadn’t been too busy being weepy. “Thanks,” she replied, still mildly flabbergasted by the promotion. She wiped her eyes, hoping to avoid crying over her favorite downy blue pullover. “But how am I supposed to police this entire planet by myself?”