by Greg Cox
A pang of hunger struck Khan, and he searched his pockets for what remained of his day’s rations. He found only a gnawed-upon piece of dry sabertooth jerky and a small ball of rice. His stomach groaned as he considered his meager fare. Saving the rice for later, he chewed on the jerky to dull his hunger.
It didn’t work.
A year after the destruction of their crops, the colony was barely getting by. The cyclonic winds and UV radiation made farming on the surface impossible, even if all the arable soil hadn’t already dried up and blown away. Furthermore, in a fiendish irony, the most successful survivors of the disaster—the Ceti eels—were too indigestible to eat. The castaways’ only hope for sustenance came from growing limited quantities of hand-pollinated Terran crops underground, using Starfleet-provided “plasma lights” in lieu of sunlight. A battered portable generator provided just enough electricity to keep the subterranean gardens viable, while the colony’s few surviving protein resequencers allowed them to satisfy their most basic nutritional requirements.
Thank the Fates, he thought, that we managed to find enough seeds beneath the burned-out fields to keep going. He and many others had dug beneath the charred crops and volcanic ash with their bare hands in search of scorched kernels of corn and seedlings of rice, while every available man and woman had carted armloads of dead wildlife and flora back to the caves for composting. It is a miracle that we have managed to cultivate any fresh food at all, Khan reflected. He doubted that mere ordinary humans could have done the same.
Except for Marla, of course.
He found her, as he expected, at Fatalis’s nursery, in a relatively cozy grotto whose vaulted ceiling had been meticulously pruned of any threatening stalactites. Empty storage bins had been converted into cradles for roughly a dozen precocious infants, who were already developing at an accelerated rate. Wire mesh, recycled from the fence that had once surrounded New Chandigarh, was stretched over the tops of the cradles in hopes of protecting the babies from lurking eels, although Khan placed rather more faith in the constant vigilance of Marla and her staff. He marveled that so many children had managed to survive so far. Only their superior genetics, he theorized, have allowed them to endure such harsh conditions.
Marla looked up as he and Joaquin entered the grotto. A drowsy infant was nestled in her arms, while the tattered remains of Khan’s golden Nehru jacket was draped over her shoulders. Her eyes lighted up at the sight of her husband. “Khan! You’re back.”
“Indeed,” he assured her. “Know that I will always return to you.”
Marla strolled past a row of improvised cradles to join them. “Good afternoon, Joaquin.” She handed the baby in her arms over to the towering bodyguard. “Say hello to your son.”
“Hello, Joachim,” Joaquin said gruffly. A rare smile appeared upon his stolid features as the baby gripped his thumb with a tiny fist. “You feel strong today. Good.”
The blond, blue-eyed infant bore little resemblance to either Joaquin or Suzette Ling. Curiously, as an unforeseen side effect of the genetic tinkering that had performed on their parents, all of the colony’s children had been born blond and Caucasian, regardless of their parents’ ancestry. “Shades of The Midwich Cuckoos,” Daniel Katzel had commented upon the birth of the first batch of babies, referring to one of his favorite science fiction novels. Khan could not help wondering what his own mother, the Sikh scientist responsible for the Chrysalis Project, would have had to say about this peculiar development; no doubt she never intended the second generation of superhumans to resemble the results of a Nazi breeding program….
“Shirin delivered a fresh supply of water earlier,” Marla informed Khan. Her Starfleet medallion dangled on a chain around her neck. “I’m glad the expedition to the river went well. We needed the water badly, for the nursing mothers as well as the babies.”
The nursery was Marla’s domain, where she and a small, rotating staff watched over the Grandchildren of Chrysalis while their overworked parents strained to eke out a living beneath the ground. Marla ran the nursery with energy and enthusiasm, even though (or perhaps because) she had not yet borne a child of her own, nor even succeeded in becoming pregnant.
Reluctantly, Khan had begun to suspect that Marla’s unrefined DNA was incompatible with his own. A pity, he thought, although his regret was tinged with relief. In a colony with better prospects, Marla’s inability to produce an heir would have posed a significant problem; under the circumstances, however, Khan thought it almost better not to bring another innocent child into the abysmal purgatory Ceti Alpha V had become.
His gaze drifted to rows and rows of populated cradles. Here was the future of his people, if any such thing existed. A high-pitched wail rose from a steel bin and a tired-looking colonist hurried to check on the cradle’s small occupant.
What sort of world would these children inherit? Khan somberly looked ahead, searching for a way to provide the next generation with a less precarious existence.
It was clear that Kaur River Valley held little promise for his people; desertification was proceeding apace and he could all too easily foresee a day when the former grasslands would become as dry and inhospitable as the Sahara. We must seek out greener pastures, he realized, but where?
He smiled sadly at Marla, knowing he would soon have to leave her again. Her flowing hair and chestnut eyes called out to him, as did the gentleness of her touch. He was not eager to tear himself away from her, for who knew how long, but his mind was made up.
There can be no more delay, he vowed. I must leave this place—and learn what has become of the rest of the world.
For better or for worse.
17
“Sandstorm!”
The small expedition, which consisted of Khan, Joaquin, Ericsson, Keith Talbot, and an experienced cartographer named Debra VonLinden, had been following the dwindling Kaur toward the sea, where Khan hoped to find a safe harbor for his people, in more ways than one. So far, however, all they had discovered was kilometer after kilometer of dried-up grasslands, whose once-loamy soil was now barely held in place by the dying foliage. The savanna was evolving into a desert, with all its attendant dangers….
Ericsson’s cry jolted the party, which had already been battling wind and sand for days now; Khan found it difficult to envision what constituted a storm in this hellish environment. Were they not already trapped in a tempest without end?
Still, his visored eyes saw what Ericsson saw: an opaque black cloud rolling across the floor of the desert at an incredible speed. Heat lightning flashed in its wake.
“Link arms!” he called out, with only moments to spare before the storm was upon them. Throwing his wooden staff to the ground, he hastily hooked his elbows around those of Joaquin and Talbot, while Ericsson and VonLinden formed a chain connected to Joaquin. “Hold on! Do not let yourself be separated from the group!”
The sandstorm struck with the force of a monsoon, almost knocking Khan off his feet. In an instant, visibility was reduced to less than a meter. Despite his protective burnoose and headcloth, the abrasive wind and sand pummeled him mercilessly. Every minute tear or aperture in his desert garb was invaded by jets of flying grit that scoured his skin raw. More sand made it past his visor, forcing him to squeeze his eyes tightly shut. Ducking his head as much as he could, he breathed shallowly through his nose while keeping his jaws clenched together to keeping from choking to death.
The roar of the storm was deafening, making speech impossible even if he dared to open his mouth. Khan fought to maintain his footing, and to hold on to the rest of the expedition, who were, quite literally, being sandblasted where they stood.
We must make for higher ground, he decided. The individual sand grains propelled themselves by bouncing off the desert floor; perhaps it was possible to get above the densest portion of the storm. Even the slightest degree of relief might make the difference between life and death!
He remembered seeing a steep rise in the riverbank perhaps five mete
rs to the left. Trusting his memory, he tugged on his companions and began marching in what he prayed was the right direction. The wind and sand hit them cross-ways, making progress difficult and navigation all but impossible. Khan believed he was trudging toward the eastern bank of the riverbed, but could not be certain that the relentless pressure of the storm had not already driven them off course.
To his relief, the parched ground beneath his feet began to slope upward … an encouraging sign. Half-guiding, half-dragging his companions, Khan made it a couple of steps up the sharply angled grade before disaster struck.
Talbot slipped, nearly pulling Khan down with him. Khan tried to yank the other man back onto his feet, only to feel Talbot’s arm begin to slip away from him. Khan almost lost hold of him entirely, but, at the last minute, the stumbling man grabbed on to Khan’s wrist. Hold on! Khan commanded silently; he had no desire to inform Zuleika Walker that he had lost her husband. Hold on for your life!
In the commotion, however, Talbot’s kaffiyeh came loose, giving the homicidal storm the opportunity it needed. The wind stripped the protective headcloth from Talbot’s face, and he let out a horrendous scream as the razor-sharp sand abraded his exposed flesh. Instinctively, he let go of Khan’s wrist in order to throw his hands in front of his face.
“No!” Khan shouted, receiving a mouthful of grit. He reached frantically for the endangered colonist, but the storm drove them apart in a matter of heartbeats. At once, Talbot was completely lost to sight.
Grief, and an excruciating sense of failure, jabbed Khan’s heart. He knew better than to chase after Talbot. There could be no hope of finding him in the middle of a sand-storm; Khan would only be risking the rest of the expedition by doing so. Reluctantly, he returned to climbing the slope before him, using his now-free hand to help assist his ascent. He could feel Joaquin’s weight pulling on his other arm, and he hoped with all his heart that Ericsson and Von-Linden were still linked to Joaquin and each other in turn.
Slowly, fighting the storm with every step, they reached the top of the bluff, which, if not entirely free of the battering wind and sand, at least seemed to be above the worst of the tumult. The wind was still just as ferocious, but the churning sand was a few degrees thinner, making it a little easier to breathe. The surviving explorers huddled together atop the rise, turning their backs to the storm as they leaned on each other to anchor themselves against the gale.
We may survive this yet, Khan realized. And all it cost was the life of a loyal follower.
In the end, the storm vanished as swiftly as it had arrived. Squinting through his visor, Khan watched the deadly black cloud roll northward, shrinking in the distance as it left them behind. With luck, the storm would dissipate long before it reached the vicinity of Marla and the others, who, in any event, were hopefully safe beneath the earth in their underground sanctuary.
Such sandstorms, he suspected, would soon become a way of life upon these dying plains. All the more reason to seek out a less inhospitable environment elsewhere.
A dusty haze still swirled in the air, but Khan judged it safe to move on. After all, this was about as a clear as the weather ever got these days. Gesturing for the others to follow him, he cautiously descended back toward what remained of the River Kaur. The heels of his boots caused avalanches of freshly deposited sand to flow in rivulets toward the floor of the riverbed. Reddish brown dust coated everything in sight, from jutting stones to patches of scraggly brush. Even the silty stream seemed muddier than before.
Khan felt the effects of the storm as well. Beneath his robes, his skin felt sandpapered. Irritating granules of grit infiltrated every crack and wrinkle in his body. His mouth tasted of dirt, and he would have killed for a glass of clear, cool water.
They found Talbot about seven meters from the bottom of the incline. His body lay sprawled upon the ground, half-buried in fresh sand. His face was raw and bleeding and caked with dust. More sand poured from the dead man’s mouth and nostrils; Khan did not need to perform an autopsy to deduce that Talbot’s windpipe, and perhaps even his lungs, were clogged with sand.
Forgive me, Zuleika. Your husband shall not be returning to you.
I wonder if any of us shall.
Only days away from Fatalis, and they were already one man down. The expedition was off to a bad start….
“Perhaps we should turn back?” Ericsson suggested. His Scandinavian accent was muffled by the folds of his kaffiyeh. The blackened lens of his visor concealed his scheming blue eyes.
Khan bristled at the suggestion, but resisted the temptation to lash out at the other man. He had, as was his custom, brought Ericsson along to keep him from stirring up trouble in Khan’s absence. He was willing to squash Ericsson once and for all, if necessary, but so far the Norseman had managed to steer clear of any outright insubordination. Perhaps because only Khan and Joaquin were equipped with rifles.
“Go back to what?” VonLinden answered harshly. The mapmaker had lost both her spouse and her child to the Ceti eels. “I have nothing to return to.”
Khan made the decision for them all. “No,” he said firmly. To return to the caverns now, without discovering a new home for their people, was to condemn the entire colony to a hopeless existence beneath an expanding wasteland. “We will continue onward as planned.”
His hope was that his people could build a new life upon the shore of the unnamed sea to the south, where they might be able to survive by fishing or whaling. Certainly, the history of their homeworld was full of peoples and cultures who had thrived in proximity to the sea. Even if the surface of Ceti Alpha V had been laid waste, Khan dared to dream that the planet’s oceans still held enough life to sustain a growing colony.
Not New Chandigarh, he mused, but perhaps New Mumbai or Goa.
“But—” Ericsson began to protest. He looked to VonLinden for support, but the shrouded widow shrugged fatalistically. Joaquin remained mute, his obedience to Khan’s will beyond question. Realizing he was outnumbered, Ericsson wisely curtailed his objections. “Very well, Your Excellency,” he surrendered, with only a hint of rancor in his voice.
That left only Talbot to be dealt with.
“Strip him,” Khan ordered, nodding toward the corpse. They could not afford to sacrifice a single item of food, equipment, or clothing, even if that meant that Talbot must go to his eternal reward as naked as a newborn babe. Still, Khan resolved to see the man’s body decently cremated before they moved on.
It was the least he could do for one who died under his command. Rest in peace, my servant. Your part in our long ordeal is over.
Ericsson knelt to claim Talbot’s possessions and supplies. A gloved hand touched the dead man’s sand-flayed countenance and a drop of blood attached itself to his fingertip. He lifted the finger before him and paused, contemplating the glistening crimson bead for several long seconds. “Lord Khan,” he said at last, “I hesitate to even suggest this, but, with food and drink in such dangerously short supply, I feel compelled to point out that, just perhaps, our departed comrade can provide one last, life-sustaining service for us all.”
Khan realized at once what Ericsson was suggesting. Anger flared within him and he savagely kicked the kneeling man in the ribs. “Never speak of such things again!” Khan snarled. Beneath his visor and kaffiyeh, Khan’s face recoiled in disgust. “Castaways we may be, desperate and forlorn, but cannibals? Never!”
In truth, the awful possibility Ericsson alluded to had haunted Khan’s mind for months, ever since the cataclysm first threatened them all with famine. But he had resolved, firmly and irrevocably, that some things were worse than starvation. He and his people were a superior breed, the next stage in human evolution, and they would not debase themselves by sinking to such primitive depravity.
I have been called ruthless, Khan reflected, and with good reason. But there are some lines I will not cross!
Clutching his side, Ericsson scrambled away from Khan’s wrath. “Forgive me,” he pleaded. “I
didn’t mean to offend. The sand … the wind … I wasn’t myself, believe me!”
Khan stared at the backpedaling Norseman with contempt. It was one thing to entertain such a hideous notion in the dark night of one’s own soul, but to actually suggest such a thing…
If only Ericsson had died in the storm instead!
* * *
“I can’t believe you’re trying to steal vital resources from sick people!”
Gideon Hawkins’ indignant voice rang out across the nursery, threatening naptime for any number of infants. Marla winced at the noise.
“Dying people, you mean!” Suzette Ling retorted. “My security teams are too thirsty and hungry to do their jobs properly, yet we’re still wasting precious food and water on invalids who already have one foot in the grave!”
High-pitched squeals erupted from the nearby cradles, much to Marla’s annoyance. “That’s enough!” she told the quarreling colonists. She clicked off her tricorder. “Let’s take this elsewhere before you wake up the entire nursery.”
Leaving the crying babies in the charge of her staff, Marla led the doctor and the security chief into an adjacent grotto, about the size of a turbolift. With any luck, the thick limestone walls would keep the argument from spreading out into the rest of Fatalis. “All right,” she said, reactivating the tricorder in order to record the debate; Khan would want to know what took place in his absence. Good thing I just recharged the power cell, she thought. “What’s all this about dying people?”
This wasn’t the first dispute she’d had to arbitrate since Khan left her in charge of the colony weeks ago. Marla was starting to feel like a substitute teacher, constantly being tested by a classroom of unruly students. Ah, for the good old days, when nobody ever wanted to speak to me…!
She never thought she’d miss being persona non grata.
“Not all my patients are terminal,” Hawkins insisted. “Most are merely suffering from infection or malnutrition, but they certainly won’t recover without adequate rations of food and water.” He glared at Ling, who had started this fracas by asking Marla to divert extra rations to her security patrol instead. “This is just like you military types, always placing ‘security’ above health care.” He laughed derisively. “Security! Who the hell are we at war with on this godforsaken planet?”