Star Trek: The Eugenics War, Vol. 1

by Greg Cox

  “Excuse me, miss,” a friendly voice greeted her within minutes. Roberta looked up, but the glare from the midday sun whited out the face of the speaker. Squinting into the blinding sunshine, all she could make out was a single male figure standing on the step just above hers.

  “Hang on,” Roberta urged through a mouthful of pizza. She scrambled to her feet, nearly knocking over her soda in the process. “Just give me a second here.” Is this it? she wondered, her heart speeding faster in anticipation. Surely I can't have hit pay dirt so soon!

  Raising her hand to shield her eyes, she saw that the speaker was the Asian guy, minus his hefty partner. “I'm sorry to bother you,” he said with a smile and a slight Japanese accent, “but I wanted to let you know that I was impressed by your remarks at the presentation this morning.”

  Bingo! Roberta felt a surge of triumph, then struggled to hold on to a more cautious attitude. Let's not jump to conclusions, she warned herself. It's just possible that he might only be tr ying to pick me up .

  “Thank you,” Roberta answered in English. The more she thought about it, the more she thought she recognized this guy from the talk on gene therapy. “I thought it was a fascinating topic.” She started to offer to shake, then realized that her hands were full of pizza and gelato. Oops! She hastily placed the half-eaten gelato between her feet, switched the pizza slice to her left hand, wiped off the right on her skirt, then stretched out her open and not-too-greasy palm. “Veronica Neary, but you can call me Ronnie.”

  If the cheesy residue on her hand bothered the young man, he gave no sign of it. “Dr. Walter Takagi,” he introduced himself, giving her hand a firm shake. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Ditto.” Roberta shifted right to put the sun fully behind her, hoping to locate her other shadow. Looking up the stairs, past Takagi, she spotted his enormous partner near the top of the steps, having his portrait sketched by one of the ubiquitous street artists. Rather ominously, he kept his shades on while posing seated upon a stool that looked two sizes too small, his opaque gaze studiously directed away from Roberta and his accomplice. Now, this guy's probably a pro, she surmised, wondering why they had decided to let the amateur make the first approach.

  “So, you're here for the conference, too?” she asked, as casually as possible. Now that she had possibly hit the jackpot, she wasn't entirely sure what to do next. Just play it by ear, she told herself. The most important thing now was not to scare either of the two men away.

  “Exactly,” Takagi said warmly, as though they were old friends. “You're American, correct?”

  “That's right,” she said. “From the University of Washington, in Seattle.” She lied confidently, knowing that Seven had already established a paper trail backing up her fictitious identity, just in case anyone felt inclined to check up on her. There was even a fully furnished apartment in Seattle's U. district, complete with a working phone number, newspaper and magazine subscriptions, photo albums, diplomas, and all the other accoutrements of Ronnie Neary's imaginary existence.

  “That was a pretty brave position you took this morning,” Takagi observed, “especially given most people's irrational aversion to radical genetic engineering for its own sake.” She noted that he did not volunteer any information about where he was working these days. “Not everyone would be willing to go out on a limb like that, particularly at so public a forum.” He eyed Roberta hopefully. “Were those your actual views on the subject, or were you just playing devil's advocate?”

  Roberta told him exactly what she figured he wanted to hear. “Not at all. Recombinant DNA research is the most exciting thing to come around since the discovery of the wheel. I really think it can change humanity—for the better, of course.”

  “Me, too!” Takagi exclaimed. His dark brown eyes lighted up at the prospect. “We may be the first generation to actually take control of our own biological destiny. It's a chance to create a whole new world, full of better, healthier, and more intelligent people.”

  “A veritable genetic golden age,” she suggested, finding Takagi's optimism and enthusiasm surprisingly infectious. He certainly didn't seem like the sort of person to be mixed up in the kind of sinister experiments Seven envisioned, let alone the abduction of his fellow scientists. Maybe we're barking up the wrong tree here, she mused.

  “Hey, I like that!” he said encouragingly. “The Golden Age of Genetics, that's a good phrase.” He pulled a small spiral notebook from his pocket and jotted the slogan down. “Sounds like we're on the same wavelength,” he continued. “In fact, I may know about a project that might intrigue you.” He paused momentarily, glancing upward at his burly . . . bodyguard? Baby-sitter? “I'm really not at liberty to discuss the details right now, but perhaps we could discuss it later, over drinks or something?”

  “I'd like that,” Roberta said, trying to sound interested, but not too interested. “Are you staying at the Hotel Palaestro?”

  After another hesitant pause, Takagi revealed that he was indeed rooming at the same hotel as Roberta. They agreed to meet later that evening at the hotel bar. “Great,” he concluded, giving her a parting nod. “I'll let you finish your lunch then. Nice meeting you, Dr. Neary.”

  Without a backward glance at either Roberta or his former companion, he marched down the wide marble steps to the piazza below, swiftly disappearing into the milling crowd of tourists, artists, and flower vendors. She waited to see if Mighty Joe Young would take off after him, but, no, the other man didn't budge from his perch at the top of the stairs. Looks like I've still got a shadow, she realized. He's probably waiting to see what I do next.

  It was kind of a frustrating situation. Roberta would have liked to run after Takagi and tail him back to the conference, if that indeed was where he was heading, but that was hardly an option while she was under observation herself. A mental image of King Kong following her following Takagi produced a rueful smile. Nobody ever said international espionage was going to be easy.

  Instead she had no choice but to play it cool and let the idealistic young scientist go, confident that they would meet again as planned. If he wanted to make a break for it, she assured herself, he didn't need to make an appointment with me first—unless that was just to lull me into a false sense of security.

  She glanced at her wristwatch. It was nearly one P. M. Over six hours to go before she hooked up again with Takagi. She sighed loudly; it was going to be a long, anxious afternoon, most likely with the world's largest secret admirer for company. Washing down one last bite of pizza with a swallow of Fresca, she started down the steps. Producing a compact from the depths of her macrame purse, she peeked in the mirror at Magilla Gorilla. Sure enough, he started moving again as soon as she did, thrusting a handful of lira at a surprised artist and leaving his unfinished portrait behind.

  Just to play it safe, she turned left when she reached the Bernini fountain at the foot of the stairs, heading off in the opposite direction than Takagi had. The distinction between roadway and sidewalk turned out to be a blurry one, and she had to step briskly to avoid collisions with the ever-present Vespa motor scooters. Not too surprisingly, her large and silent pursuer managed to keep up with her. Yep, she thought. Definitely a long day ahead.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  811 EAST 68TH STREET, APT. 12- B

  NEW YORK CITY

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  MAY 14, 1974

  THE SIGN ON THE OUTER DOOR NOW READ AEGIS SCIENTIFIC SUPPLIES, Inc., a small but essential detail in the sting operation Gary Seven had taken pains to set into motion over the past two months. Now, if fortune was on his side, his efforts were about to bring him one step closer to the answers he sought.

  “Mr. Offenhouse to see you, sir,” his newly hired temporary receptionist informed him over the intercom. Unlike Roberta, this young woman, whom he'd hired for the morning primarily to maintain appearances, had no idea that Seven and his business were anything more than they appeared.

  “Thank you, Allison,�
� he replied. “I'll be right out.” He depressed a concealed switch on his desk and the nearby Beta 5 computer station, all gleaming steel and brightly flashing display panels, swung inward, vanishing into a hidden recess in the wall. As the futuristic terminal disappeared, an ordinary-looking bookcase rotated into place, concealing the Beta 5 entirely from sight. Scientific manuals and catalogues now occupied the bookshelves that had, up until recently, held encyclopedias and reference tomes: yet another part of the misleading facade Seven had carefully constructed.

  He took a moment to survey the office, confirming that its trappings were all 1974- standard, then straightened his tie and headed out to the foyer to greet his visitor.

  “Good morning, Mr. Offenhouse,” he said. A clock on the wall revealed that it was exactly 9: 05 A. M. The newcomer was punctual, if nothing else. “Thank you for coming by.”

  “Let's hope it's worth my time,” the other man answered brusquely. An American businessman in his late thirties, Ralph Offenhouse strode forward and took Seven's hand, squeezing it forcefully. Standard alpha-male behavior, Seven recalled, not unlike a Klingon greeting ritual, although somewhat less bloody. He squeezed back with equal force, as the customs of this era expected him to. “Why don't we step into my office and get down to business then,” he suggested. “Allison, please hold my calls.”

  Aside from Roberta or Isis, he wasn't really expecting to hear from anybody, but Seven judged that it was important to present the appearance of a thriving business.

  “Sounds good to me,” Offenhouse agreed. He stepped through the interior door into Seven's personal office. Shrewd brown eyes inspected the room's furnishings, assessing their worth and state of repair. “Not a bad place you've got here,” he conceded eventually. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down on the couch and waited for Seven to take his place behind the obsidian-and-walnut desk. A translucent green cube sat like a paperweight atop various phony reports and invoices.

  “Can I offer you a drink?” Seven asked. Offenhouse shook his head. “No thanks,” he said, glancing at an expensive Rolex wristwatch. “I'm a busy man, so let's not waste time with formalities.” He stared across the room at Seven, establishing eye contact. “Like I said on the phone, I saw your ad in that magazine. Are those prices for real?”

  Knowing that any project involving large-scale genetic engineering would require quantities of specialized equipment, Seven had placed a prominent ad in a number of popular science and medical trade magazines, offering sophisticated biotech apparatus at discount prices. Most of the inquiries generated by the ad had come from institutions and individuals that checked out as entirely aboveboard and innocuous; those deals he had quietly allowed to fall through, except for a few especially deserving clinics and research projects that he didn't mind subsidizing indirectly. Offenhouse was different; from their earlier discussions on the phone, Seven had sensed something covert, evasive, and promisingly illicit about the man's approach.

  Subsequent biographical research had revealed that Offenhouse was a self-made entrepreneur with a history of faintly shady dealings. Marketing thalidomide in the Third World, for instance, long after the mutagenic tranquilizer had been discredited in the more advanced industrial nations, and investing in primitive cryogenics projects that sold a dubious promise of prolonged existence to the desperate, the fearful, and the terminally ill. Furthermore, he possessed no known connection to any reputable scientific organizations. Assuming Offenhouse doesn't want the equipment for himself, Seven wondered, whom is he fronting for?

  “The prices are as advertised,” he informed Offenhouse, removing his servo from his coat pocket and fiddling with it as though it were merely an ordinary silver pen. In this manner he instructed the crystalline cube on his desk to record the conversation for future reference and analysis. Later on, after Offenhouse departed, he could then examine his visitor's voice patterns to determine when and if the pugnacious businessman was telling the truth.

  “Is that so?” Offenhouse said. Beneath bushy black eyebrows, dark eyes regarded Seven suspiciously. “What's your angle, Seven? How can you afford to unload this gear so cheap?”

  “Excess inventory,” Seven lied smoothly. “It costs too much to store this quantity of equipment on a long-term basis. In addition, I'd rather sell off the majority of my stock now, before the next generation of technology renders my inventory obsolete.”

  Offenhouse appeared only partly appeased by Seven's explanation. “What about quality?” he demanded. “I'm not going to pay good money for junk. I insist on inspecting the merchandise before payment.”

  “Of course,” Seven agreed. “My instruments are all state-of-the-art and in excellent condition, as you can certainly see for yourself upon delivery.”

  Offenhouse glanced around the office, as if half-expecting to see a stockpile of electron microscopes or gel electrophoresis units tucked away in a corner of the room. Rising from the couch, he removed a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Seven. “Here's a rundown of what I'm looking for, and in what quantities. You think you can meet this order?”

  Seven unfolded the document and scanned its contents. He nodded to himself, seeing more or less exactly what he had expected. If I wanted to perform serious genetic resequencing using twentieth-century Earth technology, he thought, these are the rather crude instruments I would need to obtain. The large volume of apparatus requested was also ominous, implying experimentation on a disturbingly ambitious scale. “A quite impressive list,” he commented. “May I ask what you need all this equipment for?”

  “Frankly, that's none of your business,” Offenhouse stated bluntly. “Mine either, for that matter. All you need to know is that I've been commissioned by a private consortium to handle various business transactions for them, preferably without attracting a lot of attention.”

  Seven feigned a worried expression. “This isn't anything illegal, is it?”

  “We're not talking South American drug lords, if that's bothering you.” Offenhouse never took his intent gaze off the man he was trying to convince, almost daring Seven to contradict him. “This is all about science, and research, and not letting some other crew of eggheads get the jump on you before you're ready to go public with your big-deal discovery. Between you and me, Seven, I don't care if my clients are trying to cure the common cold or clone Elvis Presley, just so long as I get my commission. If you're smart, you won't worry about it either. Just take the money and run.”

  “I don't know,” Seven hedged, hoping to draw more information from his visitor. “It all sounds a bit . . . unorthodox.”

  Offenhouse slapped his palms down on the desktop between him and Seven, thrusting his scowling face forward. “Look, Seven, let me put all my cards on the table. I'm willing to pay you twice what you're asking for everything on that list, provided there are no questions asked. So, do we have a deal or not?”

  The more he heard, the more convinced Gary Seven was that this brash, overbearing businessman provided a link to whatever secret project was responsible for the disappearance of so many of the world's top scientists. All he needed to do now was to let Offenhouse lead him one step closer to the truth.

  “Very well, Mr. Offenhouse,” he said readily. “You've got a deal.”

  CHRYSALIS BASE

  LOCATION: CLASSIFIED

  “You asked to see me, Director?”

  “Yes,” Sarina Kaur answered from the midst of Chrysalis's communal garden. Cool water sprayed from the lotus-shaped fountain at the center of a tiled courtyard surrounded by ferns and fragrant orchids. Now six months pregnant, Kaur sat upon a white cane bench beneath the leafy bough of a mango tree, genetically engineered to bear refreshing fruit all year long. Solar lamps installed in the high domed ceiling simulated the light of a pleasant spring afternoon. Kaur found the tranquil atmosphere of the garden highly conducive to contemplation; she often came here when, as now, there was a difficult decision to be made.

  “Than
k you for coming, Dr. Singer,” she continued, putting aside the plate of chicken tikka she had been having for a late dinner. Despite a distinct Indian lilt, her English was impeccable. “Especially at such short notice, and at this hour.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Joel Singer said a little too quickly. His white lab coat was stained from the day's experiments and he shuffled nervously, not quite making eye contact with his superior at the project. “Er, what's this all about anyway?”

  Kaur inspected the youthful American biochemist. A slender white male with curly black hair, Singer had come to them directly upon completing his postgraduate studies at Columbia and Johns Hopkins. At the time, he had seemed like quite a catch: talented, enthusiastic, and committed. Now, however, she had reason to doubt their initial assessment, especially where the latter trait was concerned. Too bad we have yet to isolate a gene for loyalty.

  A manila envelope rested beside her on the bench. She picked up the envelope and handed it to the younger scientist, who had to step forward to receive it. “I was hoping you could explain this,” she stated.

  The temperature in the garden was cool and comfortable, yet beads of perspiration broke out upon Singer's unlined brow. He gulped as he opened the envelope and drew out the documents inside: several sheets of stationery marked with his own handwriting. Beneath a carefully cultivated tan, the American's face went pale.

  “How did you get this?” he blurted. “You've been reading my mail?” He tried to muster an air of righteous indignation, with only partial success. “You had no right . . . this was private, personal!”

  Such predictable behavior saddened Kaur. “Now, Joel, you know we have to maintain the tightest security here. Secrecy is essential to the project. You were told that from the beginning.” Perhaps we chose him too hastily, she thought with more than a twinge of regret. If so, then this is partly our fault.