Star Trek: The Eugenics War, Vol. 1

by Greg Cox

  “No harm done, young lady,” Reagan assured her. He and Gorbachev both looked anxious to put the bizarre incident behind them. Somehow I'm guessing this won't make the official press release, Roberta thought, figuring that all parties involved were pretty much equally embarrassed. “So, Mikhail,” Reagan said expansively, taking Gorbachev by the arm and guiding him toward the buffet table. “What do you say we sample some of our hosts' fine cuisine?”

  Translating on the run, Roberta hustled to keep up with the gabbing world leaders, sparing only a second to glance over her shoulder at that suspicious-looking young aide, who looked on the verge of fainting, perhaps from relief that he hadn't actually killed the leader of a major world superpower. I'll have to tip off our contact in the CIA about that guy, she realized, making a mental note to do so at the earliest possible opportunity. Or maybe Seven will want his friend McCall to “equalize” the culprit?

  In the meantime, she quietly congratulated herself ( and, okay, Isis) on a job well done, even if she suspected that it would take more than some briny hors d'oeuvres to bridge the gap between Reagan's and Gorbachev's positions on SDI. That was their negotiators' problem, though, not hers. She had succeed at the absolutely essential task of keeping Gorby alive.

  How's that for a new twist in espionage? she thought, a mischievous smirk creeping onto her face. This has to be the first time an undercover agent has ever saved the day by spilling the beans!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  811 EAST 68TH STREET, APT. 12- B

  NEW YORK CITY

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  NOVEMBER 9, 1989

  THE BERLIN WALL WAS COMING DOWN, AND ROBERTA WAS STUCK watching it on TV. CNN, to be precise, which she was monitoring via the Beta 5. On the supercomputer's circular display screen, hordes of ecstatic Germans, from both East and West, celebrated atop the nowobsolete Wall, while others went at the hated, graffiti-covered barricade with picks and hammers. Honking horns, pealing bells, and jubilant cheers joined with the pounding techno music blaring from dozens of boom boxes to effectively drown out the earnest efforts of on-site news commentators to provide a historical context for the riotous festivities. Tears flowed, and champagne bottles popped, as the city, divided for nearly three decades, came together once more.

  It looked like one heck of a party, and Roberta was sorely tempted to get in on the action. Leaning back in Seven's well-worn suede chair, her feet upon the now-creaky walnut desk, she eyed the empty matter-transmission vault speculatively, then sighed and shook her head. As much as she wanted to hop the Blue Smoke Express to Berlin, Seven was counting on her to hold down the fort while he and Isis finished off their mission in Bulgaria, where even now they were working behind-the-scenes to insure that the collapse of that country's thirty-five-year-old Communist government took place in a peaceful manner. Seven and the cat been gone for hours now with no word, but Roberta wasn't too concerned yet. So far, the Iron Curtain appeared to be melting away with surprisingly little blood and thunder.

  Who would have ever imagined it? Roberta thought, agog at the rapidfire changes transforming the face of Eastern Europe. She and Seven had been working overtime for weeks now, trying to keep one step ahead of what appeared to be the complete and total meltdown of the Warsaw Pact. Not that she was complaining, of course; she still had vivid memories of being chased toward the Berlin Wall by barking guard dogs and trigger-happy East German soldiers, like that time she and Seven pilfered those files from the Russian Embassy. Good grief, she thought, with apologies to Charlie Brown. Was that really fifteen years ago?

  Roberta suddenly felt very old. She had turned forty a few months ago, and though her shoulder-length hair was still honey-blond, the color came out of a bottle these days. She liked to think that she'd held on to her figure, though; if nothing else, saving the world on a near-weekly basis gave her plenty of exercise. It's certainly been an interesting couple of decades, she reflected philosophically. She'd traveled the world ( and several places beyond), visited both the past and the future, risked her life a couple zillion times, and, most important, helped make the world a better place.

  After a rocky start, what with AIDS and the Iran hostage crisis and all, the eighties seemed to ending with peace and democracy and positive vibrations breaking out all over, as if the entire world had just taken a Prozac. So much for the Cold War, she mused, munching on a slice of pineapple pizza and trying not to drip any melted cheese onto her turtleneck sweater and old bell-bottoms. Wonder if this means that Seven and I are finally out of work?

  As if in response to her unspoken query, the door to Seven's office came open with a bang. A single powerful kick was enough to knock the wooden door, which Roberta had conscientiously locked before rotating the Beta 5 out from its hiding place behind the bookcase, right off its hinges. Caught by surprise, with her feet still awkwardly perched on top of the desk, she choked on her pizza as a trio of intruders barged into the office, led by a bearded young man wearing a snow-white turban and a red Nehru jacket. Roberta recognized the invader at once, even though she hadn't laid eyes on him for at least five years.

  “Khan!” She reached wildly for her servo, resting atop the desk, where she had actually been using it as a pen, to scribble down notes on a memo pad, but a single gunshot shattered the polished obsidian desktop directly between her and the servo, making her yank her hand back abruptly. Looking up in alarm, she spotted a Glock automatic pistol, complete with silencer, in the youthful superman's grip. Guess he's graduated from killer Frisbees, she noted acerbically, recalling Seven's description of the deadly chakram s Khan had employed in Moscow a few years back.

  “No tricks or ill-considered heroics, please,” he warned her calmly, striding confidently toward her. He pocketed the servo while keeping the Glock aimed directly at her heart. “Good evening, Ms. Lincoln.” He boldly looked her over, his dark eyes appraising her without a hint of shame or discretion. Roberta was suddenly grateful that she'd gone with the bell-bottoms instead a miniskirt today. “The years have been kind to you.”

  “Thanks,” she said coolly. Shoving her chair back from the desk, she carefully lowered her feet to the carpet. “You're looking good, too, I suppose. Aside from the ugly black gun, that is.”

  Khan would be nearly twenty now, she calculated. No longer the wideeyed teen Seven had rescued from Delhi years ago, let alone the strangely charismatic toddler she had first met at Chrysalis way back in '74, he had only grown more impressive—and dangerous—over the intervening years. Magnetic brown eyes looked out on the world with complete assurance, while his deep voice and assertive manner were those of a born leader. Beneath the mandatory black beard, a Sikh tradition, his once-boyish features had evolved into those of a strikingly handsome young man. He could have been a model or movie star, Roberta figured, had not his lab-approved DNA and overweening arrogance steered him toward more grandiose and unsettling ambitions.

  Although Khan had been keeping a low profile since killing all those Soviet soldiers outside Lenin's Tomb in '86, Seven had tried, with mixed results, to keep track of the Indian superman's activities over the past few years. Unconfirmed rumors and reports had placed Khan all over Asia and the Indian subcontinent: inciting the 1987 prodemocracy uprising in South Korea, fighting alongside the Afghan rebels in their guerrilla war against the Soviet Union, and, perhaps most ominously, personally arranging the mysterious 1988 plane crash that killed General Zia ul-Haq, the leader of Pakistan's military government, leading to the eventual return of democracy in India's nearest neighbor and rival.

  Granted, not all such reports proved accurate. At one time, about four months ago, she and Seven had come to believe that Khan had, in fact, perished during the bloody government crackdown in Tiananmen Square—until equally unverifiable reports credited him with the supposedly “natural” death of the Ayatollah Khomeini on the very same day. Still, even if only half of what they had heard was true, Khan had certainly been keeping busy since '86, albeit in a sneakil
y covert way.

  Sarina Kaur would be very proud of her son, Roberta thought, which isn't necessarily good news for the rest of us. Her gaze crept furtively toward the green translucent cube resting atop the desk like a snazzy crystal paperweight. The cube was actually a portable, artificially intelligent interface with the Beta 5. If I can just get my hands on that cube for a few moments, I might be able to send a distress signal to Seven—or even Isis!

  “So who are your new buddies?” she asked Khan, stalling for time. She tipped her head toward the two strangers flanking Khan. They looked like hired muscle to her, with beefy bodies and silent, sullen expressions. One was Arab in appearance, while the other looked African, but they were both too homely and thuggish-looking to be genetically engineered, which provided Roberta with some small measure of relief. One new-and-improved Ubermensch was more than enough.

  “Why, these are but two of my many followers,” Khan said grandly, introducing the brutish pair with a sweeping gesture. “They share my vision of the new world order to come, in which, at long last, the suffering masses of humanity will be governed by those, such as myself, best equipped to manage world affairs.” He glanced over at the Beta 5, which continued to display televised images of festive Germans dancing upon the disintegrating Wall, and nodded in approval. “This is my moment, Ms. Lincoln. In the imminent collapse of the once-mighty Soviet Union, I see a power void crying out to be filled by a new breed of superior men and women. The time draws near when I, and others like me, shall be able to step from the shadows to claim our rightful place as the destined rulers of humanity.”

  And the really scary thing is, Roberta thought with a shudder, he might actually be able to pull it off. But what was Khan talking about when he referred to “others” like him? Did that mean he knew where all the other Children of Chrysalis were hidden, scattered throughout the world? Please, God, no! she prayed. The very last thing the world needed was for Khan to unite his superhuman brothers and sisters in a joint effort to take over the planet!

  If Seven were here, she guessed, he would probably let Khan know in no uncertain terms what a bad idea it was to place total world power in the hands of a small genetic elite. He'd be right, too, she acknowledged, but I don't think Khan is in any mood to listen to anyone but himself.

  “What do you want here?” she asked Khan defiantly. Hiding her apprehensions behind her best poker face, she tried to match Khan's fearless bravado with some attitude of her own. “I ought to warn you. Gary Seven, and a whole squad of new recruits, are due back here any minute.”

  Khan laughed at her desperate bluff. “Don't be ridiculous, Ms. Lincoln. Seven is in Bulgaria; my spies spotted him there less than twenty minutes ago, along with that remarkably long-lived cat of his.” His gaze shifted to the empty matter-transmission vault. “Still, we are quite prepared should he attempt a sudden return via that quite miraculous device.” He crossed over to the open door of the vault, where he proceeded to physically rip out the switches and knobs controlling the transporter. With just one hand, he tore apart the dense solid-steel plating, exposing the flashing crystalline circuitry beneath. Then he stepped back and fired his gun directly into the naked apparatus. Fiery red sparks flashed as the delicate instrumentality was disrupted by a round of 9mm ammo.

  Roberta's heart sank. Nobody was 'porting anywhere, she realized, until some serious repairs were made. Guess I'm not getting to Berlin tonight. “Okay, now what?” she asked Khan glumly.

  “Now you remain quietly seated,” he informed her, “while I help myself to some key information that I suspect your sanctimonious employer had no intention of ever sharing with me.” He looked at his looming flunkies, then nodded at the unarmed woman behind the desk. “Watch her,” he ordered curtly, putting away his gun. He turned his back on Roberta and marched over to the Beta 5. The big Arab lumbered around the desk so that he could stand right behind the worried hostage. Meaty hands landed heavily on her shoulders, driving her deeper into the black suede chair.

  “Hey, watch the hands, Bluto!” she protested indignantly, eliciting only a grunt in response. Khan's other henchman stood, his arms crossed belligerently, in the empty space where the kicked-in door had once stood, blocking the only exit from the office now that the transporter had been disabled. This isn't good, Roberta thought, taking stock of her increasingly precarious situation. The green cube tantalized her, glinting atop the desk several inches away, not far from the spidery network of cracks radiating from the bullet hole Khan's automatic had left in the desk's black obsidian surface. The cube was easily within reach, if only the giant Arab were not watching her like a hawk. So near and yet so hard to get. . . !

  Khan faced the Beta 5. He stroked his thick black beard as he inspected the protruding control panel. Roberta found it hard to imagine that he could actually figure out how to operate the alien supercomputer, but, then again, who knew what his genetically engineered intellect was capable of?

  “Computer!” he commanded imperiously. “Cease transmission.”

  Multicolored strips of light blinked above the control shelf. “Voice pattern unknown,” the Beta 5 announced. “Please identify.”

  Roberta experienced a surge of hope. If anything on Earth could stand up to Khan Noonien Singh's indomitable will, it would be that snooty supercomputer. She still had no idea what exactly Khan wanted from the Beta 5, but she crossed her fingers and prayed that the computer would guard its precious data files like a mother Horta protecting its eggs.

  Khan scowled, not used to being disobeyed, then fished a small electronic patch from his pocket and placed it against his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was a dead-on re-creation of Gary Seven's somber intonations. Hey, Roberta protested silently, I thought only Seven could do that trick!

  “Computer,” he began again, this time sounding far too much like Seven. “Cease transmission.”

  To Roberta's chagrin, the deception appeared to work. “Voice pattern acknowledged. Identity confirmed, 194.” A series of electronic beeps accompanied the blinking lights. “Ceasing transmission.”

  CNN disappeared from the monitor, leaving the white circular screen blank. Khan nodded in approval, smiling coldly. “Computer, assemble all data concerning the status and current whereabouts of the genetically modified children conceived in India during the early 1970s. Check references for Chrysalis, Rajasthan . . . and Dr. Sarina Kaur.”

  “No!” Roberta blurted loudly, realizing what Khan was up to. He wants to find the other superkids! “Computer, override previous command! Maximum security!”

  The hulking Arab snarled and clamped an immense hand over her mouth. The other Terminator clone stalked toward Roberta angrily, raising his hand as if to strike her across the face. These guys remind me too much of my old sparring partner, Carlos, she decided, wincing in anticipation of the blow.

  “Hold!” Khan barked, fingering the patch at his throat so that he reverted to his own voice for the moment. He waved his hand, and the African enforcer retreated back to the doorway. “There is no need to injure a defenseless woman. Yet.”

  Roberta's sigh of relief was muffled by the intrusive palm covering the bottom half of her face. Nice to know Khan still has some scruples, she thought, even as she wondered how long his forbearance would last if he didn't get what he wanted. He's not getting anything out of me without a fight, she vowed.

  “See to it she remains silent,” Khan added, turning his attention back to the Beta 5. He took a deep breath, preparing himself, then spoke once more in Gary Seven's voice. “Computer, resume search for data concerning the Chrysalis Project and all surviving offspring engineered during its years of operation.”

  The computer beeped testily. “Unable to comply. All data relating to Chrysalis Project has been classified Highly Confidential. Zeta-level security protocols required to access data.”

  Khan frowned and shot a murderous glance at Roberta, who felt her projected life span shrink accordingly. “Computer,” he insisted firmly. �
�This is Gary Seven, 194. Disregard prior command by subordinate Roberta Lincoln. Access data immediately.”

  “Prior command irrelevant,” the Beta 5 stated stubbornly, not making things remotely easy for Khan, bless its obstructionist algorithms! “All material relating to Chrysalis was classified Highly Confidential by Supervisor 194 as of Terran date December 4, 1984. Zeta-level protocols required.”

  Snarling, Khan clenched his fists in frustration while Roberta savored his apparent defeat. How about that? she thought, impressed by Seven's obvious foresight. December '84 . . . let's see, that would have been right after that big blowup in Antarctica—and that horrible disaster in Bhopal. Seven must have locked the Chrysalis files down tight as soon as he realized that Khan was likely to become a problem. Beneath the hand clamped over her face, a sassy grin appeared. For all Khan's brilliance and Taj Mahal – sized ego, Seven was already way ahead of him!

  But the determined wunderkind refused to give up. Concentrating with fierce intensity upon the Beta 5's control panel, he began operating the instrument. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed and confidence, his fingers danced over the controls, flipping switches and keying in commands at a frightening pace. In response, the blinking colored lights started flashing faster and faster, while the Beta 5's high-pitched electronic voice acquired an almost hysterical tone.

  “Error! Error!” the computer chirped. “System parameters under attack. Halt! Cease illegal operations immediately. Error! Reporting unauthorized breach of autonomous analytical criteria. Stop! Halt! Error! Security protocols degrading. Error! Error! Error. . . .”

  I don't believe it! Roberta thought aghast. He's hacking into the Beta 5! She didn't think it was possible, but within minutes the computer's frantic protests fell silent while Khan continued to manipulate the Beta 5's controls as though he were some cyberpunk computer cowboy straight out of a William Gibson novel. “Accessing all relevant files on Project Chrysalis,” the Beta 5 reported robotically. Roberta halfexpected the lobotomized computer to start singing “Daisy” at any moment. “Preparing storage medium as requested.”