by Greg Cox
She let the stampeding horde carry her along, jostling her on all sides as the hysterical throng abandoned the book district. Fine with me, she thought; there was a busy Underground station a few blocks away, where she could disappear completely into the sprawling city, prior to making her way to her and Seven’s nearest safehouse. A discarded plastic mask, lying atop a trash bin, caught her eye, and she snatched it up as she went by. She fastened it over her face, just to be safe. It was a “Barney” mask, just her luck, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. The crowd soon thinned as it dispersed into the various streets and alleys leading away from Charing Cross Road. A safe distance away from the site of the implosion, Roberta paused and looked back the way she’d come, hearing the shrill howl of sirens converging upon her former address.
“Damn,” she muttered, finally allowing herself a moment to mourn the passing of the bookshop, and all the precious personal effects and equipment it had contained. Another secret headquarters up in smoke, she grieved, shaking her head. It hadn’t been easy installing the transporter vault and Beta 6 computer into an ordinary London flat, especially when many of the key components needed to be beamed in from another solar system. She wasn’t looking forward to setting up shop somewhere else, all over again. A tear rolled down the face of a plastic purple dinosaur. She liked living in London, darn it, despite the weather and the food. . . .
At Leicester Square, just outside the entrance to the Underground, she saw a holiday bonfire roaring atop a concrete traffic island. Grotesque parodies of Mike Tyson and Camilla Parker-Bowles were going up in smoke as delighted onlookers hooted and hollered in approval. Would a papier-mâché caricature of Khan someday be consigned to the flames, to the cheers of all humanity?
We can only hope, she thought.
CHAPTER FOUR
PALACE OF THE GREAT KHAN
CHANDIGARH, INDIA
NOVEMBER 6, 1992
IT WAS WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT, BUT KHAN WAS NOT AT ALL FATIGUED. One of the special privileges of being a superior being was that he required very little sleep to function at the height of his abilities; merely two or three hours a night sufficed. This, he believed, was as it should be. He had far too much to accomplish to waste hours of his life in idle slumber. “Watch yourself, my friend!” he warned Joaquin, as he sparred with his bodyguard in the palace’s well-equipped modern gymnasium. Sweat glistened on Khan’s muscular chest. He swung his rattan training sword, or soti, at his faithful protector, who defended himself with a marati, a staff of fire-hardened bamboo bearing heavy wooden spheres at both ends. They circled each other on padded mats while honing their skills at gatka, the centuries-old martial art of Khan’s fierce Sikh ancestors. Khan had studied gatka since he was a child, and it remained his preferred form of exercise, especially when his mind was troubled, as it was tonight.
Why have I not heard back from the retrieval squad? he wondered. His agents should have reported the capture of Seven and Roberta Lincoln by now. Has something gone amiss with the London operation?
He slashed again at Joaquin, who deftly blocked the attack with his bamboo shaft, then thrust the forward end of the marati at Khan. A solid ironwood sphere came flying at his head, and Khan pivoted on his heel, barely escaping the blow. “A near miss!” he congratulated Joaquin. “Excellent!”
Even as he fought a mock battle against the stolid Israeli strongman, Khan simultaneously listened to Ament’s latest report on domestic affairs in the Punjab and elsewhere. The clash of wood upon wood punctuated the trenchant words of his most elegant advisor.
“Inflation remains a problem throughout the country,” she informed Khan, standing several paces away from the edge of the training mat, “although there has been a welcome upturn in foreign investment, in part because of the rigorous fiscal policies we have mandated through our proxies in New Delhi. Along those lines, a consortium of Japanese and American investors have applied for permits to build a state-of-the-art auto factory outside Haryana, which would significantly relieve unemployment in that region. The so-called ‘official’ government is likely to approve the project; we should grant our blessing as well.”
Khan trusted Ament’s judgment in such matters. “Very well,” he agreed. Despite his strenuous exertions, he spoke with no shortness of breath. “Let it be so.”
In truth, his mind was elsewhere, and not only because he found the great game of war and conquest rather more compelling than dry economics. How could he concentrate on inflation rates and unemployment figures when this very night his commandos were striking out at his enemies two continents away? It is almost eight o’clock in London, he calculated, parrying another lunge from Joaquin with the curved mahogany guard of his sword’s hilt. He retaliated by slashing at the bodyguard’s head and shoulders with such blinding speed that Joaquin was barely able to defend himself.
“Great Khan! I have news!” An officer of his intelligence force ran into the gym, distracting Khan just as Joaquin jabbed at Khan with one end of his staff. The weighted ironwood sphere slammed into Khan’s chest, knocking him off his feet. He landed flat on his back upon the mat, the protective padding only partly blunting the impact of his fall.
“Your Excellency!” Joaquin sounded positively mortified. Dropping the marati where he stood, the stricken bodyguard rushed forward to offer Khan a hand up. Ament chuckled softly as, with Joaquin’s oversolicitous assistance, Khan quickly climbed back onto his feet. An ugly purple bruise was already forming where the dense wooden globe had struck him, over his breastbone. “A thousand pardons, sire!” Joaquin stammered. His usually impassive face was uncharacteristically animated. “I did not mean—”
Khan dismissed his servant’s apologies with a wave of his hand, just as he ignored Ament’s amusement at his expense. He gave his full attention to the newly arrived courier. “Speak,” he commanded, speaking in English to keep his urgent inquiries from the ears of the palace’s native-born staff of servants and attendants. “What is the word from London?”
The intelligence officer—an Asian woman named Suzette Ling, whom Khan had known as a child at Chrysalis—shuffled uncomfortably. Khan knew at once that the news was bad. “Most of the retrieval team was caught in an explosion at the site of the operation. It is unclear how many survived.”
Khan scowled, appalled already at this apparent debacle. “And the targets?”
“The fate of the older American is unknown,” Ling reported, “but the woman was clearly seen escaping the structure moments before its collapse.” She nervously eyed the rattan sword still gripped in Khan’s clenched fist. “Her present whereabouts are also unknown.”
The apprehensive officer need not have feared Khan’s wrath. A truly superior leader did not waste his fury punishing the messenger. No, Khan reserved his anger and disappointment for the actual wellspring of his present frustration: Gary Seven and his indefatigable Girl Friday.
Damn them! he thought. Seizing the soti with both hands, he snapped the practice sword in half, the sharp report echoing in the open space of the gymnasium. How long must I put up with their self-righteous interference? It was all so unnecessary; he had graciously offered Seven and Ms. Lincoln a truce years ago, promising to leave them be provided they did not get in the way of his inevitable rise to power. Yet the insufferable pair had flagrantly trampled on his proffered olive branch, inserting themselves time and again into affairs in which they had no place. The Lincoln woman’s recent attempt to sabotage the launching of Morning Star was only the latest in a never-ending series of effronteries committed by Khan’s sanctimonious former associates. Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; he thought, recalling the cogent advice of the Bard. Suffer them now and they’ll overgrow the garden. . . .
Cold fury gripped his heart. He threw the broken fragments of his sword onto the floor and ground them into splinters beneath his heel. “Will no one rid me of these infernal meddlers?” he snarled venomously.
Puzzlement gave way to anger upon Ament’s refined fea
tures. “What is this operation you speak of?” An icy tone revealed her displeasure. “Why was I not informed of this?”
“There was no need,” Khan stated, his tone softening as he attempted to placate the offended counselor. “Yours is a gracious and nurturing nature, dear lady, best suited to securing the blessings of peace and prosperity for all who dwell within my realm. Do not trouble yourself with the crueler necessities of power.” He stared into her striking amber eyes, admiring as always the keen intelligence he found there. “Let me bear that shadow upon my conscience, without burdening yours as well.”
Ament appeared unswayed by his flattery. “Such antiquated sexism, disguised as chivalry, hardly becomes a new breed of leader,” she said sarcastically. “Furthermore, reckless adventurism of this sort compromises my efforts to procure the very blessings you mention. The World Bank, for instance, whose financial assistance would greatly assist our plans to improve South Asia’s infrastructure and economy, frowns on covert military operations conducted on the soil of member nations.” Her voice took on a milder tone, sounding more regretful than irate. “You make it too easy for the rest of the world to dismiss you as a terrorist.”
“Perhaps,” Khan stated skeptically. He accepted Ament’s cautious chidings, but only so far. “Yet do not forget that, ultimately, it is the world that must bend to my will, not the other way around.” He clapped his hands and a servant ran forward to offer him a towel and a fresh robe. He wiped the perspiration from his body, then let the anonymous menial drape the brocaded silk robe over his shoulders. “Not everything can be accomplished by diplomacy and negotiation, Lady Ament. Sometimes our swords must play the orators for us. That is the way of the world.”
Suzette Ling stepped forward. “In fact,” she hastened to point out, painfully eager to find a piece of positive news to report, “there is little chance that the mishap in London will be linked to your regime, Great Khan. The British press is already blaming the explosion on the IRA.”
Ament released a derisive sigh. “Let us be thankful for small favors,” she said wryly. “The less in the headlines, the better.”
“You think so?” Khan challenged her. Beneath his controlled exterior, bitter resentment and frustration churned within his heart, threatening to flood his soul with bile. “In truth, I grow weary of such subterfuge and misdirection, of skulking behind scapegoats and cover stories. I would prefer to fight my battles in the open, to reveal my true nature and destiny to the world.”
Once again, Ament counseled caution. “Impatience will be your fatal flaw, Lord Khan, unless you learn to let the future unfold at its own pace. Recall that, for all our genetic superiority, our kind is still vastly outnumbered by those merely human. Better for now to let the world’s teeming masses believe that you are one of them; there is no need for them to know otherwise, and knowledge of your true, superhuman nature could well trigger visceral fears on the part of the populace.”
Prudence warred with ego as Khan considered her words, which were not without wisdom, he admitted reluctantly. As much as it galled him to lurk behind the scenes of world affairs, scrupulously keeping out of the spotlight, he had to concede that much of mankind would not welcome—more, would react in unreasoning fear to—the advent of a genetically superior ruling class.
Indeed, he reflected, recent events in India provided a sobering cautionary example that lent considerable credence to Ament’s arguments. The present government’s well-meaning attempts to abolish India’s insidious caste system, by such measures as affirmative action for lower-caste and “Untouchable” citizens, had met with violent opposition from upper-caste Hindus who saw their privileged status and lifestyles slipping away. Many thousands of young Brahmans and Kashtriyas had staged marches and demonstrations against the government’s policies, some even going so far as to set themselves on fire in protest.
The old order always resists the coming of the new, Khan mused. If India’s intractable intercaste conflicts, which were based on entirely artificial distinctions between ordinary men and women, could yield so much fanatical hatred and bloodshed, what destructive passions might be roused by mere humanity’s too-sudden discovery that they had been surpassed by their genetic betters? Best, perhaps, to lead the masses toward this realization slowly.
“Your caution is well-founded,” he acknowledged, tipping his head at Ament, who accepted his concession with her usual poise and grace. Khan beckoned to Joaquin, summoning the vigilant bodyguard to his side. Servants scurried to clean up after Khan’s training session, rescuing stray towels and weapons from the floor of the gym. “Yet be assured that the day will come, when long-suffering humanity has no choice but to turn to us for deliverance, that the name of Khan shall be known and respected throughout the Earth.”
“Of course, my lord,” Ament agreed readily. She joined Joaquin behind Khan as he exited the gym, toward the waiting world beyond. The sun had yet to rise in Chandigarh, but night would yield to dawn soon enough. “That much is fated.”
CHAPTER FIVE
PLEXICORP INC.
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
UNITED STATES
MARCH 15, 1993
IMMORTALITY ON ICE? VISIT THE HEAVENS WITHOUT EVER DYING? Walter Nichols fiddled with the latest cryosatellite designs while trying to come up with the right advertising slogan for his proposed new business venture. The ad campaign had to strike just the right note, he knew; convincing terminally ill people to have themselves frozen and launched into space was going to be a tough sell at first. He was convinced, though, that cryosatellites were sure to be the next big thing, offering hope to the hopeless—and huge potential profits to the first savvy entrepreneur bold enough to get in on the ground floor. A Cure Is Coming? Wake Up to a Healthier Future? The intercom on his desk buzzed. “Yes?” he asked impatiently, annoyed at the interruption.
“There are some gentlemen here to see you, Dr. Nichols,” his secretary, Madeleine, reported from her desk outside his office. Closed Venetian blinds insulated him from the distractions beyond the woodpaneled walls surrounding him, just as his woolly brown cardigan kept him comfortable in the air-conditioned confines of his office.
“Tell them to make an appointment. I’m busy right now.” He squinted through his thick glasses at the diagrams spread out atop his walnut desk. Out-of-shape and overworked, Walter’s pudgy form leaned over the much-revised blueprints. The cryonic units still need work, he decided; he wasn’t entirely satisfied with the primary refrigeration system. Maybe a backup conduction array, diverting more body heat out into space?
To his surprise, the door to his office swung open and three strangers walked in uninvited. In the lead was a clean-cut young man wearing an Air Force uniform; he had the rugged good looks of a hotshot military flyboy. He was flanked by two other men who resembled Secret Service agents, complete with dark suits, shades, earpieces, and stern, unsmiling expressions. Walter wasn’t sure, but he thought he spotted suspiciously gun-shaped bulges beneath the men’s conservative black jackets. “Wha—who?” he gasped, unsure whether to be irritated or alarmed.
Madeleine appeared in the doorway behind the intruders, looking flustered and confused. “I’m sorry, Dr. Nichols,” she stammered, “but they insisted—they’re from the government!”
The Air Force officer flashed a piece of ID before Walter’s eyes. “Lieutenant Shaun Christopher, United States Air Force,” he identified himself. The ID looked authentic, although Walter wasn’t sure he’d recognize a forgery if he saw one. “Are you Dr. Walter Nichols, manager and owner of Plexicorp, Incorporated?”
Walter nodded. He tugged nervously on the collar of his shirt, loosening his tie. All of a sudden, his cozy office felt much too warm.
“My apologies for barging in like this, Dr. Nichols,” Lt. Christopher said, “but I’m afraid I have to ask you to come with me.”
Walter gulped. His heart raced faster than one of those new Pentium processors everyone was hyping these days. “Right now?”
Madeleine looked on, utterly dumbfounded, as Lt. Christopher and his two taciturn associates escorted Walter out of his office. Unlike his bewildered secretary, however, Walter had the awful suspicion that he knew what this was all about. Those guys back in ’84, he thought anxiously. That so-called professor from Edinburgh and his cronies. The ones who gave me the formula.
Truth to tell, Walter had been dreading a visit like this for close to a decade, ever since two enigmatic strangers had walked into his office one day, claiming to be visitors from Scotland, and bribed him with a revolutionary molecular formula that, after many long hours of experimentation and analysis, had allowed Walter to buy out Plexicorp from its original owners—and send the company’s stock soaring toward the stratosphere. I always knew there was something fishy about that bunch, he groaned inwardly, castigating himself for his own greed and lack of caution. Professor Scott of Edinburgh, indeed! Who knew where those shady characters actually came from. His stomach churned angrily, and he groped for the bottle of Tums on his desk. What if the formula was a classified military secret? I could be charged with espionage!
Without further explanation, Lt. Christopher led Nichols to the helipad on Plexicorp’s roof, where, nine years ago, Professor Scott’s Asian accomplice had flown away from Plexicorp with a huge sheet of six-inch-thick plastic. Now an unmarked black helicopter waited on the very same pad to spirit Walter off to God knows where. Minutes later, they were in the air, with Walter strapped into one of the rear seats, next to Lt. Christopher.
