by Greg Cox
The cold hand of fear clutched his heart. Noon considered himself braver than most, but even he shuddered at the thought of being burned alive. Vivid memories of the taxi-wallah’s ghastly fate raced through his mind as he blinked and sputtered, the taste of kerosene drowning his tongue. The scratchy sound of a match being struck sent a thrill of terror through his body. A fiery death, he realized, was only seconds away.
Without thinking, he turned toward the sound, spitting a mouthful of kerosene at the burning match. An orange-yellow flash rewarded his desperate effort, followed by an anguished, masculine scream. Through blurry, tearing eyes, Noon barely discerned a panicked figure, one arm ablaze, flailing wildly only a few paces away. Noon threw himself backward, away from the burning man, fearing that a stray spark would set him on fire, too.
Half-blinded by the kerosene in his eyes, he darted up the alley, clearing a path with frantic slashes of his dagger. Most of the time the blade met only empty air; sometimes it did not. The reek of the kerosene soaking his hair and garments added new urgency to his death-defying run for safety. Only speed and agility could save him now; one match, one spark, would be enough to light his funeral pyre. Paying no heed to the protests of his exhausted legs, he cannonballed through the riot-racked bazaars, his vision clearing as he blinked the last of the kerosene from his eyes. Shocking evidence of the ongoing massacre littered the dusty pavement before him. Dead bodies, many [267] charred and smoking, lay upon the ground in contorted positions of agony, joining splintered wood and broken glass from dozens of vandalized shops and stalls. Expensive silks and saris, dyed every color of the rainbow, were strewn carelessly about, soaking up the blood and kerosene that collected in scattered pools like the aftermath of a heavy rain. Noon had to watch his step as he ran, to avoid tripping over a blackened corpse or slipping upon a spreading crimson puddle.
As he ran, the fleeing teenager hastily shed his fuel-drenched jacket and shirt, exposing a chest more muscular than any fourteen-year-old was entitled to. The stench of the kerosene still clung to his hair and skin, however, marking him as a likely candidate for immolation. “Get him!” frenzied voices called after him. “Burn the stinking Sikh!”
Could he make it to the temple before his maddened pursuers could carry out their incendiary threat? Noon’s questing eyes searched the cramped, cluttered street before him. His knife gashed the back of a looter who did not get out of the way fast enough, slicing through both fabric and flesh. Almost there, Noon promised himself. Chandni Chowk could not be far away now.
Swinging his bloodstained kirpan like a machete, he hacked through the chaos of the riot, leaping over fallen bodies and veering away from any hint of an open flame. Then, just as he began to feel more confident about his chances for survival, he saw something that stopped him in his tracks.
A deserted bus lay on its side across the width of the bazaar, its burnt-out husk still smoldering volcanically. Smoking tires suffused the smoggy air with an added smell of burning rubber. Worse still, the ruined vehicle rested directly in Noon’s path, blocking his escape route. No! he cursed angrily. It’s not fair!
He looked back over his shoulder to see a gang of rioters gaining on him. “Burn the Sikh bastard!” a furious voice shouted. “Blood for blood!” Many of the men carried torches made from broken timbers and looted textiles. “Death to the murderers!”
Noon briefly contemplated climbing the toppled bus, but quickly realized that was impossible. There were too many small fires still burning upon the torched vehicle to risk scaling its scorched and [268] smoking remains. I might as well light the match myself, he concluded bitterly. Vigorously looking for an alternative means of escape, he scanned the bazaar from left to right, hoping some small, forgotten side street might offer the detour he so critically needed. All he found, though, were the shattered windows and desecrated facades of burning buildings. Smoke and flames escaped from the upper window of the tailor’s shop to his right, while a peculiar blue mist, perhaps caused by some kind of natural gas leak, seeped from the store’s ground-floor entrance, whose battered door hung crookedly from a single set of hinges. Terrified screams and barbaric shouting came from the Sikh-owned clothing store to his left. A sari-clad mannequin lay on the ground beneath a torn banner extolling low, low prices. The mannequin’s painted eyes and docile expression offered Noon neither hope nor sympathy
He had reached a dead end, then. Fine, he thought proudly. Let this be my last battlefield. Turning to face the onrushing mob, the curved silver blade of his kirpan held out in front of him, Noon spared a moment to worry about his foster parents in Chandigarh; he prayed that they were safely distant from the virulent fever consuming Old Delhi. Then he turned his full attention on his torch-wielding tormentors, grimly determined to slay as many of his foes as he could before the flames made of him a human sacrifice. “Lay on!,” he whispered, quoting Macbeth, “and damned be him who first cries ‘Hold, enough!’ ”
But before the murderous gang caught up with him, an unexpected voice called out. “Noon! Khan Noonien Singh! Over here!” Surprise complicating his resolution to meet a heroic death, Noon glanced to the right, where he saw a pale-skinned stranger standing in the doorway of the pillaged tailor’s shop, that same odd blue mist wafting around the newcomer’s ankles. He was a lean man, dressed in a dark blue suit of Western style. Another hapless tourist caught up in Delhi’s heated religious strife? But then how did he know Noon by name? Where had he come from? “Hurry!” the stranger urged, speaking English with an American accent. “There’s no time to explain, but you have to trust me!”
A hurled Coke bottle hit Noon in the chin, tearing a fresh gash [269] beneath his already swollen lips. “Get him!” a young Indian man shouted. With a shock, Noon realized that the shouter, whose face was flushed and distorted by bloodthirsty mania, was one of his fellow students at the university. “Blood for blood!” his onetime classmate shrieked, snatching up another shard of broken glass from the street. “Kill the Sikh!”
A thrown torch spun toward Noon, trailing sparks like a comet. Anticipating its trajectory, Noon jumped to one side, but the tossed firebrand still struck the pavement dangerously close to his feet. He looked in confusion and desperation at the stranger in the doorway. The blue mist now seemed to fill the entire entrance of the plundered shop. “Hurry!” the man called again. “You have to trust me!”
Trust the stranger, when he couldn’t even trust another colleague from school? Noon found the entire situation incomprehensible, but what other option did he have. Keeping a tight grip on the handle of his kirpan, now baptized in blood, he flung himself toward the fog-shrouded doorway and into the unknown.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
NOON EMERGED FROM THE SHOWER, having rinsed the last traces of kerosene from his hair and body. The bruises and numerous small cuts that marked his face and frame were harder to shed, but he knew that his injuries could have easily been very much worse. He found fresh clothes and first-aid supplies waiting for him, including a brown bathrobe that fit him perfectly He had encountered so many oddities and impossibilities in the last hour or so that this latest unlikely occurrence piqued his curiosity only a smidgen more. Who are these people? he wondered. And what is their interest in me?
Although grateful for his miraculous rescue, which had almost certainly delivered him from an agonizing death, he remained on guard, mentally and physically. The mysteries accumulating around him were too bizarre and unsettling to accept at face value; he was relieved to see his dagger and wristband, obligingly wiped free of blood and soot, sitting atop the bathroom counter along with a change of clothes. The solid weight of the blade comforted him as he thrust it securely beneath the belt of his robe.
Toweled, dried, bandaged where necessary, and suitably armed, he rejoined his anonymous savior in the office outside the bathroom. The nondescript furnishings offered few clues to his new location, although he noted that all the titles upon the bookshelf appeared to be printed in English. Encyclo
pedias, mostly, plus a few other routine reference works. His gaze drifted involuntarily to the heavy steel vault from which he had exited that cool, luminescent fog. His skin tingled [271] in remembrance of the peculiar, static-like sensation he’d experienced within the strange blue haze. Now, however, the vault looked empty except for a couple of metal shelves, nor did Noon see any obvious exit connecting the vault with the streets of Old Delhi. Perhaps a secret door? he speculated. He strained his ears, but he could no longer hear the frenzied shouts and screams of the riot.
“Good morning, Noon Singh,” the nameless American greeted him. He was seated behind a marble-topped desk upon which various folders and documents were scattered. A translucent green cube served as a paperweight, holding assorted papers in place. “I trust you’re feeling a good deal less flammable now.”
“Yes, thank you.” Noon declined to take a seat upon the nearby couch or plush chair, preferring to stand, his arms crossed upon his chest. Enough pleasantries, he thought, deciding to cut straight to the heart of his concerns. “Who are you and where have you brought me.”
“Reasonable questions,” the man conceded, “although you may find some of the answers difficult to accept.” He was, Noon saw upon closer inspection, a middle-aged Caucasian of maybe forty to fifty years. Streaks of gray lightened his brown hair at his temples. “My name is Gary Seven, and, although we have never met, I know a great deal about you.”
“How—?” Noon began, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. His muscles tensed instinctively, fearing the mob had caught up with him at last.
Instead a woman’s voice called from the other side of the door. “Is everyone decent in there?” she asked in a distinctly nonthreatening manner. “I have coffee.”
“Thank you, Roberta,” Seven answered, his casual tone implying that Noon had nothing to fear from the newcomer. “Please come in and meet our guest.”
The door swung open, and a blond woman entered, bearing a tray and three coffee mugs. To his surprise, she wore what appeared to be a NASA flight suit. She offered one cup to Seven, who accepted it with a grateful smile, then crossed the room to where Noon was standing. She winced visibly at the sight of his bruised and bandaged face, but [272] offered him a sympathetic smile along with the coffee. “Help yourself,” she instructed him. Like Seven, she spoke English with an American accent.
A sleek black cat followed the woman into the office, only to disappear behind Seven’s desk. The sight of the cat jogged a memory deep in the recesses of Noon’s past, but he could not immediately place the source of the familiarity. A small portion of his mind fiddled with the puzzle, while the bulk of his attention stayed focused on the here and now.
He stared in confusion at the woman’s incongruous outfit. A cloth patch depicting the space shuttle was affixed to one side of her zippered, navy-blue flight suit, while an embroidered NASA nametag identified her as SALLY RIDE. The American astronaut? he wondered, utterly baffled. What was she doing in Delhi, and why did Seven call her Roberta?
“Oh, don’t mind the costume,” she said, apparently noting his puzzled expression. “I came here straight from the Halloween Parade in the Village. As you can see, I was going as Sally Ride, the first American woman in space.” She winked at Seven, sharing a private joke. “As far as anyone knows.”
Village? Parade? The woman’s explanation left him scarcely less confused. What village was she talking about?
“This is my associate, Ms. Roberta Lincoln,” Seven elaborated. Unlike his female companion, he did not appear to be indulging in any sort of holiday masquerade. “She is also very familiar with your case.”
Noon took a mug from the tray, warily sniffing its contents. He preferred chai, actually, but had been introduced to black coffee by American students at the university He sipped the beverage carefully, finding it both hot and soothing.
“Hello, Noon,” Roberta Lincoln said, taking a few steps back from Noon. She eyed him somewhat nervously. “I don’t know if you remember me or not.”
Did he? Noon examined the woman’s face. She was younger than Seven, perhaps in her mid-thirties, but there was something disturbingly familiar about her. His mind scrolled backward through the [273] years, seeking to place her rosy cheeks and bluish-green eyes. Not in Delhi, he concluded, nor Chandigarh, but somewhere else, long ago and far away. ...
An ancient memory, long forgotten, surged up from the past. “Chrysalis,” he uttered, eyes wide. “You were at Chrysalis, beneath the desert.”
“That’s right,” she said. A sober expression replaced her welcoming smile. She walked slowly to an end table, where she put down her tray, before looking at Noon again. Her own coffee cup was clutched between her palms, and she held it close to her chest, as if to dispel a sudden chill. “You were just a toddler then. I’m surprised you remember.”
“I never forget a face,” he informed her, while his heart and soul struggled to cope with the powerful emotions conjured up by the woman’s revelation. So many years ago ... ! His childhood at Chrysalis, his mother’s beaming face and proud expression, that final, panicky evacuation and abrupt dislocation—they were like a distant dream to him now, a prior existence he could scarcely recall. “Did—did you know my mother?” he asked.
“Briefly,” Roberta answered, her eyes evading his.
“I was there as well,” Seven said, “although, as I stated, we never met.” He took a sip of coffee before continuing. “What’s important is that Roberta and I are fully cognizant of the special circumstances surrounding your birth, and of your own unique potential. Which is why,” he explained, “we have been keeping a careful eye on you for the last ten years.”
“I’ll say!” Roberta seconded, slumping onto a fuzzy orange couch opposite Seven’s desk. “The papers all claimed that what’s-her-name in England, Louise Brown, was the world’s first test-tube baby, but we know better, don’t we?” A look of sincere relief passed over her face. “Thank goodness that Seven heard about those riots in Delhi. We could have lost you for good!”
Seven humbly accepted the woman’s gushing praise. “Fortunately, I have been monitoring the political situation in India for several weeks.” He glanced down at the papers on his desk. “You may be [274] interested to know, Noon Singh, that Rajiv Gandhi, Mrs. Gandhi’s son, has been sworn in as the new prime minister.”
Noon nodded. Seven’s news came as no surprise; it was well known that Indira was grooming her oldest son as her successor. His gaze fell upon the white push-button phone atop Seven’s desk. “I should call my parents,” he stated, “make certain they are safe.”
“I believe they are unharmed,” Seven assured him. “The worst of the rioting is in the capital, not Chandigarh. But you can certainly contact your family shortly. First, though, permit me to explain a bit further about where you are and who we are.”
Khan nodded. He had to admit he was curious to hear more. Was Seven merely an American intelligence agent of some sort, and this place a top-secret CIA safe house in the heart of Old Delhi, or could it be that the Chrysalis Project, for which his visionary mother had given her life, was not really dead at all? His foster mother and father had always discouraged any discussion of the project, hinting ominously that unnamed personages in the government would strike him down—just as they had his unfortunate mother—if he let his secret slip. Nonetheless, he had always known, deep down in his heart, that he had been born to serve some special destiny, that his innate superiority, both mental and physical, meant that he must ultimately make his mark on history, just like Alexander and Caesar and Ashoka. Perhaps, at last, that golden destiny was finally beginning?
“Go on,” he said.
“Ms. Lincoln and I represent a private organization, unaffiliated with any of the major superpowers, that keeps a watchful eye on world events. We also attempt, discreetly, to encourage humanity’s difficult journey toward peace and progress.” Seven gestured at the assortment of folders and documents fanned out upon his desk. Cranin
g his neck to take a peek at the scattered papers, Noon identified reports on famine in Ethiopia, the U.S. presidential campaign, and an unexplained explosion at a Soviet military base in Severomorsk.
“As you can see,” Seven continued, noting the teenager’s inquisitive gaze, “this is something of a full-time job. Fortunately, Roberta and I have access to technology that is not yet available to the rest of the [275] world. It was just such technology that allowed me to remove you from the chaos in Delhi, transporting you here instead.”
“Which is where?” Noon inquired, growing impatient with Seven’s cryptic remarks. He wanted to know just how safe he was from the violence outside, and if and how he could leave this place when he chose.
“Are you quite sure you don’t want to sit down first?” the older man asked, indicating the unoccupied chair just as his cat reappeared from somewhere behind the desk. The glossy black animal leaped onto the desktop, then settled down to watch Noon through gleaming yellow eyes. If he didn’t know better, Noon would have thought that the cat was intent on observing their visitor’s reaction to Seven’s words.
Another long-forgotten memory surfaced, of an elegant black cat, much like this one, who was also, impossibly, a beautiful woman. This was clearly a childish fancy, however, born of an overactive imagination and the stress and confusion of that final night at Chrysalis. Strange, Noon mused, how vividly the whimsical fabrications of our infancy can linger in the mind, even long after we have outgrown them.
“No, thank you,” he said stiffly, rejecting the chair Seven had offered him. “Please tell me where I am.”
