STAR TREK: TOS - The Eugenics Wars, Volume One

by Greg Cox

“Fair enough,” Seven granted. His craggy face maintained a scrupulously neutral expression. “You are in New York City, Noon Singh, in the United States.”

  “What!” Noon exploded. Anger flared in his heart. “That’s absurd! We spent less than five minutes in that tunnel of yours,” he challenged Seven, pointing at the empty steel vault. “Do you think I’m a fool? What sort of game are you playing?”

  Seven looked unfazed by the young man’s fury, while his cat watched Noon with obvious amusement. “Perhaps you should see for yourself,” Seven said calmly

  Noon was seldom at a loss for words, but now his jaw hung open mutely as he gaped in thunderstruck amazement at the view from the roof of Seven’s building.

  Where he had expected to see the familiar contours of Old Delhi, [276] perhaps in flames, he saw instead the glittering spectacle of Manhattan at night. Among the towering skyscrapers and fabled concrete canyons, he spotted landmarks recognizable from countless American films and TV programs: Central Park, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building. Horns honked and sirens blared in the busy streets below, while the autumn air seemed cleaner and much colder than Delhi’s overheated smog. This is impossible! he thought, astounded and confused, but how could he deny the evidence of his own senses?

  Equally bewildering was the cloudy night sky spread out above him, whose crescent moon cast an erratic glow upon the not entirely sleeping city. It had been not even noon when the riots broke out in the bazaar, catching him in those bloody convulsions, yet now the moon was high in the sky and the sun nowhere in sight. “What time is it?” he asked out loud, unnerved at the loss of so many unaccounted-for hours.

  Seven, standing nearby upon the roof, consulted his wristwatch. “Quarter to noon in Delhi, one-fifteen in the morning in New York.”

  “In other words, way past my bedtime,” Roberta yawned. “Coffee or no coffee.” In contrast, the cat, winding between Seven’s legs, looked wide awake.

  Noon could not tear his gaze away from the nocturnal cityscape surrounding him. To the west, the leafy shadows of Central Park provided an oasis of darkness amid the incandescent lights of the city; to the east, moonlight rippled upon the murky waters of a wide river. Despite the lateness of the hour, bizarrely costumed pedestrians—clad as vampires, gypsies, Ghostbusters, and other imaginary creatures—still wandered the city streets below, celebrating a far more peaceful Halloween than India had known.

  How is this possible? he wondered, his powerful mind battling to make sense of what had happened to him. Had he been drugged, perhaps? Rendered unconscious by that unearthly blue vapor, then shipped halfway around the world before waking here? That struck him as highly implausible, but what other rational explanation was there?

  None, he realized. Even as he knew intuitively that Seven had not lied to him. Somehow, through some astounding means completely unknown to modern science, he had been whisked from Delhi to [277] Manhattan in a matter of moments. He turned away from the ledge, toward Seven and his companions, questions burning upon his face even, through the bruises and the scabs. “How?” he asked, the engineer in him intrigued by the very notion. “Matter transmission?”

  “Something like that,” Seven confirmed. “Although I’m afraid that the world is not yet ready for the secret of this technology. And, I’m sorry, neither are you.”

  That’s not fair, Khan thought angrily, frustrated by Seven’s reticence. He can’t dangle this fantastic discovery in front of me, then holdback the crucial details about how it’s accomplished! Seven’s tone, however, made it clear that he was not about to change his mind on the subject. For a long second, Noon toyed with the idea of trying to force the secret out of Seven or Roberta, but to do so, he realized, would be less than honorable. The man had, after all, saved his life. Reluctantly, Noon decided to respect Seven’s decision—for now.

  “What do you want of me?” he asked instead.

  Seven appeared pleased that the teenager had not raised a fuss over the secret of matter transference. “At present, just your continued good health,” he insisted. “It may be that at some later date, however, you might be in a position to aid us in our endeavors.” His eyes locked on to the younger man, whom he spoke to with considerable gravity. “You’re a remarkable person, Noon Singh, with much to offer the world. Perhaps, someday, we can help you fulfill that potential.”

  I see, Noon thought, flattered by Seven’s well-informed assessment of his abilities. As much as he disliked being obliged to another person, he was also intrigued by the notion of joining Seven’s covert campaign to build a better future. As today’s carnage in Delhi proved beyond any doubt, mankind was grievously in need of order and security, of the sort only truly enlightened leadership could provide. He owed it to his country—and the world—to take bold action to bring modern humanity’s suffering to an end. “I am in your debt,” he told Seven solemnly. “And you have given me much to think about.”

  It took three days for the riots in Delhi and elsewhere in India to subside, and for some semblance of order to return. Finally, though, [278] Seven judged it safe to send young Noon home via the transporter vault. Roberta, who had spent the last few days chaperoning him around New York and environs, was not entirely disappointed to see him go. He’s not a bad kid, she thought, but, boy, is he full of himself. Guess that’s what happens when you’re told from birth that you’re superior to everyone else. She waved good-bye to Noon as he stepped into the swirling azure mists of the transporter. Let’s hope he grows out of it.

  She and Seven watched as the blue fog dissipated into nothingness, taking the bruised teenager with them. Seven adjusted the controls upon his desk (which were disguised as a set of pens), and the vault’s heavy steel door sealed itself automatically. Isis, looking bored, concentrated on washing her paws.

  “Well, that went smoothly enough,” Roberta commented, leaning against Seven’s desk in her ripped cotton T-shirt, stonewashed jeans, and running shoes. “Especially considering we killed his mother.”

  “She chose her own fate,” Seven reminded Roberta. His somber tone declared that he had hardly forgotten Sarina Kaur’s tragic fate. “It’s her son’s destiny that concerns me now.”

  Roberta fiddled with the straps of her new Sony Walkman. “You seriously thinking of recruiting him?” She wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about that; although Seven had contacts and informants throughout the globe (and beyond), Roberta was the only agent privy to all his out-of-this world secrets. She was used to this being a two-person (okay, two persons and a self-important feline) operation. “He’s only a teenager.”

  “Which means he may still be young enough to influence in a positive manner,” Seven pointed out. His thoughtful eyes gazed past Roberta into space, as though peering into the future. Sometimes Roberta wondered how much her space-born supervisor really knew about the years to come. “I may want to test Noon further, see if that formidable will and intellect can be harnessed to a cause greater than his own ambition. Married to restraint and compassion, his talents could indeed make him a very valuable agent.”

  “I suppose,” Roberta said. She still couldn’t believe that Seven had actually broken his own rule by allowing Noon to find out about the [279] transporter. Granted, it would have been hard to explain his instant exit from Old Delhi otherwise; Noon was no fool. “What about all those other superkids?”

  Seven frowned, his gaze returning to the present. He pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a thick folder, bulging with reports and psychological profiles. Bound together with rubber bands, the folder landed atop his desk with a heavy thud.

  “Unfortunately, Noon, for all his arrogance, is the most psychologically well adjusted of his peers. The other children of Chrysalis, although undeniably gifted in their own ways, are all too emotionally unstable to be trusted with any of our secrets.” Seven leafed slowly through his files, shaking his head glumly. “Many will self-destruct,” he predicted, “while a paltry few may fade into obscurity, m
aking little impact on history. The rest, I fear, will be keeping us busy through the millennium.”

  “Oh,” Roberta said, dismayed at the prospect of another decade-plus of playing bodyguard to the entire planet. The twenty-first century seemed very far away, and Seven wasn’t getting any younger. Neither am I, she thought, no matter how much jogging and aerobics I do. Her eyes sought out the silver in Seven’s hair, as well as the deepening worry lines upon his face.

  Maybe we do need some new blood after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE PARAGON COLONY

  SYCORAX

  STARDATE 7004.1

  KIRK LOOKED AWAY FROM THE VIEWER, taking a break from his historical research. He wished he could go back in time to warn Seven about Khan, but that was impossible; the danger to the timeline was simply too severe. Unfortunately, the Eugenics Wars were something that human history had to live with.

  Rubbing tired eyes, he rose from the workstation the Paragon Colony had provided for him. To avoid too many hazardous flights through Sycorax’s turbulent atmosphere, Kirk had decided to keep the landing party on the planet until their business here was concluded. The guest quarters they had been stowed in, at least until Regent Clarke managed to shake off Koloth and his Klingon cronies, were clean and comfortable, but Kirk was glad that he had brought along a copy of the Enterprise’s files on Khan, Gary Seven, and their seemingly intertwined destinies. If nothing else, it gave him something productive to do while he cooled his heels waiting for his next audience with the regent.

  He glanced around the VIP suite, which was only slightly larger than his own personal quarters upon the Enterprise. Unlike the sleek, streamlined steel decor of a starship, however, accommodations within the Paragon Colony had a much more organic ambience. Now [281] that he noticed it, he was struck by the realization that almost everything in sight, both the furnishings and the suite itself, appeared to be constructed from biologically generated materials. The floors were hardwood, maybe oak or teak, while the walls were adorned with varnished walnut panels. Knobs, switches, and faucets were made of polished bone or ivory, and the ceiling shone with a natural bioluminescence, reminding Kirk of the glow-in-the-dark mouse that Roberta Lincoln had witnessed in Rome, nearly three hundred years ago. Silk and cotton sheets covered a bouncy sponge mattress, while even the workstation at which he’d been sitting looked to have been carved from some form of petrified coral. Kirk had to search hard to find anything metallic or plastic. Maybe the internal components of the computer station ... ?

  Makes sense, he realized. The founders of the Paragon Colony specialized in the biological sciences, just as their spiritual forebears at Chrysalis had, so it only stood to reason that their architecture and technology had developed along those lines. I wonder where their scientific know-how has surpassed the Federation’s over the last hundred years, and in what departments they might have fallen behind?

  A mild knock on the pinewood door interrupted his speculations. Kirk pressed an ivory switch and the door slid open automatically, revealing a young, somewhat nervous-looking aide in an olive bodysuit. “The regent is ready to see you now,” the colonist informed him.

  Kirk and McCoy met with Masako Clarke on a high balcony overlooking the colony. Sunlight filtered through the great green dome, giving everything a slightly chartreuse tint. “My apologies for the delay, gentlemen. Captain Koloth was in no hurry to leave me alone with you.”

  “You don’t say,” McCoy muttered. Unlike the scene at the landing bay, with its sizable delegation of colonists and Klingons, attendance at this meeting had been restricted to a bare minimum. The regent was accompanied only by a single secretary, and Gregor Lozin, a stern-faced older man whom she introduced as the chairman of the committee in charge of the colony’s internal security. Kirk’s own security [282] officer, Lieutenant Lerner, was posted outside the regent’s office, along with two of Lozin’s own men.

  “An impressive-looking colony,” Kirk told Clarke, admiring the view from the balcony. Miles of buildings, gardens, and hydroponic farms stretched to the outer boundaries of the dome. Kirk saw dozens of men, women, and children going about their daily lives in a well-ordered and peaceful fashion. An underground monorail system, he had been told, connected every individual wedge of the circular colony, cutting down on traffic upon the surface. “I have to ask, though: Why choose such an inhospitable planet to settle down on?”

  Clarke gave Kirk a pained smile. “Good question,” she conceded, not at all offended by Kirk’s harsh description of her adopted world. “To be honest, our founders originally intended to colonize Miranda, the third planet in this system. Miranda is a Class-M world, without any indigenous sentients or hostile life-forms, which made it seem ideal for colonization. Unfortunately, early unmanned surveys of the planet failed to note that Miranda’s only moon had an unstable orbit. By the time our grandparents’ ship, an old Daedalus-class freighter, reached its destination, Miranda’s moon was orbiting dangerously close to the planet’s Roche limit, causing massive tectonic shifts, tidal waves, and cataclysmic volcanic activity throughout the entire planet. Our early pioneers even recorded tides of solid matter on Miranda’s surface, causing daily fluctuations often centimeters or more.”

  “Good lord!” McCoy reacted. “That sounds wildly unstable, not to mention unsafe.”

  “Exactly.” Clarke sighed in sympathy with the frustrated pioneers. “To make matters worse, our founders did not have the option of searching elsewhere for a more suitable world. Their supplies of dilithium and other resources were all but depleted. It was too late to turn back, so they had no choice but to look around and select the next-best planet in the system.” She lifted her gaze toward the dome arching high overhead, protecting them from the fierce heat and pressure outside. “That turned out to be Sycorax.”

  Kirk nodded, recalling similar stories from the early days of interstellar exploration. Colonizing alien worlds was always a risky, [283] uncertain endeavor. “I have to admire your founders’ ingenuity and perseverance,” he told Clarke sincerely. “Making a home here, building a working colony, could not have been easy.”

  “No it wasn’t,” Clarke confirmed, “especially when you consider that the first generation of pioneers had not been genetically enhanced, unlike their heirs.” The very idea seemed inconceivable to her. “I often marvel that ordinary human beings, with merely baseline DNA, could have accomplished all that they did.”

  There was something distinctly condescending—not to mention, Khan-like—about the way the regent talked about her “merely” human forebears, but Kirk decided to let the comment pass, for diplomacy’s sake. For the first time in years, however, he found himself wondering how Khan and his own band of superhuman colonists were faring on that harsh frontier world in the Mutara Sector. If the original Paragon settlers had managed to survive—and ultimately thrive—on a Class-K planet such as Sycorax, what might Khan and his people have built on Ceti Alpha V? Knowing Khan, he’s probably carved out an empire already.

  Perhaps to change the subject, McCoy looked upward at the verdant dome cresting high above their heads. “What’s with the greenness?” he asked. “I feel like I’m in the Emerald City of Oz, or maybe in an undersea city on Celadon Prime.”

  “The dome is one of our proudest accomplishments, Doctor,” Clarke said, clearly delighted to expound further. “Believe it or not, the dome is a living organism, genetically designed by some of our top scientists. It’s chlorophyll-based, meaning that it can convert Sycorax’s diffuse sunlight directly into energy the dome can employ for its own use and maintenance. In addition, it also absorbs carbon dioxide from the atmosphere outside, converting it into oxygen. At present, most of that oxygen is consumed by the colony’s population, but enough is released back into the outer environment that, over centuries, the dome’s own respiration should help terraform the planet.”

  “A living biosphere,” McCoy uttered, sounding genuinely impressed. “That’s astounding!”<
br />
  “We think so,” Clarke said proudly. “The dome also has roots [284] extending deep beneath the planet’s surface, absorbing vital minerals, nutrients, and even fresh water from underground reserves.” She watched the faces of her guests, gauging their reactions to her revelations concerning the dome. “It’s completely adapted to its environment.”

  “What about the forcefield?” Kirk asked. “Is that to reinforce the dome against the extreme atmospheric pressure?” He still remembered the strain that Sycorax’s crushing air density had placed on the shuttlecraft’s hull and shields.

  “In part,” Clarke admitted, “but the deflector screens also serve a more important purpose, namely shielding our own carefully constructed DNA from ultraviolet light, cosmic radiation, or anything else that might trigger random mutations.” She frowned momentarily at the thought, then shrugged her shoulders. “Obviously, after devoting generations to refining and perfecting our genetic heritage, we can hardly leave ourselves vulnerable to unpredictable factors beyond our control.”

  “But random, unplanned mutations are how all living species evolve,” McCoy objected. “By eliminating chance, you take yourselves out of the elementary process of natural selection.” His dour tone and expression made it clear where he stood on the subject. “You’re risking total genetic stagnation.”

  With an expansive sweep of her arm, the regent invoked the prosperous colony below. “We’re far from stagnating, Doctor,” she chuckled. “In fact, we’ve evolved more in two generations than Homo sapiens has in two hundred thousand years. Natural evolution has too high a failure rate; as a physician, you must be aware of all that can go wrong when chromosomes mutate.” She turned toward Kirk, directing her argument at the highest-ranking Starfleet representative present. “Just how long, Captain, do you think it would take for something like our dome to evolve naturally?”