by Greg Cox
“A few freak instances,” Koloth insisted, dismissing McCoy’s arguments with an airy wave of his hand. “The exceptions that prove the rule.” A self-amused smirk displayed the pleasure the wily Klingon took in baiting the cantankerous MD. “A human expression, I believe.”
Kirk couldn’t resist joining the fray. “If Klingon evolution is on such a fast track already, then you obviously have no need for the Paragon Colony’s advanced genetic engineering techniques.” He quickly changed the subject in an attempt to get the last word. “By and by, I can’t help noticing that your second-in-command, the ever-charming Lieutenant Korax, is not gracing us with his presence this evening.”
In fact, an empty seat gaped next to Koloth, creating a gap between the Klingon captain and the local dignitary at his left. “Ah, yes,” Koloth acknowledged, “I regret to say that Korax is indisposed at the moment.” Not far away, Koloth’s bodyguard—the bald warrior with the scarred face—shared a separate table with Lieutenant Lerner and a couple of members of the colony’s own security forces. The human and Klingon soldiers glowered at each other in silence as they gnawed on the appetizers provided. Must be a tense table to dine at, Kirk [394] suspected, feeling sorry for Lerner as well as for the unlucky colonists trapped in the middle of that miniature cold war.
“What a shame,” Kirk commented sarcastically about Korax’s absence. “But, of course, we understand, given how delicate his health must be. I do hope that his fragile system recovers from his unfortunate ‘indisposition’ eventually.”
Koloth scowled, annoyed by Kirk’s tweaking. “I never said anything about his health,” he began indignantly, only to be interrupted by the arrival, on several ivory trays, of the first course of the banquet. A parade of servers, in smart white uniforms, delivered the colony’s bounty to the table, while Koloth fumed silently.
The appetizers consisted of soup and salad, for the humans, and a skewer of nearly raw meat slices for the Klingons. Having worked up an appetite researching the Eugenics Wars, Kirk gladly sampled the fare, only to find both the onion soup and the Uranian salad dressing surprisingly bland. Almost tasteless, to be honest. The soup was thin and watery, while the vegetables and greens making up the salad tasted as though they had been deliberately leached of flavor. They may be whizzes at genetic engineering, Kirk thought, doing his best to conceal his lack of enthusiasm for the pallid gruel, but Sycorax’s culinary arts leave something to be desired.
“I do hope your meal isn’t too rich or spicy for you,” Masako Clarke asked solicitously, not to mention surreally. “I expressly instructed our chefs not to prepare anything that might overtax your unrefined palates and less efficient metabolisms, but please let me know if you’d prefer simpler, less exciting fare.”
Less exciting than this? Kirk thought, his mind boggling at the notion. The colony’s chefs had clearly overcompensated, just as it was becoming quite obvious that the regent, and perhaps all of her genetically enhanced constituents, had an exaggerated sense of their human forebears’ intrinsic deficiencies. Just like Khan, he thought ominously. He ultimately underestimated us, too.
“This is more than acceptable, thank you,” Kirk said diplomatically, while McCoy grinned in amusement. Farther down the table, Kirk caught Koloth toying unenthusiastically with his shish-kebob. Judging [395] from the dubious look on the Klingon’s face, Koloth found his own meal no more appetizing than Kirk’s. That’s probably the one thing we can both agree on, the human captain thought, dutifully downing another tepid spoonful of soup.
“Yes, an excellent repast,” Koloth lied shamelessly, “fit for a gourmet. Your chefs are to be commended.” He clapped his hands together imperiously, and his bodyguard rose from the adjacent table, bearing a package wrapped in a protective black leather sheath. Immediately on guard, Lieutenant Lerner moved to block the swarthy Klingon soldier, but, at Kirk’s signal, backed off and let the bald warrior approach the elevated table. Kirk couldn’t imagine that Koloth would attempt anything overtly threatening at such a formal occasion, yet he nonetheless watched warily as Koloth accepted the parcel from his subordinate and proceeded to remove a tapered glass bottle from the sheath. “If you have no objection, Madame Regent, I’ve taken the liberty of securing a libation worthy of such an exquisite feast.” A clear blue fluid sloshed within the bottle. “The finest Romulan ale, with my compliments.”
Kirk frowned. Apparently the recent alliance between the Klingons and the Romulan Star Empire had yielded more than just an exchange of military technology. He kicked himself mentally for letting Koloth gain a momentary advantage on him. Too bad there’s no way Scotty can beam me a bottle of his best whisky, what with the force field surrounding the dome.
“Thank you, Captain,” Clarke said, accepting the proffered vintage. The bottle was passed around the table so that everyone could fill their wineglasses with the sparkling blue ale. Lifting a cup to his lips, Kirk had to admit that the potent nectar was a good deal more satisfying than anything yet served at the banquet.
The piquant ale also met with McCoy’s approval. “Now, that’s what I call a drink,” he admitted, smacking his lips. “Hard to believe that such an intoxicating brew was actually concocted by some distant cousins of the Vulcans.”
“The Romulans, for all their faults, can hardly be compared to their cold-blooded, overly ascetic ancestors, Doctor,” Koloth observed, and [396] Kirk wondered if, back on the Enterprise, Spock’s ears were burning. “Like my own people, they appreciate that existence is a never-ending battle for supremacy and survival. To the victor go the spoils—including this delightful vintage.” He raised his cup in a toast. “To our hosts, and their own laudable pursuit of superior strength and cunning.”
Feeling outmaneuvered once more, Kirk had no choice but to join the calculating Klingon in raising his cup to Regent Clarke and her people. He countered, however, with a toast of his own. “To a new future of better understanding and cooperation between our respective peoples.”
And to avoid the mistakes of the past, he added silently to himself. The insights he’d absorbed from his ongoing immersion in the history of the twentieth century haunted his thoughts, casting a sinister light on even the regent’s questionable pride in her staff’s cuisine. It was clear from his studies that supermen such as Khan and Gary Seven had been capable of enormous good in the distant past, and yet the seeds of Khan Singh’s ruthless ambition had blossomed early on, despite the deliberate efforts of Gary Seven to channel the young Khan’s remarkable talents toward the greater good of humanity. What was it Spock once said about Khan and his fellow supermen? Kirk tried to recall. The heady Romulan ale wasn’t helping his memory any, but he soon remembered Spock’s prophetic assertion that “superior ability breeds superior ambition.”
As history knew too well, Earth had paid a terrible price for that ambition. Would the same apply to the Paragon Colony, or any future superhumans created via their genengineering techniques? How long would Khan’s spiritual descendants be content to exist merely as part of the Federation, before aspiring to take control of the many worlds and cultures under Starfleet’s protection? Masako Clarke and her people seemed amiable enough, but how could he be sure that, allowed to spread beyond Sycorax’s planetary boundaries, the Paragon Colony’s philosophy and influence would not pose a greater threat to galactic peace than the Klingons and the Romulans combined?
I can’t, Kirk realized soberly. Not yet.
An uproar at the far end of the plaza intruded upon Kirk’s somber [397] musings. Along with the other attendees of the banquet, including the regent herself, he looked on in surprise as two imposing colony members, no doubt bred for their intimidating stature, marched toward the main table, dragging with them a struggling figure whom Kirk quickly identified as Korax. “Let go of me, you misbegotten targs!” the irate Klingon lieutenant snarled, his wrists handcuffed together. A black eye and split lip suggested that Korax had not surrendered to the colony officers without a fight. “You will regret this,
Earthspawn! I swear by Kahless’s name that I will have my revenge!”
Masako Clarke rose from her seat with a look of consternation. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. By contrast, Kirk observed, Koloth looked less surprised than annoyed by his first officer’s capture.
“We caught this outworlder inside the primary forcefield generator, trying to download classified information about the colony’s defenses,” one of Korax’s captors announced. Like the accused spy, the security guard’s face bore evidence of a violent struggle. Kirk was somewhat relieved to note that genetically engineered supermen were evidently just as capable of receiving a bloodied nose as anyone else.
Clarke’s face hardened and she sternly confronted the Klingon seated beside her. “Is this true, Captain Koloth?” she asked indignantly
The Klingon commander was the very picture of wounded innocence. “Madame Regent, you must believe me! I am utterly appalled to even think that one of my men might be so misguided as to abuse your generous hospitality.” He rose from his chair and shook his head theatrically at Korax, who endured the rebuke in surly silence. “I assure you, Regent, that, if these charges are true, Lieutenant Korax will be severely disciplined.”
Kirk suspected Koloth of telling only half the truth. If Korax was punished at all, he surmised, it would be for getting caught rather than for the espionage itself. Kirk had not forgotten Koloth’s involvement in the plot to poison grain vital to the survival of the Federation colony on Sherman’s Planet. Compared with that, what was a little unauthorized snooping?
[398] Clarke wasn’t buying Koloth’s act either. “I think it would be best,” she addressed the Klingon commander frostily, “if you and your people departed Sycorax immediately.” She capped the bottle of Romulan ale and handed it back to Koloth. “And you can take your gift with you.”
“With all due respect, Regent,” Koloth warned, letting a hint of steel show through the velvety facade of his impeccable etiquette, “I urge you to reconsider this decision. The Klingon Empire is not about to let this minor ... misunderstanding ... get in the way of our long-term interests where your colony is concerned.”
To her credit, Clarke refused to be cowed by the Klingon’s veiled threat. “These security officers will escort you back to your shuttlecraft, Captain,” she stated forcefully. “I believe our negotiations have concluded.”
Koloth nodded, accepting the inevitable, for now. “Very well,” he acceded, returning the rejected bottle to its sheath. “You may come to regret your actions this evening,” he informed the regent darkly, before dipping his head toward Kirk and McCoy. “Farewell, Captain, Doctor. No doubt we shall meet again.”
Flanked by an entire team of armed security guards, who had arrived on the scene within seconds of the regent’s pronouncement, Koloth and his men were led out of the plaza. “I don’t like the look of this,” McCoy muttered quietly to Kirk. “It’s not like the Klingons to give up so easily.”
“They haven’t,” Kirk said with total confidence. While he remained undecided regarding the Paragon Colony itself, he was certain of one thing.
They had not heard the last of Koloth and his forces.
“Your chief engineer beamed what onto Koloth’s warship, Captain?”
“Tribbles,” Kirk repeated, grinning at the memory. He had been entertaining the regent and the other diners at the table with the story of his earlier run-in with Captain Koloth at K-7. At least forty-five minutes had passed since the Klingons had been summarily ejected from the colony, and the banquet was winding toward its conclusion. [399] A bowl of ice cream—vanilla, of course—rested on the tablecloth in front of Kirk as he wondered how to best convey the insidious cute-ness of the purring tribble hordes.
Suddenly, an explosion rocked the floor of the plaza. Plates and glasses rattled at every table and, through the branches of the redwoods surrounding the dining area, an enormous orange fireball could be glimpsed rising over the trees maybe three-quarters of a mile away. Kirk leaped to his feet, reaching instinctively for his phaser, only to remember that he had come unarmed to the formal state dinner. Of the three Starfleet officers present at the banquet, only Lieutenant Lerner was ready to repel any immediate assault. Kirk was proud to see that the security officer already had his weapon out, and had taken a defensive position in front of the regent’s table.
As yet, however, there was no sign of an attack, aside from the initial explosion. Billowing black clouds of smoke continued to rise beyond the trees, and Kirk could smell the blaze from where he was standing. Strident klaxons sounded in the distance, audible even over the hubbub of excited and frightened voices echoing throughout the outdoor plaza, as the colony’s fire department and other emergency services went into action with admirable speed, but Kirk was utterly convinced that the explosion had been no mere accident. This is Klingon work, Kirk thought, clenching his fists at his sides. I’m sure of it.
An anxious-looking aide, his face pale, hurried to the regent’s side and whispered hastily in her ear. Clarke’s own face blanched at the dire news she had clearly just received. “Oh, no!” she whispered, her worried gaze glued to the unchecked smoke and flames on the horizon. “I never thought ...”
“What is it, Madame Regent?” Kirk asked, determined to find out what had the regent so dismayed. “If there’s any assistance we can provide ...”
“Yes,” McCoy added emphatically As always, he was a doctor first. “Please let me help treat the wounded.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Clarke said sincerely, “but I’m afraid the situation is even more serious than it appears.” She lowered her voice to avoid inciting a panic. “The explosion occurred at our primary [400] deflector array. According to early reports, an entire bank of forcefield projectors has been destroyed, threatening the structural integrity of the dome itself.” Her gaze rose reluctantly toward the bioorganic blister vaulting high above their heads, the colony’s principal line of defense against the toxic atmosphere outside.
The deflector array, Kirk acknowledged, exactly where Korax was captured less than an hour ago. This was conclusive evidence of Klingon sabotage as far as he was concerned. Obviously, Korax had been up to more than simple snooping. Probably a photon grenade, he theorized, activated by remote control once Koloth’s shuttle was safely clear of the dome.
“Look!” Gregor Lozin pointed up at the roof of the dome, a look of outright fear replacing his usual suspicious scowl. Blue flashes of Cerenkov radiation crackled along a sizable segment of the huge chartreuse hemisphere, providing dramatic proof that the colony’s vitally needed forcefield was already weakening in spots. Suddenly, the translucent dome looked perilously thin and fragile, especially compared with the hellish heat and pressure threatening to break through the life-preserving barrier.
“How long,” Kirk asked Clarke softly, “can your dome hold up against the pressure, without the additional protection of the forcefield?”
The regent had the hopeless-yet-steadfast demeanor of a ship’s captain fully prepared to go down with her ship. “Hours,” she said despairingly. “At most.”
To Be Continued
in
STAR TREK
THE EUGENICS WARS
The Rise and Fall of Khan Noonien Singh
VOLUME TWO
AFTERWORD
Historical Notes on The Eugenics Wars, Volume One
When the original Star Trek television series first alluded to the fearsome Eugenics Wars of the 1990s, probably none of the show’s writers or producers guessed that we would still be concerned with such matters all the way into the twenty-first century. Regrettably, many of the vital details regarding the rise of Khan Noonien Singh remain unrecorded by contemporary historians, but it may interest some readers to note where and when the events chronicled in this volume intersect with the “official” history of the late twentieth century. ...
Chapter One: Zealously guarded, the Berlin Wall still stood as a symbol and artifact of the Cold War in March 19
74, as it would for many years to come.
Chapter Five: Think Dr. Lozinak’s glow-in-the-dark mouse is just a whimsical figment of my imagination? So did I. Imagine my surprise on discovering that, in fact, a bioluminescent bunny rabbit was born in France in February 2000, the creation of a transgenic “artist” who added the green fluorescent protein of a jellyfish into the DNA of an albino rabbit, producing a mammal that glows bright green under the right kind of light. Little did he know, of course, that the Chrysalis Project had beaten him to the punch over a quarter of a century earlier. (For more info on the glowing bunny, check out: www.ekac.org/gfpbunny.html.)
Chapter Six: As mentioned by Gary Seven, one of the real-life [402] founders of modern genetic engineering was Har Gobind Khorana, an Indian-born biochemist. Khorana won the Nobel Prize in 1968 for his work on the chemistry of the genetic code, and later led the team that first synthesized a biologically active gene. (No doubt Khan’s mother was one of his students. ...)
Chapter Seven: The smallpox epidemic that Roberta alludes to actually occurred in India in 1974, killing approximately ten to twenty thousand people.
Chapter Eight: Metal detectors at airports were indeed a new fixture at airports in 1974, in response to a wave of real-life skyjackings.
Chapter Twelve: As mentioned by Sarina Kaur, the Soviet Union did, in fact, launch a major germ-warfare program, “Biopreparat,” in 1974, despite having signed the Biological Weapons Convention shortly before. The program ultimately employed approximately thirty-two thousand scientists and staff, and really did develop special refrigerated warheads capable of delivering smallpox or bubonic plague to target sites within the United States and Europe.
