Star Trek: The Eugenics War, Vol. 1

by Greg Cox

  “Thanks!” Roberta said gratefully. “I was starting to feel a bit like Patty Hearst, before she was brainwashed.” She grinned triumphantly at Carlos, who grumpily turned his back on the two scientists and their supposed new recruit. Score one for the American chick, she thought smugly, as the limo pulled away from the curb. At this rate, I'll be running Chrysalis by Thursday.

  In theory, that is.

  Lozinak had not been kidding when he mentioned the long road ahead. After several hours on the road, Roberta figured they had to be halfway to Pakistan by now.

  The limousine's tinted windows and first-rate air-conditioning insulated her from the exotic yet torrid environment outside, something Roberta considered a distinctly mixed blessing. On the one hand, she wanted to see and experience more of India itself; on the other hand, her body kept reminding her that it was now long past midnight, Roman time, and that she had been traveling for at least eleven hours at this point. Under the circumstances, she found it all too easy to doze off for long stretches of the trip, waking abruptly whenever their driver slammed on the brakes or leaned on the horn, which seemed to occur with alarming frequency.

  In fact, Roberta quickly decided that the less she saw of the traffic on the overcrowded, underlit roads, the better she'd sleep. India had one of the highest traffic fatality rates in the world, at least according to the briefing the Beta 5 had provided, and Roberta could easily see why. Buses, taxis, cows, bullock-carts, bicycles, water buffalo, motorbikes, trucks, and motorized rickshaws contended for space on the overtaxed highway, with right-of-way going to the biggest vehicles and the loudest horns. Convoys of ten-ton moving vans roared past the limo, carrying their freight from Delhi to distant parts of the subcontinent, while public buses swayed with the weight of the teeming human cargo clinging to the sides and rooftops of the rickety vehicles. The twisted and mangled ruins of numerous traffic casualties rusted alongside the road, appearing every thirty miles or so to provide mute evidence of past automotive catastrophes, far more regularly than Roberta would've preferred.

  She couldn't help recalling that her immediate predecessors, Seven's original Earth-based operatives, had both perished in an unforeseen traffic accident. Here's hoping history won't repeat itself, she mused, wondering how Seven would react to her own unfortunate demise, not to mention the cat's. Probably complain some more about the senseless barbarity of twentieth-century life.

  Their driver stuck to the highway, bypassing both the larger cities and small, rural villages. The slums and shantytowns south of Delhi gave way to mile after bumpy mile of congested roadways as the limo made its way across the open countryside, through rocky hills and shadowy ravines. In the darkness of the early morning, Roberta occasionally glimpsed distant bonfires, the murky silhouettes of small farms and temples, and, far less frequently, the glow of electric lights. Speeding trains occasionally ran parallel to the dusty dirt roads on which they traveled, and she got the impression that the limo was heading vaguely south, but didn't see much in the way of signage. What's south? she tried to remember, wishing she could have brought along a map without arousing suspicion. Agra? Calcutta? Probably some place more off the beaten track, she speculated.

  Breakfast consisted of a thermos of milky chai tea, plus some tasty banana fritters that the chauffeur had packed for them. The tea was hot, spicy, and presumably caffeinated, but even that was not enough to keep her eyes open. Soon she was somewhere else, far away from the cramped and bouncing limo.

  In her dreams, she was back at the dimly lit Italian restaurant, but this time the spaghetti on her plate came alive, the wriggling strands of pasta twisting into an intricate double helix that Roberta recognized from all the biology texts and articles she had forced herself to consume lately. The double helix, the essential human genome, rose up before her, rotating slowly around an invisible axis like an upright work of art upon a revolving pedestal. She gaped in wonder at the sheer elegance and deceptive simplicity of the coiled, ribbonlike structure, which appeared to glow with its own transcendent light. So that's what the basic recipe for people looks like, she marveled, wondering why anyone would want to tamper with such a flawless design.

  Then the helix began to change. Mutate. Before her eyes, the genome unraveled, each luminous strand writhing like sparking electrical wires. The wriggling noodles snatched at each other, knotting themselves into a tangle of unlikely connections and chromosomal linkages. A new double helix swiftly formed, but unlike the graceful rungs of the original structure, this mutated helix was bound together by something that looked like a demented cobweb made out of pasta. That can't possibly be right, Roberta realized, aghast. She reached forward desperately, hoping to somehow untangle the mess and put all the mismatched genes and chromosomes back where they belonged, but the sinuous genome slithered through her fingers, eluding her grasp.

  Ugly and distorted, the mutant double helix reared back like an angry cobra, then lunged for her throat. Roberta threw up her hands to protect herself, but the serpentine monster passed through her hands like a phantom before striking her in the jugular, where it dissolved into her own bloodstream. Oh my gosh, she realized in horror. It's inside me now!

  Like venom, the mutant DNA coursed through her system, rewriting her own genetic code. Convulsive cramps and spasms racked her body. She could literally feel her bones and organs shifting and changing as the recombinant invader transformed her very identity. Visions of glowing mice and limbless thalidomide children infected her imagination, but when she looked down at her hands, afraid that all she would see were flippers, she discovered instead that her fingers were stretching before her eyes, growing longer and preternaturally more supple. New knuckles formed, one to each finger, and she found she was able to bend them in places she never could before. Is this supposed to be an improvement? she wondered, unsure whether to be amazed or appalled. Then extra fingers sprouted from her palms and she started to scream. . . .

  “Dr. Neary? Ronnie?” She awoke with a start to discover that the limo had come to a stop. Takagi nudged her shoulder gently while, on her lap, Isis squawked impatiently. “Sorry to disturb you,” the younger scientist said, “but we have to get out of the car.”

  Roberta blinked in confusion. The chauffeur opened the back door of the limo, letting in a blast of shockingly hot air. She shook her head, glad to have awakened, but having difficulty throwing off the lingering unease generated by her nightmare. Yikes, what a dream! she thought, trying to remember the last time she had experienced anything so surreal. Woodstock maybe, but who needs acid when your own unconscious mind can conjure up a head trip like that one? She made a determined effort to come back to reality. “Are we there yet?”

  “Almost,” Takagi promised, climbing out of the limo. Peering past the exiting biochemist's back and shoulders, Roberta caught a glimpse of some sort of village right outside the car. “We just need to transfer to another mode of transportation.”

  Holding on to Isis's pet carrier, she clambered out of the backseat after Takagi, then looked around to inspect her surroundings, squinting against the harsh glare of the morning. The scorching sun, which had risen sometime during their trip, beat down on an isolated desert village composed of thatched adobe and yellow sandstone huts. Hot and dusty air, smelling of spices and camel dung, enveloped Roberta like a heavy blanket, albeit one doused in ginger and curry. Scrawny white cows and bleating goats wandered freely through the unpaved streets of the village, while women in brilliantly colored saris, some balancing clay pottery upon their heads, paused to stare at Roberta and the others with open curiosity.

  Barefoot children chased each other along dry dirt paths and around the village well, their high-pitched voices competing with the muttering and whispers of their mothers. Old men, whose white beards contrasted sharply with their wizened brown faces, sat on mats outside their homes, watching the new arrivals warily. Like their elders, the women and children kept their distance, quite unlike the hyperaggressive porters and taxi-wallahs ba
ck at the airport. Must not get many visitors around here, Roberta guessed, feeling slightly selfconscious. Especially not blondes.

  Beyond the village, stretching away to a seemingly endless horizon, rolling sand dunes sprawled beneath a bright turquoise sky. Desolate patches of desert scrub struggled to survive amid the arid sandscape. “That would be the Great Indian Desert, I'm guessing,” Roberta observed, relying on a photographic memory of her discarded map.

  Takagi nodded. “The locals call it marust'hali. ” He was already sweating profusely from the heat, but seemed perfectly willing to act as tour guide. “The abode of death.”

  How cheery, Roberta thought. Shielding her eyes with her hand ( which, thankfully, had merely the usual number of fingers and knuckles), she regarded the vast desert thoughtfully. As far as she could see, the road they were on came to a stop at the edge of a sandy wasteland. Could this be the end of the line? No, she recalled, Takagi had said something about switching to another means of transport.

  Nervously, her gaze wandered back to the camels grazing on a block of dry-looking straw beside the nearest thatch building. A male villager, wearing a large orange turban and a mercenary expression, gripped the reins of a pair of camels as he watched Carlos and the chauffeur help Dr. Lozinak out of the limo, which clearly had gone as far as it could go. Please don't tell me we're making the rest of the trip on camelback, she prayed wholeheartedly.

  According to her watch, it was now a few minutes after ten in the morning, which meant she had already been in transit for at least thirteen hours, seven by air and then another six in the limo. No wonder she felt so wasted; Roberta considered herself a more than usually adventurous person, always ready to try something new, but right now the prospect of spending several more hours stuck between the bouncing humps of a plodding Indian camel was enough to induce genuine despair. “Is that our ride?” she asked, nodding glumly in the direction of their prospective mounts. A brownish lather dripped from the slowly masticating mouth of one of the camels in question.

  Ugh. “Perhaps some other time,” Lozinak chuckled, leaning heavily on his cane. “At my age, I find I prefer a jeep.” He looked to the horizon, where Roberta saw a cloud of airborne sand approaching over the crown of a dune. “Ah, here it comes now. Right on schedule.”

  She felt an undeniable surge of relief as the four-wheeled vehicle emerged from the desert, churning up a flurry of agitated dust and sand. The jeep came to a halt in front of the limo, and its driver—a bearded Indian man who looked like he could have been a cousin to the disappointed camel-owner—set about transferring the travelers' carry-on luggage from the limousine to the jeep. He also offered Roberta sunglasses and a straw hat to protect her from the sun, which she accepted gratefully. Okay, it's official, she thought, contemplating the desert from which the jeep had come. We're definitely heading for the middle of nowhere.

  She just hoped Seven was keeping up.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SOUTHWEST OF DELHI

  INDIA

  MAY 17, 1974

  IRONICALLY, GARY SEVEN FOUND HIMSELF TRAVELING TO CHRYSALIS'S secret base much as he would have had he not been discovered by Williams and his thugs: hidden beneath a canvas in the back of the pickup truck. All things considered, he thought wryly, I think I prefer transporters.

  Bound and gagged and covered by the all-concealing tarp, he had been on the road for several hours now, time enough for the blazing afternoon sun to turn the back of the truck into a veritable oven. Through sheer bad luck, Seven's mission had coincided with the peak of India's hot season, when daytime temperatures could easily exceed one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Even with his own superlative physical conditioning and mental discipline, the trip had still become a torturous ordeal. His shirt and slacks were soaked with sweat and he felt more than a little dehydrated. His dry mouth and throat pined for something to drink, preferably with ice. He could only hope that he would not be too debilitated by the time the truck reached its ultimate destination.

  Lying on his side, with his hands tied behind his back with thick strips of duct tape, he could see only the base of the wooden crate directly in front of him. Despite this inadequate vantage point, however, he had nonetheless managed to derive some significant conclusions based on what he'd heard from the floor of the pickup.

  First, and perhaps most intriguingly, he couldn't help noticing that the truck had cruised from the airfield onto a highway without any official delays or inspections. From this Seven could only assume that, as an organization, Chrysalis possessed considerable wealth and/ or influence; the ease with which Williams's contraband had circumvented customs implied extensive, systemic bribery, as well as possibly friends in high places.

  This was extremely worrisome news. Such resources vastly increased Chrysalis's potential for dangerous scientific mischief. They're playing with fire, Seven thought gloomily, remembering the strife and devastation that unchecked genetic manipulation had wreaked on so many other civilizations throughout the galaxy. The Minjo are still trying to rebuild their society after that last round of gene wars. . . .

  Never mind all that uranium and bacterial growth medium. As best he could, while simultaneously analyzing what he had already learned about Chrysalis, Seven also attempted to orient himself regarding the truck's journey and surroundings. Over the last few hours, the vehicle had migrated from Delhi's noisy, traffic-clotted streets to the only slightly less crowded highways beyond the busy, clamorous environment of the city and its outlying slums. The air, although no less hot and humid, had become mercifully less polluted, smelling more of eucalyptus trees and burning dung than of industrial effluent, leading him to conclude that they had placed Delhi's urban sprawl far behind. Over the course of hours, the traffic thinned as well, judging by the gradual decrease in honking horns Seven could hear from his uncomfortable berth in the back of the pickup.

  Possessed of an excellent sense of direction, he estimated that they were traveling southwest. Through Harayana state and onto Rajasthan, he calculated. They had been on the road for at least six hours; by now the truck must be nearing the vast, inhospitable desert lying between India and Pakistan. A fairly remote location, to be sure. Chrysalis clearly made privacy a top priority. What are they hiding? he wondered. And how far have they progressed?

  His servo, tucked away in one of his jacket's inner pockets, jabbed him in the side. Seven wished he could access the device, if only to communicate with Roberta or Isis, and inform them of his present location and circumstances. He had barely been able to do more than make eye contact with them back at the Delhi airport, and he couldn't help wondering how that slightly incompatible duo were faring on their own excursion through India. With any luck, they're still getting the red-carpet treatment from Chrysalis, he thought, hoping that his agents could maintain their aliases for a while longer; as he was learning through personal experience, Chrysalis's agents were not above kidnapping and threats of violence when crossed. Then again, he reminded himself, Isis is perfectly capable of taking care of herself in hazardous situations, and Roberta, despite appearances, has her own unique talents as well.

  The truck paused at an intersection, and Seven thought he heard the bleats of goats or camels. Must be passing through some remote Rajasthani village, he surmised. It was unlikely that the truck would stop here for long, since it was hard to imagine what such a place would need with processed uranium and high-speed centrifuges. He hoped, for the sake of his own physical comfort, that it would not be necessary to travel the rest of the trip slung across the swaying back of an ambling camel. After all, there's primitive and then there's primitive. . . .

  Fortunately, the pickup soon resumed its journey. The bucolic sounds of the unnamed village faded away as the vehicle logged yet more miles in this seemingly endless trek. The road grew ever rougher, jarring Seven's body with every bump, until finally the road itself more or less disappeared. Seven heard the truck's four-wheel drive struggle to maintain traction in the sandy dunes of what
he assumed must be the Great Thar Desert. He could no longer hear the horns or engines of other vehicles, only the steady rumble of the jeep's transmission as it carried him deeper and deeper into the hot and arid solitude of the desert.

  He swallowed hard, but his parched throat yielded no saliva. His cramped arms and legs ached from inactivity. Darkness encroached on his limited field of vision, but he employed a series of mental exercises, borrowed and modified from ancient Vulcan teachings, to avoid losing consciousness. Concentration required considerable effort, yet he managed to remain focused on his mission. He was anxious to meet Chrysalis's so-called director, most likely the “scary” Indian woman Ralph Offenhouse had mentioned back in Brooklyn.

  Perhaps it's not too late to reason with these people , he thought, to convince them to abandon their reckless experimentation. Since first returning to the homeworld of his ancestors, Seven had learned enough about ordinary human nature to realize that reason was often not their primary motivating factor. It was worth a try, though, before he was forced to resort to more drastic measures to curtail their operation. Sanity was always preferable to sabotage.

  The sun beat down on him, even through the welcome shelter of the canvas tarp. Seven knew that, advanced training or no, he couldn't last much longer without water. How much farther is there to go? he pondered, a question that was growing more urgent with every hour.

  Finally, just as he found himself pining nostalgically for the subzero temperatures of the Bajoran icecap, the pickup rolled to a halt somewhere deep within the desert. Car doors swung open loudly, and Seven heard boots stomping through sand just outside the truck. Minutes later, the tarp was pulled back, exposing him to the full glare of the midday sun. Seven squeezed his eyelids shut against the blinding light, even as beefy arms grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him roughly up and out of the enclosed truckbed.

  Vertical again, for the first time in probably seven hours, Seven felt his feet hit the desert sand. He tried to stand erect, but the grueling trip had taken too much out of him. His legs felt like uncooked Klingon gagh and he had to be held up by captors on either side of him. Someone grudgingly stuck the mouth of a canteen between his lips and he swallowed greedily. The water was lukewarm, but he had seldom tasted anything quite so refreshing. The liquid restored him, somewhat, and he gradually opened his eyes, letting his pupils adjust to the glare before attempting to take stock of his surroundings.