Star Trek: The Eugenics War, Vol. 1

by Greg Cox

  The truck was parked in front of what appeared to be the ruins of an ancient Rajput fort. Reddish-brown sandstone walls, scarred by centuries of erosion and decay, guarded partially collapsed watchtowers that looked out over miles of surrounding dunes and sparse desert scrub. The domed spires of sacked temples and palaces peeked out over the crumbling battlements of the silent citadel, which looked as though it had been abandoned for hundreds of years.

  Such forts were not uncommon in Rajasthan, Seven knew, being the legacy of a martial tradition dating back to the sixth century, but he assumed that these particular ruins were far less desolate than they appeared, or why else transport all of Offenhouse's expensive equipment to this seemingly barren site? His eyes searched the battered sandstone walls, hunting for some hint of the high-tech lab facility he knew had to be lurking here. All that met his gaze was the ancient fortress, however, and rolling dunes that stretched out in all directions beneath a cloudless, sapphire-blue sky.

  A familiar voice called his attention away from the enigmatic ruins. “I trust you had a pleasant trip, Mr. Seven,” Williams taunted him, withdrawing the canteen. His beady eyes glared at Seven; apparently he had not yet forgiven the prying American for complicating his life. “Perhaps you feel more like talking now?”

  “You're fortunate that I can speak at all,” Seven croaked, his voice hoarse from exhaustion and dehydration. “Where I come from, human beings would never dream of subjecting another living creature to a journey like that.”

  Williams scowled, visibly annoyed by Seven's defiance and superior attitude. That angry vein throbbed at the man's temple. “You're in no position to scold anyone. I don't know who you think you are, or whom you're working for, but you're in way over your head now, I assure you.”

  We'll see about that, Seven thought. Despite the physical privations required, he was exactly where he wanted to be—almost. “You brought me here to meet your director,” he reminded Williams. “Let's get on with it.”

  At least a foot shorter than Seven, Williams clenched his fists and stared up at the other man with a mixture of frustration and uncertainty. His flushed, angry face was redder than the sunbaked walls of the forgotten fort. Anxious to achieve the upper hand, but evidently unsure how to do so, he stalled momentarily while searching for an appropriately witty and devastating riposte. The blazing sun, however, made any prolonged stay in the open impractical, and Williams soon conceded to the inevitable. “Er, perhaps we should get out of the sun,” he mumbled weakly, swabbing his sweaty dome with a handkerchief while avoiding eye contact with Seven. “Come on,” he said to his hired goons. “Let's take him inside.”

  Although the outer walls of the fort had been breached here and there by long-departed cannonballs, Williams led the party toward the citadel's open front gate. As he approached the decrepit stone archway, Seven noted several feminine handprints carved into a stone plaque beside the gate. These were memorials, he knew, to bygone generations of women who had performed sati, the ancient and barbaric rite of self-immolation, upon the deaths of their husbands. The sculpted hands had been partially wiped away by wind and time, but Seven could just imagine Roberta's reaction to the very notion of sati; it was hard to envision that independent young woman setting herself on fire for tradition's sake, a realization that gave him considerable hope that the human race was, in fact, advancing toward a higher degree of civilization, albeit slowly.

  Passing through the main entrance, he saw that the walls had once been over a dozen feet thick, and still were in places. The gate itself opened up onto a vast, stone-paved courtyard strewn with rubble and stubborn patches of weeds. Beyond the courtyard, deserted temples and towers lingered in varying degrees of decrepitude, while a onestory edifice that Seven guessed had once been a foundry had collapsed inward, becoming nothing more than a sloping pile of debris. No tourist guide, Williams did not comment on any of these intriguing historical ruins as he proceeded toward the regal palace opposite the front gate.

  The palace looked in slightly better condition than most of the surrounding structures, although Seven still spotted gaping cavities in the palace's upper dome. Once the residence of some mighty prince or maharajah, the palace ascended in tiers like an ornate wedding cake sculpted of marble and sandstone. Intricate lattice screens, that once shielded the women of the palace from view, filled many of the second-and thirdstory windows. Seven and his captors climbed a steep stairway to a pair of heavy granite doors carved to resemble wood. A single silvered handprint, resembling those embedded in the wall beside the fortress's outer gate, adorned the juncture where the two doors met. Williams placed his own right hand atop the apparently ancient memorial, his fingers matching the outlines of the sculpted hand, and Seven heard the rumble of concealed machinery coming to life. Interesting, he mused. There was clearly more to these ruins than met the eye.

  Williams withdrew his hand as the massive doors swung open, seemingly of their own volition. Escorted by the three looming goondas, Seven followed the portly Englishman into a spacious yet shadowy rotunda lit only by swatches of sunlight that fell from the fractured dome high above onto the bare stone floor. Long stripped of the rich carpeting, jeweled mirrors, and other furnishings that would have decorated the chamber at the height of the palace's glory, the empty rotunda still contained hints of its former elegance. Fluted columns supported the high ceiling, while an ornamental frieze ran along the upper boundaries of the room. Small altars, each housing the idol of a separate Hindu deity, were tucked away in closet-sized alcoves stationed at regular intervals along the perimeter of the chamber.

  The scene still looked deceptively antiquated, Seven noted, despite the jarring incongruity of those automatically opening doors. Chrysalis had obviously gone to great efforts to conceal their presence, even this far off the beaten track. Any stray travelers who might wander by, such as curious tourists on a camelback tour of the forbidding desert, would perceive only yet another colorful old fort, neither as well preserved nor as impressive as, say, the more famous citadels at Jodhpur and Bikaner. All this secrecy implies that Chrysalis has a lot to hide, he worried, recalling all the peptone and processed uranium that Offenhouse had shipped to this site. Just what is the long-term agenda of this entire conspiracy?

  Ignoring all the other idols, Williams headed straight for a murky alcove devoted to Ganesh, the elephant-headed god of wisdom and prosperity.

  A layer of artfully applied dust covered the bronze idol, but Seven observed that Ganesh's single tusk, curving upward beside his trunk, looked much less dusty than the rest of the shrine, so that he was not too surprised when Williams took hold of the ivory tusk and twisted it so that it now pointed downward. A metallic click accompanied the gesture, and the entire altar, idol and all, rose toward the ceiling, revealing a pristine white cubicle large enough to hold three or four full-sized adults.

  Very ingenious, Seven thought, although the lack of dust on the elephant-god's tusk had been a bit of a giveaway. The whole set-up reminded him of his own office in Manhattan, whose futuristic hardware easily disappeared behind a facade of twentieth-century interior decoration. Who knew what else these crumbling fortifications concealed?

  Williams retrieved his pistol from the pocket of his sweat-stained jacket. “Right,” he said curtly, addressing the assembled goondas. “You lot finish up unloading the new equipment, taking special care with the crates marked ‘fragile.’ ” He jabbed Seven in the ribs with the muzzle of his Browning pistol, then stepped inside the previously hidden elevator. “You're with me,” he ordered Seven.

  I should hope so, Seven thought, following Williams into the elevator. “Going down?” he predicted confidently, seeing there was nowhere else Chrysalis's deadly laboratories could be lurking. Seconds later, the entire cubicle began sinking into the floor, and he waited patiently as his view of the forsaken rotunda swiftly disappeared from sight, replaced by the smooth black wall of the elevator shaft.

  “You think you're smart now,” Will
iams sneered, “but just wait until the director gets through with you.” He kept a few feet away from Seven, the point of his Browning never veering away from his prisoner's chest. “You don't get something like Chrysalis off the ground, and keep it secret, without learning how to handle sneaky little spies like you. She takes no prisoners, I can tell you that.”

  Sounds like a Romulan commander I knew once, Seven thought. He could have disarmed Williams easily, of course, but that was hardly the point of the exercise. There would be time enough later to regain his liberty—after he reached the nerve center of this ambitious conspiracy. If I'm not already too late.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHRYSALIS BASE

  GREAT THAR DESERT

  RAJASTHAN, INDIA

  MAY 17, 1974

  SOFTLY, WITH ONLY A WHISPER OF A THUD, THE ELEVATOR CAME TO A halt, and Roberta found herself deep inside an environment very different from the crumbling ruins she had just left. We must be hundreds of feet beneath the fortress, she estimated, judging from the speed of the elevator and the length of their descent. Talk about private! she thought, making no effort to conceal her astonishment from Lozinak, Takagi, or even Carlos. I've been in bomb shelters that were closer to the surface.

  Even more impressive than its subterranean depths, however, was the size of the installation that greeted Roberta's awestruck eyes when the spotless white elevator doors slid open, revealing a spacious courtyard at the center of an enormous vertical shaft that extended for a mile or so above her head. “Wow!” she exclaimed, stepping out of the elevator to take it all in. Her jaw dropped and even Isis squawked in amazement. “I mean, wow.”

  “Welcome to Chrysalis,” Dr. Lozinak said proudly, finally revealing the codename that Seven had already told her about.

  Like the petals of some colossal lotus flower, five tunnels led away from the tiled courtyard, burrowing deep into the solid bedrock beneath the desert. Between the tunnels' entrances, sturdy ladders and catwalks rose up along the sides of the central shaft, apparently leading to multiple levels above the ground floor of the elaborate facility. Dozens of men and women, of diverse hues and ethnicities, circulated throughout the vast complex, going briskly about their daily errands. Roberta spotted technicians in white lab coats as well as maintenance workers wearing matching orange uniforms. Looking around, she was startled to see, one level above her, a group of small children being led along a catwalk by a trio of attentive caretakers in paint-smeared smocks. The babbling preschoolers looked happy and completely at home within the sprawling installation. Chrysalis has even got its own underground nursery school? she marveled. This is bigger than I ever expected.

  One of the children, a neatly groomed Indian boy, maybe three or four years old, noticed the adults standing by the open elevator. Perhaps intrigued by Roberta's unfamiliar face, he paused upon the catwalk to stare down at the blond-haired stranger. Smiling back at the boy, Roberta was struck by the seriousness in the child's expression and the obvious intelligence in his dark eyes; in a strange, undefinable sort of way, this little kid reminded her of Gary Seven. Before she could put her finger on the precise quality the boy and her boss had in common, however, one of the boy's watchful caretakers tugged gently on his hand, urging him to keep up with the other children. Roberta watched as the entire class, perhaps on a field trip of some kind, disappeared into one of the upper tunnels. So long, kid, she thought.

  Mounted sunlamps, far more gentle than the blazing orb Roberta and her companions had left behind, simulated daylight, while a silent and efficient ventilation system provided a gentle breeze that felt blissfully cool after the sweltering heat of the sunbaked desert. The marble tiles beneath her feet repeated the butterfly motif that she had previously noted on the tail of the private jet that had picked her up in Rome. Nice design, she observed; somebody had taken the trouble to make the secluded lair attractive as well as functional.

  She felt oddly humbled by her futuristic surroundings; Chrysalis HQ made her and Gary Seven's own secret headquarters look like a high-tech lemonade stand. “Umm, does the Indian government know you've got your own little city down here?” she asked her fellow travelers.

  Behind her, the elevator headed back toward the surface, leaving her with no obvious means of escape. Roberta tried not to look as trapped as she felt, even though the looming Carlos continued to watch over her as implacably as any prison warden. He's sticking to me like Super Glue, she thought irritably. And me without any solvent.

  “Various individuals in the government have been paid not to know,” Lozinak explained. His cane tapped against the blue-and-white tiles covering the floor of the courtyard. “Sadly, even in this brave new world we are entering, old-fashioned bribery remains a potent force.”

  “Chrysalis has really deep pockets, huh?” she observed, almost embarrassed to state something so manifestly obvious. From the looks of this place, Chrysalis had a budget comparable to NASA's.

  “You'd be surprised how many successful billionaires and tycoons are willing to pay in order to give their offspring a better start, genetically speaking, than they themselves had,” Takagi told her. “It's all about leaving a legacy, and guaranteeing that one's heirs are among the best of the best.” He grinned mischievously. “I can even think of a few royal families that aren't above improving their precious bloodlines, provided it's done on the sly.”

  “All the advantages—and premium DNA—that money can buy, huh?” Roberta said, nodding. “I can see where that would be tempting to social-climbing rich folks with money to burn.” She gave Takagi a conspiratorial wink as they headed for the arched entrance to a tunnel directly in front of them. “So who are we talking about here? Howard Hughes? OPEC? The Kennedys?”

  Takagi looked like he couldn't wait to spill the beans, but, as usual, his more cautious colleague intervened before Walter could compromise too many secrets. “That is, I think, more than you need to know,” Lozinak said, shrugging his stooped shoulders apologetically. He shot a warning glance at Takagi, who blushed visibly. Carlos smirked cruelly at the young scientist's discomfort. “At least for the present,” Lozinak added.

  Party pooper, Roberta thought, repressing a disappointed scowl. I'm definitely going to have to try to get Takagi away from Lozinak at some point, preferably without going the full Mata Hari route!

  “Come,” the old scientist said to Roberta, as they approached the glass doors at the mouth of the tunnel. “There is someone you should meet.” A red telephone and a blank video screen were mounted on the wall next to the entrance, at approximately eye level. Lozinak lifted the receiver and keyed a numerical code into a shiny push-button display. Moments later, a woman's face appeared on the monitor.

  A videophone, Roberta realized. Cool.

  “Viktor, welcome back,” the woman said, her voice emerging from the screen. An attractive Indian woman, probably in her early thirties, she had large brown eyes and short, Twiggy-style hair. Roberta thought she looked familiar, but couldn't place the face just yet. Was this the infamous director that Carlos had invoked earlier? Roberta took a few steps closer to Lozinak, hoping to eavesdrop on his conversation more easily, but the aged Ukrainian pressed another button, silencing the audio so that he could converse with the woman more privately via the receiver. He lowered his voice and turned away from Roberta as he replied to the unidentified woman's greetings.

  Darn, Roberta thought, unable to hear what was being said. Lozinak's successful attempt to protect his privacy made her nervous, mostly because it implied that the old scientist didn't yet trust her entirely. Had she blown her cover somehow? She crossed her fingers instinctively, praying that she could still count on the welcome wagon instead of the third degree.

  After a brief, frustratingly inaudible discussion, Lozinak hung up the phone. “Excellent,” he announced jovially, his warm tone going a long way toward allaying Roberta's paranoid fears. “It seems we're just in time to have lunch with the director.” He smiled in her direction. “No doubt yo
u could eat a house after our long journey.”

  “I think you mean ‘horse,’ ” she corrected Lozinak mildly. To be honest, she was more exhausted than hungry, but she wasn't about to pass up a chance to meet Chrysalis's fabled director face-to-face. Besides, it was almost noon anyway, so lunch was not a bad idea; several hours, and a couple of hundred miles, had passed since she'd eaten breakfast in the back of the limo. “Lunch sounds great to me,” she agreed cheerfully. Isis meowed loudly, to remind all concerned that she required sustenance as well.

  “Very good then,” Lozinak declared. Glass doors slid open automatically to admit the party into the central tunnel. A moving conveyor belt ran along the left side of the enclosed corridor, and Lozinak stepped carefully onto the mechanized walkway, which carried him down the length of the tunnel, while Roberta and the others promptly followed his lead. Peering past Lozinak, she could not see any end to the tunnel, although they soon passed several intersections and diverging corridors. How big is this place anyway? she wondered, experiencing an irrational urge to leave a trail of bread crumbs behind her. Hooking up with Seven down here is going to be like searching the Smithsonian on a crowded Sunday afternoon.

  She gave her arm a rest by placing Isis's carrier down on the conveyor belt in front of her. With nothing better to do than play tourist for the time being, she scoped out her surroundings as the moving sidewalk carried her deeper into Chrysalis's underground extremities.