Star Trek: The Eugenics War, Vol. 1

by Greg Cox

  “Ten minutes until atomic sterilization.” All of Kaur's attention was focused on the reactor controls. Now is my chance, Seven realized. Mobilizing his bruised and aching muscles for one more superhuman feat, the extraterrestrial operative sprang to his feet and hurled himself out the empty windowframe looking out over the turbine chamber. “No!” Kaur shouted angrily, squeezing the trigger of her Walther PPK, but she succeeded only in chipping out more fragments of the control-room floor.

  Seven fell fifty feet to the level below. The impact when he hit the ground jarred his bones, but he absorbed the blow as best he could by tucking his limbs against his torso and rolling as he landed, then used his momentum to end up standing upright upon the asphalt floor of the turbine room. He found himself not far from the base of the massive containment silo. Iron scaffolding circled the gigantic concrete cylinder, then stretched out over the nearby turbines, which seemed to roar even more deafeningly as the reactor core overheated, sending a torrent of hot steam through the power-generating turbines. Seven wondered how much longer the immense turbines would be able to withstand the strain.

  “Attempting to abort emergency self-destruct sequence,” the loudspeakers announced over the churning din of the turbines. “Ten minutes and holding.”

  Damn, Seven thought. Kaur had succeeding in arresting the chain reaction, if not yet reversing it entirely. In his mind, he visualized the carbon-alloy control rods sliding back into place between the partially melted uranium fuel rods, preventing the radioactive ore from attaining critical mass. I can't let that happen, he vowed, hurriedly climbing the scaffolding between the silo and the turbines. I have to make sure that reactor blows, no matter what happens to Kaur and myself.

  Ideally, of course, he would just transport the control rods out of the reactor core, but the intense amount of radiation generated at the core, not to mention the dense, reinforced shielding, made such an operation problematic. Seven's eyes narrowed shrewdly as he contemplated the massive pipes carrying much-needed coolant into the containment silo. Fortunately, there was more than one way to cook a reactor.

  Setting the servo for a wide-angle beam, he targeted a stretch of pipe less than twenty feet away. The dense metal conduit, painted a dull green, dissolved beneath the influence of the disintegration beam, spilling a cascade of radioactive H2O onto the floor of the vast chamber. Even located upon the scaffolding, several feet above the flood, Seven winced at the thought of what the invisible roentgens were surely doing to his own cellular structure. I'll have to give myself a couple of strong antiradiation pills, he realized, provided I make it back to Manhattan at all.

  He watched with grim satisfaction as the reactor's precious coolant gushed onto the floor. Without freshly chilled water to carry away the awesome heat being produced by the near-meltdown, the temperature of the reactor core would inevitably build toward its ultimate apocalyptic demise, despite Kaur's futile attempts to bring the feverish reactor back under control. He didn't need X-ray eyes to picture the coolant draining away from the reactor, exposing ever more of the volatile fuel rods. Defuse that disaster if you can, he silently challenged Kaur, but I don't envy the odds against you.

  “Unable to abort emergency self-destruct sequence,” the robotic voice confirmed. “Nine minutes to atomic sterilization.”

  Within seconds, the mighty turbines ground noisily to a halt, literally running out of steam. Seven felt the scaffolding quiver beneath his feet as the powerful engines struggled unsuccessfully to keep running. Grabbing a safety rail to steady himself, he wrapped his fingers tightly around the vibrating metal. “Kaur!” he shouted, his hoarse voice finally audible now that the turbines had quieted. “It's time to go. Let me help you escape!”

  While reluctant to reveal too many of his secrets to Sarina Kaur, Seven realized that the only way left to save the ambitious scientist was to transport her to a less hazardous location. But would the fanatical director cooperate with this last-ditch emergency measure?

  A barrage of gunfire suggested otherwise, the harsh report of Kaur's gun echoing eerily in the suddenly silent turbine room. “Never!” she declared furiously, looking down at Seven from the brink of the control room, her pregnant form framed by the borders of the missing picture window. “I'm not going anywhere—and neither are you!”

  Seven ducked behind the curve of the silo, which shielded him from Kaur's deadly bullets. He didn't want to think about what the unchecked radiation was doing to the woman's unborn child. “Don't be insane, Dr. Kaur,” he called out. Cautiously extending his servo beyond the concrete barrier of the silo, he tried to get a lock on Kaur, but the surging radiation made it impossible to get a reliable reading on the woman from this far away. She would have to let him get closer to her before he could 'port both of them to safety, a scenario that was looking increasingly unlikely. “Chrysalis is doomed,” he yelled, still hoping he could reason with Kaur before it was too late. “There's nothing else you can do, and we're running out of time!”

  “Reactor core approaching critical mass,” the loudspeaker announced, as though seconding Seven's impassioned appeal to Kaur's sanity. “Five minutes to atomic sterilization.”

  Seven hoped the computer's warning would prove more persuasive than his own disregarded words. Would Kaur's instinct for selfpreservation win out over her desire for vengeance? He prayed that her remarkable brain would come to its senses in time. “Listen to me!” he shouted urgently. “You don't have to die here!”

  Kaur laughed bitterly, holding her smoking Walther before her. “Are you familiar with the concept of jauhar, Mr. Seven? It's a venerable Rajput tradition, practiced for centuries in fortresses such as the one above us. Faced with certain defeat, the women and children would set themselves on fire rather than surrender to the enemy.” She fired the pistol at the concrete silo until she ran of bullets, then carelessly tossed the weapon into the churning radioactive flood below the window ledge. “Perhaps the old ways are best after all. . . .”

  Seven placed his palm against the wall of the containment silo, feeling a definite tremor in the thick concrete wall. The hydrogen gas, he remembered, building up within the core, ready to ignite. The scaffolding shuddered alarmingly beneath the soles of his shoes, while a spidery network of cracks spread across the face of the silo. “One minute to atomic sterilization.”

  No more time, he realized despairingly, even as an early, prenuclear explosion, deep within the reactor's interior, jolted the scaffolding, throwing Seven roughly against a safety rail. Grunting in pain as his bruised ribs were hammered again, he clicked his servo.

  The glowing blue fog preceded the mushroom cloud by seconds.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  811 EAST 68TH STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  MAY 19, 1974

  “THE GOVERNMENT OF INDIA,” WALTER CRONKITE INTONED SOLEMNLY upon the viewscreen of the Beta 5, “has confirmed that an underground nuclear test, the first in their nation's history, occurred yesterday beneath the deserts of Rajasthan. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi insists that the test was merely ‘a peaceful nuclear explosion experiment,’ and that her regime has no intention of developing offensive nuclear weapons. Neighboring nations, however, most notably China and Pakistan, have reacted with alarm and suspicion. . . .”

  “Lower audio transmission,” Gary Seven instructed the computer, having apparently heard enough. He sat behind his marble and mahogany desk, his chin resting pensively upon his cradled fingers. Purple smudges persisted beneath his eyes, and his lean face was even gaunter than usual, yet his gaze was clear and alert. He had not yet fully recovered from his ordeal in India, but Roberta thought he was already looking more like his old self. I guess the Aegis really knew what they were doing, she thought, when they bred Seven and his ancestors for endurance.

  “So,” she asked from the couch, where she was enjoying the relaxed aftermath of another successful mission, “do you think that people are going to actually
buy that cover story?”

  “Why shouldn't they?” Seven replied. “Sadly, rampant nuclear proliferation is a hallmark of this era. More importantly, it is in the best interests of all concerned, including those in the Indian government with connections to the Chrysalis Project, that the truth remains a closely guarded secret.”

  “What about Lozinak and the others?” she asked. “Won't they try to rebuild somewhere else?” She liked to think that Viktor, Walter, and their well-intentioned but misguided colleagues had survived the fiery subterranean cataclysm ( except for Sarina Kaur, of course), but she didn't want to have to shut them down again a few years from now. As far as she was concerned, Dr. Veronica Neary, that celebrated geneticist, had spliced her last piece of DNA.

  “That is unlikely to be a problem,” Seven assured her. Isis, looking happy to be home, strolled across the desktop before hopping lightly onto the carpet. “I intend to report the activities and locations of the key conspirators to our contacts in their respective governments, which should be able to keep the guilty scientists under surveillance from now on. That should be enough to keep them from setting up shop again. In addition, I believe I can arrange for the U. S. National Academy of Sciences to call for a moratorium on all genetic engineering, at least temporarily.” A look of profound regret passed over his face. “Without the inspiration and leadership of Sarina Kaur, I suspect that Chrysalis has been extinguished forever.”

  His hopeful prediction was tainted by one lingering worry. “I only wish I knew who, if anyone, ended up with the genetic sequence for Kaur's mutated streptococcus.” His fingers drummed unhappily upon the polished obsidian desktop. “According to Kaur, the most advanced version of the germ was not yet rapidly contagious, but I fear we'll have to keep our eyes out for outbreaks of flesh-eating bacteria in the decades to come.”

  “And the kids?” Roberta asked worriedly. Even though she had successfully transported every one of the supertoddlers away from Chrysalis before it exploded, she couldn't help fretting about the children's futures. In a way, I'm responsible for them now.

  “That poses a genuine dilemma,” Seven conceded. “We can hardly report their identities to the authorities; despite their ominous potential, they cannot be held accountable for their own creation.” He sighed wearily, and slumped back into his leather chair. “The best we can do is scatter the project's children via responsible child-placement organizations throughout the world and hope for the best. Perhaps by separating the children, and by removing them from Kaur's corrupting influence, we can minimize their impact on humanity's future history.”

  “You really think so?” To be honest, she'd been more concerned about the kids themselves than their effect on the world, but she supposed Seven had a point. Even as munchkins, the Chrysalis kids had been pretty darn impressive; heaven only knew what they'd be like once they grew up.

  “I wish I could be more certain,” Seven said gravely. The apprehension in his voice caught Roberta's attention; it wasn't often that Gary Seven admitted to uncertainty. “The only alternative, however, is unacceptable.”

  Roberta knew what he meant. Despite his covert efforts to push humanity in the right direction, Seven drew the line at outright assassination. And thank goodness for that! she thought.

  “We should definitely keep an eye on the children, of course,” Seven added, clearly thinking ahead. “Particularly that little Indian boy you mentioned, the son of Sarina Kaur. The genetically enhanced offspring of Kaur is not someone we can afford to ignore.” Leaning forward, he scribbled a note to himself on a piece of blank stationery. “What was his name again?”

  “Noon,” Roberta answered. The boy's dark, intelligent eyes gazed up from the depths of her memory, holding the promise—or the threat—of the man he would someday become. A chill ran through her, despite the pleasant springtime weather. “Short for Khan Noonien Singh.”

  CHANDIGARH

  THE PUNJAB, INDIA

  SEVERAL WEEKS LATER . . .

  Lightning flashed to the south, heralding the coming monsoon. A book upon his lap, Noon sat on the roof terrace of his new home, staring up at the cloudless blue sky above him. Fragrant basil plants and leafy ferns sprouted from polished brass urns placed strategically around the rooftop, transforming the terrace into an open-air garden. A mosaic of white and blue china decorated the floor of the terrace, reflecting the late-afternoon sunshine.

  If he was honest with himself, Noon had to admit that, after growing up underground, he still found the wide-open sky rather intimidating. Unlike the comforting security of Chrysalis, the soaring heavens made him feel exposed and all too vulnerable, both to the elements and to the unpredictable whims of fate. The latter, he had learned only too recently, could strike without warning, overturning one's entire existence. ( Sometimes in the evening, right before he fell asleep, he imagined he could still hear the warning sirens blaring, the way they had the night his life changed forever.)

  Unwilling to surrender to either fate or fear, however, he'd resolved to confront any trace of agoraphobia by spending as much time as possible upon the roof, in defiance of both his qualms and the oppressive summer heat. Nothing in this new world will get the better of me, the boy vowed, sweating beneath the sun. Not even myself.

  He still missed his mother, of course, not to mention his teachers and classmates, but he was adapting to his changed circumstances, just as any truly superior being would. His new foster parents, distant relations of his deceased mother, were kind enough, and capable of providing him with a comfortable home environment. Prabhot Singh worked as an civil engineer for the city, while his wife Sharan illustrated children's books. Childless themselves, they doted on the newly orphaned Noon, marveling at his obvious talent, strength, and precociousness. Neither Prabhot nor Sharan were his intellectual equals, naturally, but the challenge of exploring a brand-new world, as well as the Singhs' admirably well equipped library, were providing him with sufficient mental stimulation, at least for the time being.

  Noon lowered his gaze to the thick hardcover book spread open upon his lap. Certainly, he couldn't complain about his current reading material. The Life of Alexander the Great was an engrossing tale, made all the more thrilling by Noon's knowledge that all of it was absolutely true. Caught up in its inspiring account of conquest and glory, the young boy flipped the pages eagerly, temporarily abandoning modernday Chandigarh for the bloodstained battlefields of ancient Greece and Persia. He saw himself, with Alexander, at the head of a mighty army, conquering city after city, nation after nation. Thebes fell, and Tyre, Jerusalem, and Babylon, until the entire ancient world, all the way to the eternally flowing Indus, surrendered to the power and destiny of a single indomitable will. Noon's heart, stronger and more resilient than any ordinary child's, beat in unison with the bygone war drums sounding in his brain, while visions of empire filled his imagination. . . .

  Thunder rolled, and dark clouds gathered on the horizon, as the monsoon drew ever nearer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  STARDATE 7004.1

  “CAPTAIN, WE ARE APPROACHING SYCORAX.”

  Spock's voice, emerging from the intercom in Kirk's quarters, roused the captain from his historical research. So soon? he thought. It felt as though he had just begun delving into the Enterprise 's extensive database, but, no, upon reflection, he realized that a full three Earth days had passed. “Understood,” he replied promptly, rising from his desk and switching off the computer terminal. “I'm on my way.”

  Although present-day responsibilities now demanded his attention, the events of the distant past lingered in his mind, following him through the ship's corridors all the way to the nearest turbolift. So that's how it all began, he mused. I don't envy the decision that Gary Seven and Roberta faced back in 1974. There was no way, of course, that Seven could have known for certain how dangerous Khan and his fellow supermen would become, but, even if he had, what else could he have done? How do you protect the future from the threat posed by innoc
ent children?

  Definitely a dilemma to keep in mind when dealing with the Paragon Colony, he resolved. The turbolift came to a stop and Kirk stepped out onto the bridge, where he saw that McCoy had already joined Spock and the others. The Vulcan first officer surrendered the captain's chair to Kirk and took his accustomed place at the science station. “As you can see,” he informed Kirk, “Sycorax is now within visual range.”

  On the viewscreen, a solitary planet spun slowly against a backdrop of star-studded darkness. Swirling clouds, dirty yellow in hue, blanketed the approaching sphere, concealing the planet's terrain from sight, while periodic flashes of intense electrical activity lit up the churning clouds from within. Kirk looked in vain for any visible sign of habitation. “Not exactly the most inviting world I've ever seen,” he commented out loud.

  “Indeed,” Spock acknowledged. The light from his scanner cast deep blue shadows on his refined Vulcan features. “Long-range sensors indicate that Sycorax is a Class-K planet, roughly comparable to Venus in Earth's own solar system. The atmosphere consists primarily of carbon dioxide, with gaseous sulfuric acid providing a heavy layer of cloud cover at an altitude of approximately fifty to sixty meters. Wind velocity in the upper atmosphere exceeds three hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. The temperature at the surface can surpass four hundred and sixty degrees centigrade, while the atmospheric pressure is approximately ninety-one point four times that of Earth at sea level, and equivalent to the pressure half a mile below the surface of the Pacific Ocean. Gravity is point eight-seven-three standard, and the planet itself is composed primarily of nickel-iron and various silicates. Hardened lava plains cover seventy-five point eight percent of the surface, with the rest of the terrain taken up by a variety of craters, mountains, and plateaus. Sensors detect no indigenous life-forms. . . .”