by Greg Cox
“Yes,” Masako Clarke assented. “Of course.” Without being obvious about it, she appeared anxious to get this tense encounter over with. “Naturally, we intend to give the Klingons' proposal all due consideration, but before taking such a momentous step, it seemed wise to consult the Federation as well, especially since our original gene pool is derived from Earth's human population.”
“Human genes, hmmph!” Korax grunted. “Klingon DNA makes Earther seed look like worthless chaff.” The third Klingon soldier, a hulking bald warrior whose face was scarred by an old, untreated disruptor burn, snickered in agreement.
“Be that as it may,” Clarke stated tactfully, “I would certainly like the opportunity, Captain Kirk, to discuss this matter with you more fully sometime soon. In private.”
Koloth frowned, but Kirk thought he grasped the bare essentials of the situation. Obviously, Clarke did not feel free to refuse the Klingons' dubious “protection” outright, yet entertained hopes of joining the Federation instead. The Klingon threat, he guessed, was probably what prompted the Paragon Colony to contact the Federation in the first place.
“By all means,” he assured the regent. “I'm anxious to sit down with you whenever's convenient.”
“As am I,” Koloth insisted. “I'm sure I can be equally as persuasive as the good captain here.”
“We'll see about that,” Kirk said boldly. He was about to remind Koloth of just who had come out on top at K-7 when his communicator beeped urgently. A message from Spock, no doubt. “Excuse me,” he apologized, stepping away from Clarke, Koloth, and the rest of the delegation. A deft flick of his wrist lifted the protective lid of the handheld communicator. “Kirk here. What's happening?”
Spock wasted no time getting to the point. “A Klingon battle cruiser, class D7, has revealed itself in orbit around Sycorax.
Previously, it had hidden from our sensors by keeping the planet between itself and the Enterprise, but apparently the Klingons no longer consider stealth necessary.” Spock's voice was grave as he conveyed the news to Kirk. “Logic suggests, Captain, that the Klingon Empire has designs upon the Paragon Colony and its unique scientific resources.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Kirk saw Koloth watching him smugly, almost certainly aware of what was transpiring in orbit, hundreds of kilometers overhead. “Tell me about it,” Kirk said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
NAI SARAK BAZAAR
DELHI, INDIA
NOVEMBER 1, 1984
MONSOON SEASON WAS OVER, BUT ANOTHER STORM WAS BREWING. Fourteen years old, Khan Noonien Singh could feel the tension in the air as he sifted through the used books piled high in one of the many stalls lining the crowded market street. It was only ten in the morning, but the bazaar was already crammed with shoppers, vendors, beggars, and tourists. Dozens of voices haggled over jewelry, books, fabric, sweetmeats, and other items, competing with the blaring horns of taxis and bicycle-rickshaws as the vehicles inched through swarming crowds and impossibly jammed traffic, belching their exhaust into the smoggy city air. Crippled beggars, baby-clutching young mothers, and impoverished elders pleaded for bread or rupees, while dirty, barefoot children scurried to shine shoes and pick pockets. Banners advertising fantastic bargains were strung over the narrow alley like laundry, above countless signs and billboards, mostly in English. The spicy scent of cardamom, tumeric, and ginger teased Noon's nostrils. Shrill pop tunes, playing loudly from transistor radios and the doorways of various shops, assailed his ears. Stray dogs and sacred cattle wandered through the litter-strewn street, adding to the crush and congestion.
All of this was normal enough, routine even, but there was something different about today. Beneath the usual hustle and clamor, Noon sensed darker impulses at work. He heard an edge in the market's collective voice, and an almost palpable mood of anger and apprehension, building steadily all around him. Even the beggars seemed distracted and worried, targeting the tourists without their customary zeal and histrionics. The owner of the bookstall eyed Noon suspiciously, scowling as the turbaned teenager handled his wares. Perhaps going shopping today was a mistake, Khan thought. Was it just his imagination, or did he really feel the gaze of hostile eyes upon him, prickling the skin at the back of his neck?
Yesterday, only slightly more than twenty-four hours ago, India's controversial prime minister, Indira Gandhi, had been assassinated in her garden by her own Sikh bodyguards, who had reportedly filled her body with over thirty bullets. The killing had been in retaliation for Mrs. Gandhi's military assault on Sikhism's holiest site, the Golden Temple in Amritsar. Thousands had been killed in the attack, and a library of sacred scriptures incinerated, and Noon feared that the sectarian bloodshed had only begun.
His friends back at the university, where he was working toward a doctorate in engineering, had cautioned the young prodigy not to leave the campus this morning, given the heated emotions raised by the prime minister's murder, yet Noon had never been one to let fear determine his actions. Now, however, he began to wonder if his pride had overcome his judgment. He stroked his cheek thoughtfully; although his first beard was just beginning to come in, his sparsely whiskered face, along with his turban and steel wristband, clearly identified him as a Sikh, albeit one barely grown.
An unexpected odor attracted his attention. Amid the omnipresent reek of spices and smog, was that smoke he smelled? He sniffed cautiously. Yes, something was definitely burning nearby. Had a building caught fire? He looked up and down the busy street, but all he could see was the constant press of bustling humanity. Straining his ears, he heard angry shouts coming from the direction of the smoky aroma, followed by screams and the sound of breaking glass. What's happening? he wondered with concern, his heartbeat quickening as every nerve ending in his body screamed at the approach of danger. What is burning?
Without warning, the book merchant snatched a dog-eared history text out of Noon's hands. “Get out of here, you filthy Sikh,” the man barked at Noon, spittle flying from his lips. His eyes burned with murderous hatred. “Get away from my books!”
Caught off guard by the ferocity of the vendor's bile, Noon stepped backward into the street. How dare he speak to me like that? he thought, ire rapidly overtaking surprise. Without meaning to, he jostled a passing pedestrian, who shoved him back roughly. “Watch where you're going, you murdering dog!” the other man said, then spit at Noon's feet. “You've got your nerve, showing your ugly face today!”
An angry retort sprang to Noon's lips, but he held his tongue, suddenly very aware of the wrath-filled eyes that glared at him from every direction. Noon's hand went instinctively to the silver-plated dagger tucked in his belt. Until today he had only carried the brightlypolished kirpan for tradition's sake; never before had he needed it for self-defense. He hesitated to draw the blade, though, lest that provoke the mob further. “Leave me alone,” he warned. His adolescent voice cracked, undermining his show of defiance. “I mean you no harm.”
But it was already too late to avoid violence. The smell of burning timbers grew stronger and Noon glimpsed tendrils of ash and smoke rising above the sales banners festooning the buildings less than a block away. He heard gunshots, and the horror-stricken cries of men and women, as the angry shouting drew nearer. “Blood for blood!” roared many raging voices, sending a shiver down Noon's spine. Although he had lived a fairly sheltered life since his mother's death so many years ago, he knew a riot when he heard one. “Death to all Sikhs!”
The crowd surrounding Noon took up the cry. “Blood for blood!” Women grabbed their children and hurried for safety while their menfolk surged toward the outnumbered teenager. Brahmans and beggars, old men and grinning youths, joined the gang threatening Noon, hurling jeers and obscenities. Very well, he resolved, unsheathing his blade. They will find that I am far more than I appear.
“Stay back!” he shouted, waving the knife before him to carve out a swath of empty space between him and the mob. His eyes narrowed shrewdly as he waited for his foes
to make their move.
He did not have to wait long. A man charged at Noon from behind, trapping the youth in a crushing bear hug that pinned Noon's arms to his sides. But the man had not counted on the teen's enhanced muscle density; Noon effortlessly broke free from the larger man's clasp, then rammed his elbow into the attacker's gut. The resulting grunt of pain was music to Noon's ears, and he savored his easy victory. That will teach these rabble, he thought, to accost a superior being!
Then a rock struck him soundly in the face, bruising his cheek. “Got him!” someone yelled and the crowd laughed raucously. More missiles followed: rocks, bottles, books, cans, even fist-sized pieces of dung snatched up from the trash-covered street. Jagged stones and broken glass pelted his body, and he staggered upon the pavement, trying to shield his face with his hands. Pain struck from all around, smashing into his back, his shoulders, his ribs. Something wet and sticky leaked from a cut above his eye, and he tasted blood on his lips. “Get him!” the bloodthirsty crowd screamed. “Kill the dirty Sikh!”
As much as it galled his soul, Noon realized he had to flee for his life. The mob was out of control, and there were simply too many of them to defeat all by himself. Awounded lion can be torn apart by jackals , he thought, rationalizing his retreat as he barreled through the human net surrounding him, tossing grown men aside like bags of flour. His knife gripped between his teeth, he ran headlong through the bazaar, dodging traffic and shrieking tourists. They should have known better than to venture into the streets today, Noon thought, feeling little sympathy for the hysterical sightseers. As should have I.
As he sprinted, adrenaline fueling his athletic legs, he saw with horror that he was not the only victim of today's furor. The hate-crazed mob was taking vengeance on every Sikh in sight, while setting fire to any shops or stalls that might conceivably belong to a Sikh. The air was soon thick with smoke and the sickening smell of burning flesh. Racing north up Nai Sarak, he saw a gray-bearded taxi-wallah dragged from his cab, then doused with kerosene and set aflame. Khan wanted to strike back, to defend his innocent kinsmen, but there was nothing that a single youth, even one such as he, could do against the insane conflagration erupting in the streets. Someday, he vowed, choking back tears of rage, I will put an end to such madness.
But where could he run to now? Old Delhi, as this sector of the city was called, was a maze of narrow alleys and overpopulated markets, but, no matter how swiftly he raced, he could not outrun the riot, which was spreading even faster than the blazing inferno it had spawned. Vengeful fingers grabbed at Noon as he ran, tearing the fabric of his dung-spattered Nehru jacket and unraveling his turban, so that his uncut black hair streamed behind him. Hateful insults and profanities chased after the fleeing teenager, while rocks and bottles continued to bounce off his bruised back and shoulders. Overturned cars and trucks, flames licking their exposed underbellies, blocked his way, but Noon leaped around and over any obstacles, only to find more mayhem directly in his path. Looters ransacked Sikh businesses and homes, before setting them to the torch.
I must get away, Noon thought, his lungs laboring to keep up with the extreme demands placed on them by his desperate flight. But where was safety to be found? The university was too far away, in a newer part of town. There was no chance of getting there alive and intact, but he knew he had to find refuge as soon as possible. Even his superhuman strength and stamina had its limits, while the homicidal bloodlust of the crowd appeared boundless. Already the aching muscles in his legs were slowing down.
Scouring his brain, he recalled a gurudwara , a Sikh temple, on Chandni Chowk, maybe half a dozen blocks away. Would such a site provide sanctuary, he wondered, or merely serve as even greater target for the rioters' wrath? Possibly the latter, he feared, but there was also a police station on the same street, only a few doors down from the temple. Perhaps the police could provide the gurudwara with some measure of protection, even in the face of total chaos and anarchy?
It was a slim chance, but the best one that presented itself. He paused momentarily to get his bearings, using his knife to fend off any looters who might want to spill more Sikh blood. “Keep away from me!” he threatened, slashing the air with his blade. His voice, mercifully, did not crack this time. “Leave me alone, or I swear I shall kill you all!”
Through the smoke and haze, he spotted the gleaming minarets of Jama Masid, the largest mosque in India, rising southwest of where he now stood. That meant Chandni Chowk, the market district's main thoroughfare, was straight ahead, to the north. So be it, he resolved, his course set. Before he could resume his flight, however, a drenching splash of liquid struck him in the face, soaking his head, hair, and shoulders. The oily fluid stung his eyes, while harsh fumes filled his nostrils. No! he thought, realizing with horror that he had been doused with kerosene.
The cold hand of fear clutched his heart. Noon considered himself braver than most, but even he shuddered at the thought of being burned alive. Vivid memories of the taxi-wallah's ghastly fate raced through his mind as he blinked and sputtered, the taste of kerosene drowning his tongue. The scratchy sound of a match being struck sent a thrill of terror through his body. A fiery death, he realized, was only seconds away.
Without thinking, he turned toward the sound, spitting a mouthful of kerosene at the burning match. An orange-yellow flash rewarded his desperate effort, followed by an anguished, masculine scream. Through blurry, tearing eyes, Noon barely discerned a panicked figure, one arm ablaze, flailing wildly only a few paces away. Noon threw himself backward, away from the burning man, fearing that a stray spark would set him on fire, too.
Half-blinded by the kerosene in his eyes, he darted up the alley, clearing a path with frantic slashes of his dagger. Most of the time the blade met only empty air; sometimes it did not. The reek of the kerosene soaking his hair and garments added new urgency to his death-defying run for safety. Only speed and agility could save him now; one match, one spark, would be enough to light his funeral pyre. Paying no heed to the protests of his exhausted legs, he cannonballed through the riot-racked bazaars, his vision clearing as he blinked the last of the kerosene from his eyes. Shocking evidence of the ongoing massacre littered the dusty pavement before him. Dead bodies, many charred and smoking, lay upon the ground in contorted positions of agony, joining splintered wood and broken glass from dozens of vandalized shops and stalls. Expensive silks and saris, dyed every color of the rainbow, were strewn carelessly about, soaking up the blood and kerosene that collected in scattered pools like the aftermath of a heavy rain. Noon had to watch his step as he ran, to avoid tripping over a blackened corpse or slipping upon a spreading crimson puddle.
As he ran, the fleeing teenager hastily shed his fuel-drenched jacket and shirt, exposing a chest more muscular than any fourteen-year-old was entitled to. The stench of the kerosene still clung to his hair and skin, however, marking him as a likely candidate for immolation. “Get him!” frenzied voices called after him. “Burn the stinking Sikh!”
Could he make it to the temple before his maddened pursuers could carry out their incendiary threat? Noon's questing eyes searched the cramped, cluttered street before him. His knife gashed the back of a looter who did not get out of the way fast enough, slicing through both fabric and flesh. Almost there, Noon promised himself. Chandni Chowk could not be far away now.
Swinging his bloodstained kirpan like a machete, he hacked through the chaos of the riot, leaping over fallen bodies and veering away from any hint of an open flame. Then, just as he began to feel more confident about his chances for survival, he saw something that stopped him in his tracks.
A deserted bus lay on its side across the width of the bazaar, its burnt-out husk still smoldering volcanically. Smoking tires suffused the smoggy air with an added smell of burning rubber. Worse still, the ruined vehicle rested directly in Noon's path, blocking his escape route. No! he cursed angrily. It's not fair!
He looked back over his shoulder to see a gang of rioters gaining o
n him. “Burn the Sikh bastard!” a furious voice shouted. “Blood for blood!” Many of the men carried torches made from broken timbers and looted textiles. “Death to the murderers!”
Noon briefly contemplated climbing the toppled bus, but quickly realized that was impossible. There were too many small fires still burning upon the torched vehicle to risk scaling its scorched and smoking remains. I might as well light the match myself, he concluded bitterly. Vigorously looking for an alternative means of escape, he scanned the bazaar from left to right, hoping some small, forgotten side street might offer the detour he so critically needed. All he found, though, were the shattered windows and desecrated facades of burning buildings. Smoke and flames escaped from the upper window of the tailor's shop to his right, while a peculiar blue mist, perhaps caused by some kind of natural gas leak, seeped from the store's ground-floor entrance, whose battered door hung crookedly from a single set of hinges. Terrified screams and barbaric shouting came from the Sikhowned clothing store to his left. A sari-clad mannequin lay on the ground beneath a torn banner extolling low, low prices. The mannequin's painted eyes and docile expression offered Noon neither hope nor sympathy.
He had reached a dead end, then. Fine, he thought proudly. Let this be my last battlefield. Turning to face the onrushing mob, the curved silver blade of his kirpan held out in front of him, Noon spared a moment to worry about his foster parents in Chandigarh; he prayed that they were safely distant from the virulent fever consuming Old Delhi. Then he turned his full attention on his torch-wielding tormentors, grimly determined to slay as many of his foes as he could before the flames made of him a human sacrifice. “Lay on!,” he whispered, quoting Macbeth , “and damned be him who first cries ‘Hold, enough!’ ”
But before the murderous gang caught up with him, an unexpected voice called out. “Noon! Khan Noonien Singh! Over here!” Surprise complicating his resolution to meet a heroic death, Noon glanced to the right, where he saw a pale-skinned stranger standing in the doorway of the pillaged tailor's shop, that same odd blue mist wafting around the newcomer's ankles. He was a lean man, dressed in a dark blue suit of Western style. Another hapless tourist caught up in Delhi's heated religious strife? But then how did he know Noon by name? Where had he come from? “Hurry!” the stranger urged, speaking English with an American accent. “There's no time to explain, but you have to trust me!”
