by Greg Cox
She and Seven watched as the blue fog dissipated into nothingness, taking the bruised teenager with them. Seven adjusted the controls upon his desk ( which were disguised as a set of pens), and the vault's heavy steel door sealed itself automatically. Isis, looking bored, concentrated on washing her paws.
“Well, that went smoothly enough,” Roberta commented, leaning against Seven's desk in her ripped cotton T-shirt, stonewashed jeans, and running shoes. “Especially considering we killed his mother.”
“She chose her own fate,” Seven reminded Roberta. His somber tone declared that he had hardly forgotten Sarina Kaur's tragic fate. “It's her son's destiny that concerns me now.”
Roberta fiddled with the straps of her new Sony Walkman. “You seriously thinking of recruiting him?” She wasn't exactly sure how she felt about that; although Seven had contacts and informants throughout the globe ( and beyond), Roberta was the only agent privy to all his out-of-this world secrets. She was used to this being a two-person ( okay, two persons and a self-important feline) operation. “He's only a teenager.”
“Which means he may still be young enough to influence in a positive manner,” Seven pointed out. His thoughtful eyes gazed past Roberta into space, as though peering into the future. Sometimes Roberta wondered how much her space-born supervisor really knew about the years to come. “I may want to test Noon further, see if that formidable will and intellect can be harnessed to a cause greater than his own ambition. Married to restraint and compassion, his talents could indeed make him a very valuable agent.”
“I suppose,” Roberta said. She still couldn't believe that Seven had actually broken his own rule by allowing Noon to find out about the transporter. Granted, it would have been hard to explain his instant exit from Old Delhi otherwise; Noon was no fool. “What about all those other superkids?”
Seven frowned, his gaze returning to the present. He pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a thick folder, bulging with reports and psychological profiles. Bound together with rubber bands, the folder landed atop his desk with a heavy thud.
“Unfortunately, Noon, for all his arrogance, is the most psychologically well adjusted of his peers. The other children of Chrysalis, although undeniably gifted in their own ways, are all too emotionally unstable to be trusted with any of our secrets.” Seven leafed slowly through his files, shaking his head glumly. “Many will self-destruct,” he predicted, “while a paltry few may fade into obscurity, making little impact on history. The rest, I fear, will be keeping us busy through the millennium.”
“Oh,” Roberta said, dismayed at the prospect of another decadeplus of playing bodyguard to the entire planet. The twenty-first century seemed very far away, and Seven wasn't getting any younger. Neither am I , she thought, no matter how much jogging and aerobics I do. Her eyes sought out the silver in Seven's hair, as well as the deepening worry lines upon his face.
Maybe we do need some new blood after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE PARAGON COLONY
SYCORAX
STARDATE 7004.1
KIRK LOOKED AWAY FROM THE VIEWER, TAKING A BREAK FROM HIS historical research. He wished he could go back in time to warn Seven about Khan, but that was impossible; the danger to the timeline was simply too severe. Unfortunately, the Eugenics Wars were something that human history had to live with.
Rubbing tired eyes, he rose from the workstation the Paragon Colony had provided for him. To avoid too many hazardous flights through Sycorax's turbulent atmosphere, Kirk had decided to keep the landing party on the planet until their business here was concluded. The guest quarters they had been stowed in, at least until Regent Clarke managed to shake off Koloth and his Klingon cronies, were clean and comfortable, but Kirk was glad that he had brought along a copy of the Enterprise 's files on Khan, Gary Seven, and their seemingly intertwined destinies. If nothing else, it gave him something productive to do while he cooled his heels waiting for his next audience with the regent.
He glanced around the VIP suite, which was only slightly larger than his own personal quarters upon the Enterprise. Unlike the sleek, streamlined steel decor of a starship, however, accommodations within the Paragon Colony had a much more organic ambience. Now that he noticed it, he was struck by the realization that almost everything in sight, both the furnishings and the suite itself, appeared to be constructed from biologically generated materials. The floors were hardwood, maybe oak or teak, while the walls were adorned with varnished walnut panels. Knobs, switches, and faucets were made of polished bone or ivory, and the ceiling shone with a natural bioluminescence, reminding Kirk of the glow-in-the-dark mouse that Roberta Lincoln had witnessed in Rome, nearly three hundred years ago. Silk and cotton sheets covered a bouncy sponge mattress, while even the workstation at which he'd been sitting looked to have been carved from some form of petrified coral. Kirk had to search hard to find anything metallic or plastic. Maybe the internal components of the computer station . . . ?
Makes sense, he realized. The founders of the Paragon Colony specialized in the biological sciences, just as their spiritual forebears at Chrysalis had, so it only stood to reason that their architecture and technology had developed along those lines. I wonder where their scientific know-how has surpassed the Federation's over the last hundred years, and in what departments they might have fallen behind?
A mild knock on the pinewood door interrupted his speculations. Kirk pressed an ivory switch and the door slid open automatically, revealing a young, somewhat nervous-looking aide in an olive bodysuit. “The regent is ready to see you now,” the colonist informed him.
Kirk and McCoy met with Masako Clarke on a high balcony overlooking the colony. Sunlight filtered through the great green dome, giving everything a slightly chartreuse tint. “My apologies for the delay, gentlemen. Captain Koloth was in no hurry to leave me alone with you.”
“You don't say,” McCoy muttered. Unlike the scene at the landing bay, with its sizable delegation of colonists and Klingons, attendance at this meeting had been restricted to a bare minimum. The regent was accompanied only by a single secretary, and Gregor Lozin, a sternfaced older man whom she introduced as the chairman of the committee in charge of the colony's internal security. Kirk's own security officer, Lieutenant Lerner, was posted outside the regent's office, along with two of Lozin's own men.
“An impressive-looking colony,” Kirk told Clarke, admiring the view from the balcony. Miles of buildings, gardens, and hydroponic farms stretched to the outer boundaries of the dome. Kirk saw dozens of men, women, and children going about their daily lives in a wellordered and peaceful fashion. An underground monorail system, he had been told, connected every individual wedge of the circular colony, cutting down on traffic upon the surface. “I have to ask, though: Why choose such an inhospitable planet to settle down on?”
Clarke gave Kirk a pained smile. “Good question,” she conceded, not at all offended by Kirk's harsh description of her adopted world. “To be honest, our founders originally intended to colonize Miranda, the third planet in this system. Miranda is a Class-M world, without any indigenous sentients or hostile life-forms, which made it seem ideal for colonization. Unfortunately, early unmanned surveys of the planet failed to note that Miranda's only moon had an unstable orbit. By the time our grandparents' ship, an old Daedalus-class freighter, reached its destination, Miranda's moon was orbiting dangerously close to the planet's Roche limit, causing massive tectonic shifts, tidal waves, and cataclysmic volcanic activity throughout the entire planet. Our early pioneers even recorded tides of solid matter on Miranda's surface, causing daily fluctuations of ten centimeters or more.”
“Good lord!” McCoy reacted. “That sounds wildly unstable, not to mention unsafe.”
“Exactly.” Clarke sighed in sympathy with the frustrated pioneers. “To make matters worse, our founders did not have the option of searching elsewhere for a more suitable world. Their supplies of dilithium and other resources were al
l but depleted. It was too late to turn back, so they had no choice but to look around and select the next-best planet in the system.” She lifted her gaze toward the dome arching high overhead, protecting them from the fierce heat and pressure outside. “That turned out to be Sycorax.”
Kirk nodded, recalling similar stories from the early days of interstellar exploration. Colonizing alien worlds was always a risky, uncertain endeavor. “I have to admire your founders' ingenuity and perseverance,” he told Clarke sincerely. “Making a home here, building a working colony, could not have been easy.”
“No it wasn't,” Clarke confirmed, “especially when you consider that the first generation of pioneers had not been genetically enhanced, unlike their heirs.” The very idea seemed inconceivable to her. “I often marvel that ordinary human beings, with merely baseline DNA, could have accomplished all that they did.”
There was something distinctly condescending—not to mention, Khan-like—about the way the regent talked about her “merely” human forebears, but Kirk decided to let the comment pass, for diplomacy's sake. For the first time in years, however, he found himself wondering how Khan and his own band of superhuman colonists were faring on that harsh frontier world in the Mutara Sector. If the original Paragon settlers had managed to survive—and ultimately thrive— on a Class-K planet such as Sycorax, what might Khan and his people have built on Ceti Alpha V? Knowing Khan, he's probably carved out an empire already.
Perhaps to change the subject, McCoy looked upward at the verdant dome cresting high above their heads. “What's with the greenness?” he asked. “I feel like I'm in the Emerald City of Oz, or maybe in an undersea city on Celadon Prime.”
“The dome is one of our proudest accomplishments, Doctor,” Clarke said, clearly delighted to expound further. “Believe it or not, the dome is a living organism, genetically designed by some of our top scientists. It's chlorophyll-based, meaning that it can convert Sycorax's diffuse sunlight directly into energy the dome can employ for its own use and maintenance. In addition, it also absorbs carbon dioxide from the atmosphere outside, converting it into oxygen. At present, most of that oxygen is consumed by the colony's population, but enough is released back into the outer environment that, over centuries, the dome's own respiration should help terraform the planet.”
“A living biosphere,” McCoy uttered, sounding genuinely impressed. “That's astounding!”
“We think so,” Clarke said proudly. “The dome also has roots extending deep beneath the planet's surface, absorbing vital minerals, nutrients, and even fresh water from underground reserves.” She watched the faces of her guests, gauging their reactions to her revelations concerning the dome. “It's completely adapted to its environment.”
“What about the forcefield?” Kirk asked. “Is that to reinforce the dome against the extreme atmospheric pressure?” He still remembered the strain that Sycorax's crushing air density had placed on the shuttlecraft's hull and shields.
“In part,” Clarke admitted, “but the deflector screens also serve a more important purpose, namely shielding our own carefully constructed DNA from ultraviolet light, cosmic radiation, or anything else that might trigger random mutations.” She frowned momentarily at the thought, then shrugged her shoulders. “Obviously, after devoting generations to refining and perfecting our genetic heritage, we can hardly leave ourselves vulnerable to unpredictable factors beyond our control.”
“But random, unplanned mutations are how all living species evolve,” McCoy objected. “By eliminating chance, you take yourselves out of the elementary process of natural selection.” His dour tone and expression made it clear where he stood on the subject. “You're risking total genetic stagnation.”
With an expansive sweep of her arm, the regent invoked the prosperous colony below. “We're far from stagnating, Doctor,” she chuckled. “In fact, we've evolved more in two generations than Homo sapiens has in two hundred thousand years. Natural evolution has too high a failure rate; as a physician, you must be aware of all that can go wrong when chromosomes mutate.” She turned toward Kirk, directing her argument at the highest-ranking Starfleet representative present. “Just how long, Captain, do you think it would take for something like our dome to evolve naturally?”
Kirk saw where she was going with her query. “Several hundred millennia, I imagine.”
“We created the dome, from test tube to final organism, in less than a century,” Clarke bragged on her people's behalf. She gave Kirk a calculating and meaningful look. “Naturally, we'd be happy to share the exact genetic sequence for the dome with your scientists should we be accepted into the Federation.”
That's quite an inducement, Kirk thought, but was it enough to overlook the colony's genetic experimentation on humans? The Chrysalis Project had no doubt had its breakthroughs as well, but its ultimate legacy was still the Eugenics Wars.
“For now, though, I think you've said enough,” Gregor Lozin cautioned the regent. His harsh tone, and disapproving demeanor, provided a striking contrast to Clarke's personable manner. “We should not share all our secrets with these strangers before we are certain that it's indeed in our best interests to do so.”
“Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy are more honored guests than strangers,” Clarke admonished Lozin. “But perhaps we should get down to business. . . .”
The discussion moved indoors, where Clarke seated herself behind a solid coral desk. Kirk and McCoy each claimed an oak chair padded with organic sponge, while Lozin paced restlessly about the regent's private office. Clarke's secretary occupied a corner chair, typing notes into a personal datapad.
“As you may have gathered,” the regent began, “Chairman Lozin has his own reservations about allying ourselves with the Federation. Perhaps he should elaborate a bit.”
“Thank you, Regent,” Lozin said brusquely. “No offense, gentlemen, but I am scarcely alone in my concerns about surrendering our colony to Federation hegemony.” He stood stiffly beside the regent's coral desk, his posture practically trumpeting his wary and intractable nature. “This colony has managed for decades without the involvement of outside powers. Indeed, it can truly be said that we have prospered in defiance of the Federation's antiquated and irrational strictures on human genengineering. Some of us have not forgotten that it was precisely the Federation's ridiculous prejudices and superstitions that drove our founders out of UFP-controlled space a century ago. And, judging from Dr. McCoy's remarks, the Federation hasn't changed its attitude much since then.”
Kirk wondered briefly if Lozin could possibly be descended from the late Viktor Lozinak, one of the guiding lights of the old Chrysalis Project. It was certainly possible, he theorized, that Lozinak could have passed on his dream of a genetically engineered society to his descendants, along with a healthy dose of paranoia where outside forces were concerned.
“Strict controls on the alteration of human DNA are hardly ridiculous,” Kirk replied. “The more I learn about the Eugenics Wars that nearly destroyed humanity, the more I appreciate the dangers—as well as the potential advantages—of what you're doing here.”
“You see,” Lozin challenged Clarke. Resting his palms on the desktop, he thrust his scowling face at the regent. “I told you that the Federation is still not ready for us. Their minds are still bogged down in the mistakes of the distant path, rather then open to a new and revolutionary vision of tomorrow.” He stepped away from the desk, casting a critical eye on the seated Starfleet officers. “We should never have invited them here.”
“You know, for a genetically engineered utopia,” Kirk observed with a trace of humor in his voice, “you seem to have a surprising amount of disagreement going on.” He softened his remarks by smiling goodnaturedly. “Perhaps you haven't transcended ordinary human nature as much as you believe?”
Clarke shook her head. “To the contrary, Captain. A certain, specified degree of opposing temperaments and opinions has been deliberately worked into the fabric of our society, in order to
achieve a healthy balance of viewpoints.” She nodded at her more conservative colleague. “My friend Chairman Lozin is simply fulfilling the function he was expressly designed to serve.”
“Sort of a genetically engineered Loyal Opposition,” McCoy translated, sounding both intrigued and scandalized.
“Exactly,” Clarke stated. “Just as my DNA has been carefully tailored to help me perform an executive role in our society.” She once again directed her words to Kirk. “You see, Captain, we're far from the out-of-control genetic tyrants that caused so much trouble back in the bad old days of the twentieth century. We're no threat to the Federation, and we may just be its future.”
“I still think this is a mistake,” Lozin protested, raising his voice as he grew even more insistent. Heavy brows converged above his nose as the angry furrows in his forehead deepened. “Both the Federation—and the Klingons—can only contaminate the advanced society we've worked so hard to create. They're random variables, capable of completely undermining all our efforts and precautions.”
“The Klingons were not exactly invited,” Clarke reminded him pointedly. “Despite Captain Koloth's pretense at civility, we face the very real possibility of an armed invasion.” Her face took on a grim expression as she leaned forward to look Kirk in the eye. “Let me be perfectly frank with you, Captain. Despite some isolationist tendencies, we're no fools. We know who and what the Klingons are. Given a choice, we would much rather throw in our lot with the Federation. But, and please do not misunderstand me, if the Federation is unwilling to accept us, then we will have no choice but to join forces with the Klingon Empire, on the best terms that we can negotiate.” She paused to let the full implications of her ultimatum sink in. “That would be bad news for us, but possibly even worse news for the Federation. Do I make myself clear?”
“Absolutely,” Kirk said, frowning. The prospect of genetically enhanced Klingons overrunning the galaxy was as troubling as the possibility of another round of Eugenics Wars. Maybe even more so.
