Star Trek: The Eugenics War, Vol. 1

by Greg Cox

  Looking more and more unhappy, Evergreen inserted the disk into a nearby PC and began scrolling through the documents displayed on the monitor. His expression darkened as he skimmed the various classified reports and memos Seven had, with varying degrees of difficulty, extracted from the shadowy recesses of the military-industrial complex. “Those bastards,” Evergreen muttered angrily, the phosphor glow of the screen casting mauve shadows upon his remarkably well preserved face. “Those lying, two-faced—”

  His heartfelt stream of invective ended with an ancient Mesopotamian obscenity. Or so Seven assumed; his briefing on Terran cultures and history, although extensive, was not quite that comprehensive.

  Finally, after several minutes, Evergreen looked up from the monitor. “I don't suppose,” he said morosely, “that there's any possibility these are masterfully done forgeries?”

  Seven shook his head. “If necessary, I can provide you with additional evidence regarding the provenance of these documents, but I trust that won't be necessary. You strike me as perceptive enough to recognize the truth when you see it, no matter how distressing.”

  “You want proof?” Noon said, intruding into the discussion. He pointed the tip of his dagger, whose blade still glistened redly, at the insensate guard. “Let me wake him up. I can get the truth from him.”

  A cruel glint in his dark eyes left no doubt as to his intentions, much to Seven's dismay. Now the youth wanted to beat or torture a helpless prisoner for information? Seven wasn't sure what horrified him most: Noon's unfeeling ruthlessness, or his own failure to spot this aspect of his protege's character earlier on. Is this something he inherited from his Machiavellian mother, Seven wondered mournfully, or a response to nearly being burned alive a few months ago?

  If the former, then perhaps Sarina Kaur was having the last laugh after all, with her son's callousness proving a disheartening testament to the power of genetics. A deadly arrogance, it seemed, was coded into his very DNA.

  Evergreen forestalled Noon's brutal intentions before Seven had a chance to reprimand the Indian youth. “That won't be necessary, young man,” the ageless scientist said, his voice suffused with resignation along with profound regret. His head drooped in front of the PC, his fingers massaging his brow as he cradled his skull upon his hands. “How could I have been so naive?” he asked himself accusingly. “I suppose I wanted to think that mankind had advanced beyond such things, that we were truly on the verge of a more peaceful, more enlightened era.”

  “Soon,” Seven assured him, “but not right away.” He looked askance at the high-tech hardware filling the metal hut. “And weapons like this will only postpone, perhaps for centuries, the fulfillment of humanity's bright promise.”

  Evergreen shrugged fatalistically. “Well, I've waited six millennia for utopia; I suppose I can wait a while longer.” He rose slowly from his seat before the PC, suddenly seeming to feel the full weight of his myriad years and identities. A melancholy tone entered his voice. “The longer I live, though, the more I sometimes want to withdraw from history altogether, sequester myself away on some remote island or planetoid, far away from the ceaseless Sturm und Drang of mortal men and women.” He chuckled bleakly. “I suppose, after all I've seen and experienced, that it's something of a miracle that I haven't completely transformed into some flinty old misanthrope.”

  Seven sympathized with the immortal's acute disappointment. If I sometimes grow impatient with the twentieth centur y's unsteady trek toward a new millennium, he reflected, how much more world-weary must be someone who has suffered through humanity's growing pains since the very beginning? “Believe it or not, Dr. Evergreen, I have faith in the human race to evolve into a species—and a society—embodying their highest aspirations.”

  Stepping past Evergreen, he reclaimed the incriminating floppy disk and deleted the data from the scientist's PC. “But society is not ready for this technology, I'm sorry.”

  “I am as well,” Evergreen said. “After I've repaired the hole above us, I will destroy all my files and fake my own death once again.” He sighed gloomily, sounding more bored than dismayed at the prospect. “Lord knows I've ‘died’ enough times already. At this point, I have it down to an art.”

  “So I imagine,” Seven stated, wondering how many different lifetimes and identities the immortal had lived through. No wonder I couldn't pinpoint his origins. “Before you act to close the gap in the ozone layer, however, consider: Wouldn't it be wiser to leave the hole as it is, as a warning to humanity?”

  “What?” Evergreen exclaimed, startled by Seven's suggestion. He stared at Seven in disbelief. “You can't be serious!”

  “I am seldom otherwise,” Seven insisted. Clearly, Evergreen required more persuasion. “The other problem with your technique, Doctor, besides its potential military applications, is that it provides the people of the world with little incentive to modify their environmentally careless behavior. You're offering the world a technological quick fix—a convenient Band-Aid of sorts—when what is really needed is a deeper, global awareness of the long-term impact of chemical pollution.”

  Reluctantly, Evergreen digested Seven's arguments. “I see your point; the hole would certainly serve as a cautionary example, should its existence become widely known.” He grimaced, as though his admission had left a bad taste in his mouth. “I hate the idea, though, of leaving the sky so injured when it's within my ability to heal the wound.”

  “But repairing the hole would also prove, beyond any shadow of doubt, the efficacy of your technology,” Seven pointed out, “which would almost surely spur an all-out effort, on behalf of your sponsors in the Defense Department, to re-create your work.” He crumpled the floppy disk within his fist, then deliberately tore the primitive storage mechanism in half. “Better that your theories remain untested, at least as far as the world is concerned.”

  “You've thought this all out, haven't you?” Evergreen didn't bother to conceal the resentment in his voice. “What would you do if I decided not to go along with this scenario?” He looked suspiciously at the knifewielding young Sikh standing nearby. “Is that what he's here for?”

  “Assassination is not my business,” Seven assured the aggrieved scientist, who was certainly entitled to some hard feelings, given that Seven was forcing him to abandon the work of many years. “Had you not cooperated, I would have taken control of your apparatus to create a massive electronic pulse that would have temporarily disrupted electronic equipment throughout this entire continent, thus alerting every other scientific outpost in Antarctica to your unsanctioned experiments here. I would have also used this command center to order the satellite above us to self-destruct, thus putting you months, if not years, behind your original schedule.”

  Evergreen flinched at the prospect of destroying his specialized satellite, but Seven continued to outline his backup plan, if only to convince the skeptical genius of just how committed he was to his goal of calling off this perilous scientific endeavor. “With luck, the resulting international outcry would cause this entire project to be shut down indefinitely. Or, at the very least, I would have bought myself— and the world—time enough to pursue other means of defusing the threat posed by your discoveries.”

  Evergreen gaped at Seven, nonplussed. “ Who are you anyway?” he asked with more amazement that the jaded immortal was probably accustomed to feeling. “Where did you come from?”

  “That's a conversation for another day,” Seven answered. Kneeling to search through the deep pockets of his discarded parka, he produced a handful of miniaturized explosive charges. “The point is that I would much rather secure your own assistance in this manner, rather than provoke an international incident. But we need to move quickly, before your tranquilized colleagues and guardians can interfere.”

  “Yes, I suppose you're right,” Evergreen said, frowning. He looked wistfully around the south polar laboratory, knowing that he would never see this place again. Or not for a century or two, Seven corrected himse
lf. Perhaps someday, when civilization was ready, the undying genius could return to Antarctica to finish his experiment.

  Seven wanted to think so. Less than forty-five minutes later, the three men watched from the safety of a snow-covered ridge as the metal hut containing Evergreen's one-of-a-kind apparatus imploded before their eyes, turning into a smoldering, smoking pit at the center of the top-secret outpost. Seven had carefully rigged his explosive charges to keep the destructive force of the detonation confined within the perimeter of the now-empty laboratory, thus preserving the rest of the buildings to serve as shelter for base's personnel.

  Mission accomplished, Seven thought, an icy wind carrying the smell of burning circuitry and insulation across the frozen barrens, despite too many unpleasant surprises. Their departure had been delayed only by Seven's insistence on personally transporting the tranquilized guard to a safer location within the base; after Noon's murderous attack on Evergreen, Seven was not about to delegate care of another hostage to the merciless young superman. Only an impossible stroke of luck, he realized, had kept this mission from resulting in a needless death. I can hardly count on N oon's next victim to be unkillable as well .

  Sullen and silent, Noon stood in the snow a few yards away, pointedly keeping his distance from the two older men. The youth's pride was still smarting, apparently, from Seven's reprimands earlier. He had paid careful attention, however, to Seven's placement of the plastic explosives, something that his would-be mentor found more than a little troubling.

  But now was not the time to fret about Noon's apparent aptitude for sabotage and warfare, not out in the open in subzero temperatures. “How many other copies of your research and designs exist?” Seven asked Evergreen, shouting over the wintry Antarctic gusts. Somewhere above them, he knew, a one-of-a-kind satellite had already plunged toward Earth, burning up in reentry. Evergreen himself had sent the self-destruct command to his orbiting panacea, only minutes before they had fled the sabotaged control room.

  “Just the master copy, in my office in Los Alamos.” Evergreen rubbed his gloved hands together vigorously, struggling to keep warm. “Like I've said, I've gotten paranoid in my own age. Over the years, too many greedy people have stolen the credit for my discoveries and inventions—don't get me started about Edison. These days, nobody sees my work until I'm good and ready to unveil it myself.”

  “Good,” Seven acknowledged. That made containing the knowledge much easier. “We can get you to New Mexico before news of this incident reaches America, and long before anyone realizes you survived the explosion. After that, I'm more than willing to lend you whatever assistance you need to set up a new identity elsewhere.”

  “That won't be necessary,” Evergreen stated. “I've already made all the necessary arrangements to start over again.” He ruefully contemplated the cremated remains of one lifetime's work. “I just didn't think I'd be doing so quite so soon.”

  On that somber note, Seven proceeded to transport all three men out of the cold. Ordinarily, he went out of his way to avoid using matter transmission in front of civilians, but Da Vinci Base's remote location had left him very little choice. He felt he could trust Evergreen, however; the ageless scientist had too many secrets of his own to risk exposing Seven's. We make an unusual trio, he reflected, as the luminous blue mist enveloped them. An immortal, a genetically engineered superman, and an enhanced human raised on another world. Who would have ever thought that twentieth-century Earth could yield such unlikely allies?

  What a shame, Seven thought, that Noon proved so dangerous and unreliable. He'd had the potential to become an excellent agent, maybe even a planetary supervisor someday. Was there any way to salvage the youth's tremendous promise—or were all his extraordinary gifts doomed to go to waste?

  Or worse.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  BHOPAL

  CENTRAL INDIA

  DECEMBER 3, 1984

  IT WAS ONE-FIFTEEN IN THE MORNING BY THE TIME NOON ARRIVED, along with Gary Seven, in the moonlit streets of Bhopal. The glowing fog dispersed, leaving the sulking teenager and the older American in a murky alley between two modern concrete apartment buildings. A chilly breeze blew from the northwest, and Noon half-regretted leaving his heavy parka behind at Seven's office, where they had dropped off Evergreen after their adventure in Antarctica. Rats scurried around and within the rusty metal Dumpsters hidden away in the alley. The squeaking vermin struck Noon as uncommonly restless and agitated, much to his annoyance.

  “Quiet!” he barked, snatching up an empty soup can from the alley floor and hurling it at the nearest cluster of rats, which broke apart into a profusion of fleeing gray bodies.

  His return to India did little to soothe Noon's turbulent spirit, which still chafed at Seven's obvious disapproval. Even now, the meddlesome American regarded him with mournful eyes and a dour expression. Noon knew that Seven remained disappointed that he had hurled his dagger at Evergreen, no matter how justified he had been in retaliating against the scientist's treacherous taser attack. How dare he judge me? Noon thought angrily, glaring at Seven. I knew what I was doing!

  The light from Hamidia Road, north of the alley, cast elongated shadows upon the dingy asphalt. Distant voices and footsteps sounded from several blocks away, which was peculiar given the lateness of the hour, but Noon's wounded pride took precedence over any curiosity he might have felt. “Well?” he challenged Seven, breaking an awkward silence. “Is that it? Did this misbegotten expedition discharge my debt to you, or was my performance too inadequate to serve as fit payment?”

  Seven gazed at Noon, seemingly more in sorrow than in anger. “It wasn't your fault, Noon,” he stated solemnly. “I should have never thrust you into such a combustible situation. You are too young, too apt to overreact.”

  If Seven thought he was helping Noon save face, then he clearly did not understand the aristocratic teen at all. “Do not patronize me, old man!” Noon snarled, Seven's condescending attitude only infuriating him more. “Do not blame me if you lack the will to fight your own battles.”

  Seven shook his head sadly. “I hope someday you realize, Noon, that life is much more than a combat to be won.” He held out an open palm. “In the meantime, I'm afraid I have to ask for your servo back.”

  “Take it,” Noon said defiantly, throwing the slender instrument at Seven's feet, where it skittered across the uneven black pavement. “It is a feeble weapon anyway, limited and halfhearted, much like its wielder.”

  His flawless vision rapidly adjusting to the murk of the alley, Noon watched Seven's face, hoping to see his insult strike home.

  Maddeningly, the mysterious American merely offered another bit of unwanted advice as he stooped to retrieve the discarded servo. “Beware of more powerful weapons, Noon. They often inflict as much damage to your soul as they do to your enemies.”

  Noon opened his mouth, intending to reject Seven's cryptic counsel, but the hubbub of voices in the background, growing ever louder and nearer, could now be recognized as loud, anguished screaming, shocking both men out of their tense verbal duel. “What—?” Seven asked, apprehension deepening the lines of his craggy face. “That's more than one person screaming. Many more.”

  On this, Noon had to agree. Straining his ears, even as ran anxiously toward the unknown source of the tumult, he found himself unable to distinguish just how many men and women and children were shrieking in unmistakable pain and terror. For a single blood-chilling moment, his memory flashed back to the bloodthirsty riots in Delhi, only slightly more than a month ago, but, no, this was a different kind of madness, he could tell. The rising clamor of high-pitched human voices, steadily increasing in volume as it drew closer and closer, was not the sound of angry mob; it was the many-throated cry of a city in mortal agony.

  Something terrible has occurred, Noon realized at once. The soles of his boots pounded the pavement as he charged out of the alley into the broad, well-lighted thoroughfare that was Hamidia Road. “Noon!” Seven hollered af
ter him, unable to keep up with the younger man's genetically engineered leg muscles. “Be careful!”

  But Noon wasn't worried about himself, only his people. Eyes wide, his long dark hair streaming behind him, he ran headlong into a nightmare. Dozens of people came stampeding toward him, pursued by some horror whose nature Noon could not yet determine, but whose torturous effects were all too visible. A common sickness afflicted the distraught, disorganized crowd; crying, gasping, retching, they tried and failed to outrun whatever ailment was ravaging their defenseless bodies. Men and women in various stages of undress, seemingly driven from their homes and beds in the middle of the night, collapsed onto the street, only to be trampled to death by their panicking neighbors. Tears streamed down a cavalcade of tortured faces, as the fleeing victims clutched their throats and clawed at their eyes, rushing blindly down the road toward Noon. The wailing mob smelled of sweat and vomit and excrement, having lost control of their stomachs and bowels. By my martyred mother, Noon wondered, agog with horror, what kind of plague strikes so quickly?

  A tide of reeking bodies slammed into Noon, almost carrying him away. Thinking quickly, he wrapped an arm around a sturdy lamppost and batted away the frantic refugees whose chaotic flight carried them too near him. “Stay back!” he commanded, gagging at the touch and smell of the befouled wretches jostling against him. “Don't touch me!”

  The crowd parted around him as Noon clung to the lamppost with all his strength. Consumed by the necessity to know what had caused this pandemonium, he randomly grabbed one of the refugees by the arm, halting the man's breakneck dash for safety. He yanked his chosen informant, a bearded man wearing only a soiled bathrobe, around so that the stranger was forced to look Noon in the face. To his shock, Noon saw that the man's eyes had been blackened and blinded by some unknown agency. “What is it?” the anguished teen demanded. “What's happened?”