Star Trek: The Eugenics War, Vol. 1

by Greg Cox

  Seven's dour expression grew more disapproving than ever, not that Noon cared anymore about the older man's opinion of him. “For your sake, and the world's,” Seven intoned gravely, “I hope that this emotional outburst is just a reaction to today's traumas. The last thing Earth needs right now is an impetuous, would-be Caesar with messianic delusions.” He activated his servo, summoning his distancewarping blue mist. “Farewell, Noon Singh. Perhaps we can speak again someday, when you are older and less overwrought.”

  “Do not call me that anymore,” the youth said forcefully, making a momentous decision on the spur of the moment. “Noon” was child's name, and, after today, he was no longer a child. He had killed a man, only to see him rise up unscathed, and he had witnessed firsthand the murder, through unforgivable negligence and stupidity, of innumerable countrymen and their families. All this had changed him irrevocably, he realized with a sense of utter certainty. He was a man now, with a man's work ahead of him.

  “Call me Khan,” he said, claiming at last the exalted title his longdead mother had prophetically bestowed upon him. It was a good name. A man's name.

  A name for a conqueror.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  NINETY MILES NORTH OF LAS VEGAS

  NEVADA, USA

  JULY 5, 1986

  THE WHIRRING BLADES OF THE BLACK MILITARY HELICOPTER, EMploying the latest stealth technology, made amazingly little noise as the top-secret aircraft carried Shannon O'Donnell through the warm summer night. The copter passed swiftly over the low mountain ridges below, which jutted upward from acres and acres of barren desert landscape. No artificial lights shone among the hills and plains below the chopper, suggesting that the bleak terrain was completely devoid of human habitation. The contrast with Vegas's gaudy neon excess, which Shannon had departed less than an hour ago, could not have been more striking. Like going from Earth to the moon, she thought. A trip she one day hoped to make for herself, assuming NASA accepted her application.

  “Any idea what this is all about?” she asked the chopper pilot seated next to her. Thanks to the copter's special design features, she didn't need to raise her voice to be heard above the muted whisper of the spinning black rotors.

  “Sorry, miss,” the pilot replied. His khaki uniform bore no identifying badges or insignia. He kept his gaze fixed upon the infrared display mapping the rugged terrain ahead of them. The stealth aircraft flew without any visible headlights, navigating entirely by radar and infrared sensors. “All I know is that I was supposed to bring you back to the base, pronto.”

  Shannon sighed, none too surprised by the pilot's inability to satisfy her curiosity. Everything else at the base operated on a strictly need-to-know basis; why should this be any different? She couldn't help wondering, however, what was so urgent that the Powers That Be had sent a copter to fetch her back to the lab with all deliberate speed. Has something happened to Dr. Carlson? she worried. I kept telling him that he smoked too much, especially for a man his age.

  The twenty-eight-year-old engineer had been attending an aeronautics conference in Vegas when she received a curt, cryptic summons to report back to the base immediately. With barely enough time to pack before the unmarked copter arrived to pick her up, she was still wearing the little black dress and high heels she had sported at the glitzy cocktail party she'd so hurriedly been spirited away from.

  Feeling distinctly overdressed for this particular airborne excursion, and half-expecting the copter to turn into a pumpkin any second now, she tied her long red hair into a slightly more professional-looking bun. Her alert, intelligent face bore a distinctly apprehensive expression.

  The nearly invisible aircraft descended silently toward a desert valley between a pair of moonlit hills. The infrared display revealed a runway and landing pad built into the dry, rocky bed of a longvanished lake. A single metal hangar had been erected at one end of the runway, surrounded on three sides by a forbidding barbed-wire fence. Shannon looked past the hangar, at the weathered granite ridges at the base of the southwest hill. Almost home, she thought, anxious to find out the reason behind her hasty return. I hope the doc is all right.

  A Jeep Cherokee was waiting for her at the landing pad, along with a driver wearing cammo fatigues and a holstered automatic pistol. The soldier helped her with her suitcase as she climbed out of the copter and scurried toward the Jeep, the wind from the spinning rotor blades threatening to undo her hastily constructed bun. Her driver whistled appreciatively at the sight of Shannon in her entirely incongruous party dress, but she was in too much of a hurry to be either amused or annoyed by the soldier's attentions. “Let's go,” she tersely instructed him as he tossed her luggage into the back of the Jeep and climbed back into the driver's seat. Within minutes, they had left the ebony copter behind.

  They headed straight for the southwest hill, the Jeep's headlights shining upon the perfectly graded dirt roadway before them. Cameras mounted on wooden posts kept watch over the lonely road and the surrounding wasteland, while radar dishes scanned the cloudless night sky for unauthorized aircraft. Patches of flowering yucca grew alongside the road, and, somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled at the moon. Shannon wondered how in the world the crooning canine had managed to penetrate the base's security.

  As they approached the foot of the hill, their progress was blocked by a metal barrier lowered across the road. A machine-gun-toting soldier emerged from a concrete guardhouse next to the gate and asked to see Shannon's ID, which she promptly volunteered, just as she did every single time she hit this checkpoint on her way to work. Shining a flashlight in her face, the guard compared her features with the photo on her ID card before raising the barricade and waving the Jeep forward.

  Although standard procedure, the stringent security measures felt more time-consuming than usual tonight, so impatient was Shannon to reach her final destination. She tapped her fingers restlessly against the dashboard as the Jeep's headlights fell upon a large hangar door built into the side of the mountain. An electric eye scanned the vehicle and its occupants, and the metal door rolled upward, well-greased gears making minimal clatter. The rising gate exposed a paved, manmade tunnel that led directly into the zealously guarded heart of what the United States government, when grudgingly forced to acknowledge this installation's existence, referred to simply as the “Groom Lake Facility.”

  Better known to the rest of the world as Area 51. The Jeep parked deep inside the hollowed-out mountain, where yet another armed soldier appeared to escort Shannon the rest of the way.

  Not that she actually needed directions, of course; after so many months, the hardworking engineer guessed that she could probably find her way to the lab blindfolded, despite the maze of interconnected tunnels making up the underground complex, which was large enough to house numerous laboratories, mainframe computers, and storage facilities, including room for any number of experimental aircraft. Unlike, say, NASA, the clandestine projects at Area 51 seldom had to worry about budget crunches.

  “Welcome back, Ms. O'Donnell,” the guard said as he marched beside her down a long corridor lit by mounted fluorescent lights. Shannon was on good terms with this particular soldier, who had been stationed here for as long as she could remember.

  “Thanks, Muck,” she replied, her pace accelerating the nearer she got to her own designated corner of Area 51. Her high heels drummed rapidly upon the reinforced, earthquake-proof concrete floor. “Is the doc okay?”

  Sergeant Steven Muckerheide didn't break stride as he answered her worried query. “As far as I know, yeah. Something's up, though. I hear the Navy got their hands on some whatchamacallit that has Doc Carlson and the other brainiacs all worked up.” A carefree shrug conveyed that heavy-duty science was beyond the soldier's expertise. “You didn't hear that from me, of course.”

  “Absolutely,” she assured him. “Thanks for the scoop.” Now that she knew nothing dreadful had befallen her boss, apprehension gave way to excitement, adding an extra spring to her step
. She couldn't wait to find out just what sort of “whatchamacallit” Muck had alluded to. Could it be? she wondered breathlessly. After all these years, had they made contact again?

  A brisk march brought her to the end of a corridor. Now only a gleaming steel door, guarded by an alert female soldier bearing an M16 assault rifle, stood between Shannon and the answers she craved. PROJECT F — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, read the large block letters printed on the face of the impregnable door. Shannon slid her laminated ID card into a slot next to the door handle, then waited for several interminable seconds as concealed lasers scanned her inside and out. A moment later, she heard the lock click open, and the door slid open on lubricated grooves.

  “See you later,” she told Muck, who lacked the necessary clearance to go any farther. Instead her armed escort relieved the soldier at the doorway, taking a defensive position outside the lab entrance.

  “Take care,” he called out amiably as Shannon passed over the familiar threshold into the restricted laboratory. “Hope it's worth the rush.”

  Me, too, she thought. The steel door slid back into place with a muffled thunk, and she hurried past a short row of lockers and closets toward the working areas of the lab. “Doc?” she hollered, taking a second to put on a white lab coat over her black satin dress. “Are you there?”

  An enthusiastic voice answered from the inner depths of the wellequipped laboratory. “Shannon? Is that you?” She instantly recognized the voice of her favorite mad scientist, Dr. Jeffrey Carlson. “Hurry! Come quickly. You have to see this!”

  “Coming!” she shouted back, the back of her white coat flapping behind her. This has to be big, she realized, further energized by the remarkable exuberance in her boss's voice. I've never heard him so excited before.

  She found the elderly scientist in Lab F-1, bent over a shining chrome counter. A fraying white lab coat was draped over his bony shoulders, blocking her view of whatever he was examining, while the smell of burning tobacco permeated the theoretically pristine atmosphere of the lab. Shannon sighed out of habit, hoping that her chainsmoking superior wasn't working with anything too flammable at the moment. Amazing, she thought, how one of the brightest minds of the planet can't overcome a lifelong addiction to nicotine.

  “Ah, there you are,” Carlson said, turning to greet her. The affable, sixtyish scientist had a high forehead that had only grown more prominent as his hairline receded to near nonexistence. Lively hazel eyes peered out from behind a pair of old-fashioned bifocals; despite his age, Carlson had retained more curiosity and idealism than many much younger researchers. A lit cigarette gripped between his fingers, he beckoned Shannon with a hasty gesture. “Take a look at these beauties!”

  She joined him at the counter, where she discovered two curious artifacts, neither of which she could immediately identify. Each smaller than a shoebox, the objects were constructed of an odd black substance that seemed to possess qualities of both metal and plastic.

  Silver highlights added a bit of flair to the instruments' designs, suggesting that whoever—or whatever—had constructed the devices had taken aesthetic considerations into account. One of the objects vaguely resembled a pistol or welding tool, complete with a handgrip suitable for an adult human or humanoid, while the other was a compact, rectangular device the size and shape of a sixties-style transistor radio. The latter object also featured a digital display screen, currently unlit, as well as a variety of tiny switches and knobs. Shannon couldn't begin to guess what function the device was intended for. Maybe some sort of scanner or communications device?

  “What are these?” she asked Carlson, running a gentle finger over the glossy black casings of both artifacts. They felt smooth and cool to the touch. “Where did they come from?”

  Carlson's eyes gleamed as he brought her up to speed. “The Navy confiscated these objects from an unidentified intruder they caught snooping aboard the U. S. S. Enterprise about a week ago, at Alameda Naval Base in San Francisco. The intruder was injured, and later disappeared from Mercy Hospital under mysterious circumstances, but he left these devices behind. Navy Intelligence wasted a few days trying to figure them out on their own,” he added with a derisive snort, “until somebody wised up and forwarded them on to us.”

  Shannon nodded, absorbing every detail of Carlson's explanation. The Enterprise was an aircraft carrier, she knew, but she still wasn't sure why an interrupted espionage attempt had her boss so excited. “What sort of intruder?” she asked. “I don't understand.”

  “A Russian, supposedly,” the old scientist stated. “Named Pavel Chekov, according to his ID, but the CIA has no record of any Pavel Chekov entering the country, and the Soviets have vociferously denied any knowledge of his existence.” Carlson sounded as though he had little reason to doubt the Russians' claims of innocence. “Naturally, various paranoid types are still convinced that this ‘Chekov’ was nothing more than an unusually slippery communist spy, but I have my doubts.” He waved an outstretched hand over the unnamed objects on the counter. “If these devices are of Soviet invention, then the Reds are a lot farther ahead of us, technologically, than our friends in the Pentagon would like to think.” He grinned at Shannon, revealing a mischievous smile regrettably stained by years of cigarette smoking. “Fortunately, I don't think that's the case.”

  She couldn't believe he was actually implying what she thought he was getting at. “You don't mean . . . you really think that this ‘Chekov’ might have been . . . ?” Even after all she had learned working on the project for the last couple years, she found it hard to say the words out loud.

  “Not of this Earth? An extraterrestrial?” Carlson completed her sentence with a triumphant twinkle in his eye. “That's exactly what I think.” He beamed at the unidentified objects like a kid who had just received the toys at the very top of his Christmas list. “As puzzling as they are, these artifacts bear a distinct resemblance to some of the equipment we salvaged at Roswell back in '47.”

  Shannon reacted with a sharp intake of breath. Until she'd come to work at Project F, about two years ago, she had always assumed that stories about UFOs and captured alien visitors were simply the stuff of tabloid headlines. Imagine her surprise when Doc Carlson informed her that he had personally met with and studied a party of sentient, extraterrestrial beings after an alien spacecraft crashed in New Mexico almost forty years ago. Although the unearthly creatures— who called themselves “Ferengi”—had escaped from captivity shortly thereafter, Dr. Jeffrey Carlson had devoted the rest of his career to studying everything he could find out about the aliens and their amazingly advanced technology.

  “But surely,” she protested, still unable to accept the enormity of what her boss was saying, “the Russian that was captured, Chekov, did not look like a Ferengi?” According to classified photos taken in '47, Earth's previous visitors had resembled hairless trolls, with grotesquely oversized ears and rodent-like features. It was hard to imagine how even the most paranoid Navy Intelligence officer could mistake a Ferengi for a Soviet spy.

  “True,” Carlson conceded, “but you're forgetting that the Roswell aliens, or at least one of them, were capable of changing their shape at will. I saw him do so with my own eyes, and so did Faith,” he added, referring to his wife, now a retired Army nurse. “Why couldn't this Chekov actually have been a Ferengi in disguise?”

  Good point, Shannon thought, gradually adjusting to the idea. Once you accepted the existence of shapechanging aliens from outer space, something she had come to terms with many moons ago, then it was certainly possible that one of them might have been visiting California last week. But why? she wondered. For what purpose?

  She suddenly remembered a news report she had paid fleeting attention to a few days earlier, something about a prominent marine biologist who had vanished without a trace in San Francisco. That would have been about the same time that this “Chekov” showed up at Alameda, she realized. Could there be a connection? None of the woman's friends or coworkers h
ad been able to explain her abrupt disappearance, and the police admitted to being baffled. Perhaps— What was her name again? Gillian something? —really had been abducted by aliens?

  But what would the Ferengi want with a marine biologist? Shannon had no idea. According to Carlson, the original Roswell aliens had arrived on Earth by accident, or so they had insisted. Why had they, or others like them, returned at last, after so many years? “Are you sure,” she asked Carlson, contemplating the newly arrived artifacts upon the counter, “that these are Ferengi technology?”

  “I think so,” the doc said hesitantly. “There hasn't really been time to examine them properly just yet, and there's still a lot we don't know about what we saw in '47. After all, it's been almost forty years now, and we're still trying to figure out how Quark's ship and his other gadgets worked, based on sketches and photographs taken at the time.” He smiled wanly. “Sometimes I feel like a caveman struggling to make sense of a microwave oven.”

  Shannon knew how he felt. Much of her own work at the project involved the seemingly impossible task of trying to reverse-engineer the Ferengi's spaceship with nothing to go on except forty-year-old notes and diagrams. She's been at it for two years already, and success was nowhere in sight. Her slow progress frustrated Shannon, who had aspirations of being the first woman on Mars. Not even the Challenger disaster, earlier that year, had dampened her burning desire to make it into space; if anything, that tragic explosion had only heightened her determination to crack the puzzle of the long-departed Ferengi vessel. Lord knows we need something better than the space shuttle if we're ever going to seriously explore the cosmos. . . .