Star Trek: The Eugenics War, Vol. 1

by Greg Cox

  Rumors persisted, of course, that all or part of the body on the bier was a clever forgery, that “Lenin” himself was nothing but a waxwork dummy, posing as an expertly embalmed corpse. Komananov had personally chosen never to probe too deeply into the subject. No doubt she could uncover the truth if she wished, given her extensive KGB connections, but the colonel preferred to believe that the body was genuine, especially at times like these, when her duty and devotion to the State were most severely tested.

  Would Lenin have approved of tonight's drastic actions? Most definitely, Komananov assured herself emphatically, once he understood all that was at stake. Mikhail Gorbachev, the man currently at the helm of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, was a weakling and a traitor, who would almost certainly bring about the total ruin of the Soviet Union if he was not stopped. Komananov's hot Cossack blood boiled as she recalled the many ways in which their new general secretary had already undermined the safety and security of the nation: dropping the post of Minister of Defense from the inner circle of the Politburo, announcing a unilateral moratorium on nuclear testing, proposing recklessly sharp cutbacks in strategic weapons, and, incredibly, insanely, suggesting publicly that he might allow outsiders to conduct inspections of currently off-limits Soviet military installations, so that foreign operatives could check on Russia's compliance with the outrageous disarmament treaties that Gorbachev seemed all too eager to agree to!

  The colonel glanced at her wristwatch. It was only ten after seven here in Moscow, which meant that the sun had not yet set in Iceland, where, even now, Gorbachev and his woolly-minded, liberal cronies were meeting with the American president to bargain away yet more of Mother Russia's military might. According to her informants within the Politburo, the general secretary seriously intended to discuss the total elimination of all strategic nuclear weapons with Reagan, that senile old warmonger. Along with his dangerously liberal internal policies, and his growing reluctance to press on with the war in Afghanistan, it was very clear that Gorbachev, seduced by his rising celebrity abroad, posed an unmistakable threat to everything that generations of heroic Communists had worked and sacrificed to build. If Lenin knew what his deluded successor was up to, Komananov felt quite certain, he would rise up physically, wax or no wax, to squash Mikhail Sergeyevich once and for all!

  “Fear not, comrade,” she whispered in Russian to the entombed Bolshevik, watching her words even in the privacy of the crypt. Her gloved fingers tightly gripped the handle of the black attaché case. “Tonight the Revolution is safe in my hands.”

  She turned to leave the crypt, only to be frozen in place by the unexpected sound of a voice addressing her from behind. “And why is that, Colonel Komananov?”

  The colonel's hat slipped from her fingers onto the floor. Spinning around in shock, she was stunned to see Lenin sitting up atop the bier, the transparent glass sarcophagus raised upon its side. Swinging his feet over the edge of the ornamented iron catafalque and onto the floor, the undead corpse stood up for the first time in sixty years and straightened his neatly pressed blue jacket. Piercing gray eyes, undeniably alive, locked on to Komananov, as though the fearsome figure already knew the deadly secrets closely guarded within her mind. “Well?” V. I. Lenin demanded imperiously. “How exactly do you intend to carry out your promise? And what is so special about tonight?”

  For a few terrifying instants, a frisson of genuine superstitious fright coursed through the transfixed KGB officer, raising goose bumps beneath her austere brown army uniform. Eerie peasant folktales of vampires and ghouls and other unearthly revenants, planted deep in her mind during childhood, surged back into her thoughts like a bloodthirsty vourdalak bursting from its despoiled grave.

  Then her intellect reasserted itself, and she realized in anger that she had been deceived. “Imposter!” she spat venomously at the tall, bearded figure, who looked disturbingly like every photo she had ever seen of Lenin. “How dare you desecrate the memory of Vladimir Ilyich!”

  “My apologies, Colonel,” the false Lenin replied. Although his Russian remained impeccable, he now spoke with an American accent, revealing his corrupt, capitalist origins. Stepping away from the bier, he drew a slender silver fountain pen from his suit pocket and aimed it menacingly at Komananov. With his spare hand, he peeled a rubber baldcap off the top of his skull, exposing a head of graying brown hair. “Rest assured that the spurious effigy on display here will be returned to its usual berth once our business is concluded.” A fake red beard went the way of the rubber cap, but layers of waxy orange makeup still obscured the imposter's true features. “Knowing what I did of your habits, however, this appeared to be the mostly likely venue in which to secure a private interview with you.”

  Komananov was not impressed by the American's ingenuity or explanations. “Cheap theatrics!” she sneered disparagingly. “If you think that your morbid ploy gained you any sort of psychological advantage over me, you are profoundly mistaken.” She warily eyed the polished silver wand holding her hostage. Its compact size did not trick her into underestimating the apparent weapon; KGB assassins, as she well knew, often fired deadly poison darts from mechanisms as small as or smaller than the American's fountain pen. “What do you want with me?” she asked defiantly.

  Crossing the distance between them with a single stride, the disguised American pulled open her greatcoat and calmly frisked her for weapons, coming away with her loaded Makarov pistol. Satisfied that she had been effectively disarmed, he stepped back and regarded her soberly. “I have reason to believe, Colonel, that you and others in the military and intelligence hierarchies are plotting against Mr. Gorbachev, and may intend to take advantage of the summit meeting in Reykjavik to stage a governmental coup in his absence.”

  How does he know this? Komananov wondered anxiously. She silently cursed whoever had leaked even a hint of the operation to the Americans, and promised herself that, should she survive this encounter, she would track down the informer and see to it that they paid for their treachery. “I do not know what you are referring to,” she stated flatly. “I am a faithful servant of both the State and the Party.”

  The American sighed wearily. “Please, Colonel, do not waste our time dissembling.” He nodded at the attaché case gripped in her hand. “Kindly allow me to inspect the contents of your case.”

  “ Nyet, ” she said. Under no circumstances would she allow the foreign agent to peruse the top-secret documents in her case. “It is locked,” she informed him, rattling the sturdy chain binding the leather case to her wrist. “I do not have the key.”

  “A flimsy lie, Colonel,” the American observed. “And hardly an issue in any case.” The silver pen hummed briefly and an invisible beam of force snapped apart the chain midway between the case and her arm, causing Komananov to gasp out loud. The American adjusted the settings on his weapon, then fired at the case itself. To her dismay, the KGB officer heard the lock click open.

  “No more obstructionist tactics, Colonel,” the American instructed her. He gestured toward the sturdy catafalque that had previously held Lenin's body, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. “Please place the case down upon the top of the bier, then step away from the platform.”

  Despite the danger at hand, to both herself and, more important, the operation, Komananov had to admire the capabilities of the imposter's pen-shaped weapon. A most versatile tool, she thought enviously. One I would be happy to add to my own arsenal.

  Reluctantly complying with the American's demands, she relinquished the briefcase, laying it flat upon the velvet cushions of the bier as instructed. “Hold on,” he amended his directions, before she could back away from the catafalque. Twin antennae sprang from the sides of the silver pen and he quickly waved the device at the supine case, as though scanning it for hidden booby traps, while still keeping the colonel herself within range of the weapon. The pen beeped electronically three or four times, but apparently detected nothing amiss. Satisfied, the American nodded and gestured for Ko
mananov to step aside, which she did quite unwillingly. This is a disaster, she despaired. The entire operation could be in danger!

  As Komananov looked on in distress, her extreme anxiety hidden behind a stony, tight-lipped expression, the American lifted the lid of the unlocked attaché case and began inspecting the contents, rifling through sheaves of classified documents. What he found clearly shocked him. “By the Aegis,” he murmured under his breath, his attention momentarily captured by the secrets contained in the topsecret papers, “this is worse than I imagined.”

  Komananov saw an opportunity. While the startled American spy was distracted, she reached up and brutally yanked the earring from her right ear, disregarding the jolt of pain from her torn lobe. She hurled the phony piece of jewelry onto the hard concrete floor, then averted her eyes as the earring exploded in a blinding explosion of high-intensity light. Even though she looked away, her arm thrown rapidly over her eyes, the incandescent flare burned at the periphery of her vision, causing blue spots to appear at the corners of her eyes.

  Unprepared, the American was caught off guard by the flash. He staggered backward, clutching his eyes, effectively blinded for one full minute—just as Komananov had planned. Hearing him gasp in pain, she kicked backward at the sound. The cleats of her left boot slammed hard into the man's chest, knocking him back against the unyielding iron bier. He grunted loudly, the wind smacked out of him, but managed to hold on to his invaluable silver pen, which hummed as he fired blindly, missing Komananov, who ducked beneath the invisible beam to grab onto the man's trigger arm, twisting it roughly until the cunningly disguised weapon flew from his fingers, landing with a clatter a few meters away. That's better, Komananov thought, smirking in satisfaction. Now they were both unarmed.

  Despite the gray in his hair, the American was surprisingly strong. He swung at her head with his free hand, but the well-trained KGB agent evaded the blow, then jabbed her knee into his unprotected abdomen, causing the man to double over in pain. Tears leaked from his watery gray eyes, which were still feeling the effects of the miniature flashbomb, making the orangish greasepaint on his cheeks streak and run. Clasping her hands together to form a double fist, she clubbed the back of his head with all her strength, driving him face first onto the floor. She then kicked him in the jaw for good measure. Take that! she thought vindictively, avenging her prior humiliation.

  With astonishing fortitude, the battered imposter tried to climb up onto his knees, but the relentless colonel subdued him by kicking him viciously in the ribs with the steel-tipped toe of her boot. “Down!” she ordered the American as she plucked a pair of regulation army handcuffs from the pocket of her coat and chained his hands behind his back before reclaiming her trusty Makarov. “Do not move, American,” she warned him, holding the gun to his head. Blood dripped from her ripped earlobe, which stung mercilessly; still, it was enormously satisfying to turn the tables on the arrogant Yankee who had possessed the gall and the temerity to impersonate a revered Russian hero. Keeping the muzzle of the Makarov steadily pointed at the American, she backed away from the prisoner, looking for his fallen weapon. Our technicians and armorers will definitely want a look at that device, she knew. Now then, where did it go?

  The blue spots were already fading from her vision when she spotted the silver pen lying amid the shadows. “Excellent,” she murmured, kneeling briefly to confiscate the weapon, which she tucked into her boot before reclaiming the stolen attaché case, which she carefully closed and locked once more. Holding on to the case by its handle, she marched across the crypt to her cuffed prisoner, whom she savagely yanked to his feet. “Out!” she ordered, prodding him in the back with the muzzle of her gun.

  “You're making a terrible mistake, Colonel,” the American blurted passionately, spitting a mouthful of blood and broken enamel onto the floor. “Gorbachev and his reforms are the best chance your generation has to halt this insane Cold War, reducing the risk of a catastrophic nuclear war!” He looked back over his shoulder, making what sounded like a sincere, last-ditch effort to sway her from her duty and her designs. “Never mind what happens to me,” he sputtered, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “You can't let paranoia and misguided nationalism get in the way of world peace!”

  “Quiet!” she demanded, pistol-whipping the back of the American's head to silence his ridiculous pleas. He sounded just as insane and foolishly idealistic as Mikhail Sergeyevich himself. It occurred to her, though, that she could hardly have the man sharing his all-too-valid suspicions with the uninformed soldiers in Red Square; what if someone actually listened to his accusations, before Gorbachev and his traitorous confederates were entirely eliminated?

  I cannot take that chance, she realized. “Wait,” she commanded her prisoner, temporarily halting his progress toward the exit. It was tempting to place a bullet in the man's skull, ending his unwanted interference forever, but, no, it was important to find out precisely whom the imposter was working for, and how much they knew about the all-important operation now in progress. Just shut him up for now, she decided, putting the precious attaché case down long enough to remove the man's blue silk necktie and use it as a gag to keep the American from speaking to anyone else. She tied the ends of the tie tightly behind the man's head, then checked to make certain that the knot was secure. Yes, that will do. “Keep going,” she told the prisoner once more, jabbing her gun between his shoulders.

  She propelled the American out of the Tomb into the clear, cold moonlight outside. The half-dozen soldiers posted at the entrance of the mausoleum reacted with understandable surprise as she escorted the captured spy at gunpoint down the steps of the Tomb to the weathered stone pavement below. “Lenin's Ghost!” gasped one of the guards, not realizing how perversely appropriate that exclamation was.

  Later, she reflected, there would have to be an investigation into just how the shameless imposter had managed to insinuate himself into the Tomb, as well as into what had become of Lenin's actual remains, real or otherwise. For now, however, she had much more pressing matters to attend to. She glanced down quickly at her wristwatch, chagrined to see that it was nearly 7: 30 P. M., making it roughly late afternoon in Reykjavik. Time was passing swiftly and, according to plan, she needed to be in place within the Presidium, in the executive offices of the Supreme Soviet, when tonight's operation went into effect.

  “ Yolki palki!” she swore under her breath. The imposter in the Tomb had cost her precious time. As much as she longed to interrogate the prisoner fully, to find out precisely how much he knew about the planned coup d'etat, she could not spare a moment to extract his secrets now. The classified documents in her case weighed down her arm, reminding her of a higher duty. “Take this spy into custody,” she commanded the guards, shoving the American toward the surrounding soldiers. “Escort him to Lubyanka on my orders, and have him confined there until I choose to question him. Leave his gag in place until then.”

  “ Da, Colonel!” said the eager commander of the guards, rushing forward to grab the American by his collar. He shook the prisoner ungently, taking pains to demonstrate his contempt for an enemy of the State. “I will deliver him there myself!”

  Before the heavyset soldier could carry out her orders, however, a peculiar whooshing noise cut through icy night air. Komananov heard the sound of metal slicing into flesh and watched in surprise as the commander of the honor guard stiffened abruptly, then toppled faceforward onto the pavement. A flat steel hoop was embedded deep in the soldier's back, surrounded by a rapidly spreading red stain.

  Gleaming in the moonlight, the metallic ring was half-buried in the man's spine, so that it resembled a handle by which the prone body could be lifted like a piece of luggage. What the devil? the colonel wondered, shocked by the soldier's abrupt demise.

  Whoosh! Before she or any of the other soldiers could react, another silver quoit came spinning through the air, striking a large, scowling soldier in the head. The guard instantly dropped to the ground; whether
he was dead or merely unconscious, Komananov could not immediately tell. “Fyodor!” one of the guard's comrades cried out in alarm, rushing to the side of the fallen soldier. “Who did this?”

  Clutching the grip of her Makarov, Komananov searched frantically for the source of the missiles. There! she thought, looking up at the top of Lenin's Tomb, where she spotted an unlikely figure striking a dramatic pose astride the uppermost block of the large granite pyramid. A muscular Indian or Pakistani youth, no more than sixteen years old at most, their turbaned assailant looked down at the colonel with yet another steel ring gripped in his right hand and five or six more threaded upon the bulging biceps of his left arm. Despite the chill autumn weather, the murderous youth wore only an embroidered cotton vest above his boots and trousers, with a strap or bandolier of some sort stretching diagonally across his broad chest and a silver metal band encircling his right wrist. His confident—no, arrogant —stance betrayed no fear of the armed and angry soldiers below. “Behold! I teach you the Superman,” he announced boldly, paraphrasing Nietzsche. “The lightning out of the dark cloud!”

  Who? Komananov wondered, recognizing the grandiloquent declaration as the ravings of a decadent German philosopher, ably translated into Russian. Taking aim at the newcomer, she spared a second to glance over at the handcuffed American, now standing amid the fallen bodies of the ambushed soldiers. Was that recognition she saw in his eyes? The colonel felt convinced that Lenin's impersonator knew exactly who this bloodthirsty terrorist was, even as she vowed silently that this ill-timed and extremely inconvenient rescue attempt would not succeed. “Don't let the prisoner get away!” she shouted at the four remaining soldiers, then fired at the youth atop the pyramid. The blare of gunshots reverberated across Red Square as she held the trigger down, emptying an entire clip at the daring assassin.