The Rise and Fall of Khan Noonien Singh, Volume One (40 page)

Masako Clarke led a party of maybe a dozen men and women, who crossed the hangar on their way to the shuttle. Kirk couldn’t help noticing that, at first glance, the colonists appeared uniformly trim and attractive; even the older citizens, silver-haired though they might be, looked healthy and fit. Clearly, infirmity, obesity, baldness, even simple homeliness had been purged from the colony’s gene pool.
Poor Bones,
Kirk thought, recalling the doctor’s somewhat lived-in features.
He must look like Quasimodo to them.

[256]
“Welcome to Sycorax, Captain, gentlemen.” Along with the rest of the delegation, Regent Clarke wore a skintight, one-piece bodysuit that could become standard apparel only on a world where everyone had a flawless physique. “Let me introduce you to a few of my senior staff,” she said, gesturing toward the individuals to her immediate left and right, respectively. “This is Aaron Rosenberg, chairman of the Committee for Genetic Development.” The dignitary in question, an athletic-looking older man with short brown hair, bowed politely at Kirk and the others. “And this is Karen Jones, the head of our Engineering and Infrastructure Department.” Another perfect physical specimen, this one with unblemished mahogany skin and an elegantly coifed crown of snowy white hair. “I’m afraid,” the regent continued, “that we’ve been cut off from the rest of the galaxy so long that we don’t actually have any sort of diplomatic corps, but perhaps that’s something we can remedy in the weeks to come.”

“You seem to be handling the diplomacy perfectly well all on your own,” Kirk complimented Clarke, then introduced McCoy and Lerner. The good doctor, Kirk was glad to note, offered their hosts nothing but down-home Southern charm and graciousness, despite his personal reservations about the colony and their mission. “You’d never guess that you don’t receive visitors every day.”

Clarke accepted Kirk’s praise humbly. “In all honesty,” she admitted, “I have had a bit of practice recently.” The welcoming committee behind her began to part down the middle as those at the rear of the party worked their way toward the Starfleet officers. Kirk’s eyes widened in amazement and he heard McCoy gasp as well. “What the—?” Lerner blurted involuntarily, his hand instinctively reaching for his phaser.

Three Klingon soldiers, in full uniform, joined the regent at the front of the delegation. The leader of the Klingons, his hands resting arrogantly upon his hips, smiled coldly at Kirk. Gray eyes held a glint of wicked amusement.

“Permit me to introduce our
other
guests,” Clarke stated amicably. “I believe you already know Captain Koloth.”

“MY DEAR CAPTAIN KIRK!
How delightful to see you again!”

Koloth greeted his old adversary with mock hospitality. With his arched black eyebrows, widow’s peak, and neatly trimmed goatee, the urbane Klingon commander was arguably even more satanic-looking than Spock. His silver-and-black military uniform glittered beneath the glare of the hangar’s overhead lights. Two lieutenants, whom Kirk thought he recognized from that incident at Deep Space Station K-7, flanked Koloth, glaring at the Starfleet officers with unconcealed hatred and contempt.

“Captain?” Lerner asked, his hand on his phaser. He sounded ready to give the Klingons a fight if that’s what they wanted. Kirk admired his spirit, but questioned the timing.

“Stand down, Lieutenant,” he instructed, as his brain raced to catch up with this unexpected (and unwelcome) turn of events. Klingons? On Sycorax? What did this mean? “I must admit,” he said to Koloth, “it’s a ... surprise ... to see you here as well.”

Masako Clarke stepped between the rival starship captains. Although she maintained a scrupulously neutral demeanor, Kirk could tell that the regent was conscious of the tensions between the two parties. “The Klingon Empire,” she explained, “has also expressed an interest in, well, absorbing our colony into their alliance.”

“I see,” Kirk said skeptically. He was only too aware that, where the Klingons were concerned, “alliance” was merely a euphemism for out-and-out conquest and tyranny. He suspected that the regent knew
[258]
this, too.
So why invite the Klingons here?
he wondered.
Unless she had no other choice?

“We feel it is in the best interests of the Paragon Colony to accept the protection of the Klingon Empire,” Koloth stated in a deceptively agreeable manner. Kirk knew better than to take his peaceful pose at face value.

“Protection?” he asked, recognizing a veiled threat when he heard one. “Protection from whom, exactly?”

Koloth flashed Kirk a devilish grin. “The galaxy is full of dangers, as I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Captain.” Lean and lanky by Klingon standards, the enemy commander had always struck Kirk as more of a schemer than a warrior, but Kirk felt certain that Koloth could be lethal if crossed; you couldn’t rise to captain in the Klingon military without getting your hands bloody now and then. “I am here to convince the regent that only the Klingon Empire can truly guarantee her colony’s safety.”

“Safety, my left foot!” McCoy growled acerbically. “Talk about putting the foxes in charge of the henhouse!”

“That will be all, Doctor,” Kirk said, shushing McCoy’s overly candid remarks. He agreed with the sentiments, but now was not the time or the place; Kirk wanted to get a better sense of the situation before proceeding to open confrontation. “Remember, we’re guests here.” The
Enterprise’s
captain eyed Koloth suspiciously. “So what does your empire get, in exchange for your vaunted ‘protection’?” He gave that last word an unmistakably sarcastic spin. “Sycorax is too out-of-the-way to be of strategic value.”

“
Ah, but their scientific expertise far exceeds the value of their remote location!” Koloth observed enthusiastically. “Our intelligence informs us that the geneticists bred here are second to none in their knowledge of advanced genetic-engineering techniques.” He looked the regent and her staff over appraisingly, as though registering their obvious physical perfection. “The Empire would welcome adding their technological expertise to our own.”

“I’ll bet you would!” McCoy exclaimed, only slightly less acidly than before. “I don’t imagine your leaders would have any qualms about applying genetic engineering to your own people.”

[259]
One of Koloth’s lieutenants, a younger Klingon with a thick head of tangled brown hair, laughed derisively. “Only Earthers would devise a means to create a race of conquerors—then forbid its use!” He sneered at McCoy and the other humans. “Weaklings.”

Koloth made no effort to curb his subordinate’s intemperate remarks. He merely gestured toward the young Klingon instead. “You remember my second-in-command, Korax?”

“Yes,” Kirk said dryly. “I believe he once compared me to a Denebian slime devil.” Kirk had not actually been present at the time, but the insult, along with several equally unflattering comparisons, had been dutifully recorded in Scotty’s report on the incident, which had provoked a full-fledged brawl between various members of Kirk’s and Koloth’s crews. Judging from the smirk currently residing on the Klingon’s swarthy face, Korax had not repented of his role in that un-sanctioned free-for-all, nor of his strenuous efforts to slander Kirk.
Remind me to thank Scotty for pounding his face in,
the captain thought to himself.

“
Ancient history!” Koloth insisted, dismissing the entire episode. “We mustn’t bore our hosts with our dusty old war stories. After all, there’s important diplomatic business to attend to, is there not?”

“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
[260]
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.

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,
[262]
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?