Roberta refused to concede even the loveliness of the setting. “I thought the whole place belonged to the French,” she retorted.
As a matter of fact, as she well knew, the French government had established the Centre d’Experimentation du Pacifique (CEP) on Muroroa back in 1963, as a testing site for atomic weapons, many of which had been exploded underground in artificial caverns carved out of the island’s basalt core. Less than three months ago, however, France had suspended its nuclear testing program indefinitely, much to the relief of most of the world. Little did that world know, Roberta mused, that Muroroa was now playing host to something just as nasty—and possibly even more dangerous—-than underground nuclear explosions.
And she didn’t just mean Khan.
“Our Gallic friends were under enormous international pressure to close this facility,” he explained. Roberta recalled seeing news footage of anti-nuke protests on Fiji and the other islands. “Thus, I managed to ‘persuade’ certain French authorities to let me take it off their hands—discreetly, of course.” Roberta could just imagine what kind of “persuasion” Khan had employed. Extortion? Blackmail? Assassination? It wouldn’t be the first time, she thought; although she and Seven never uncovered definitive proof of Khan’s involvement, they had their suspicions regarding a number of recent tragic events, such as the explosive death of that big-name Indian politician last spring.
“Indeed,” Khan continued, “this entire complex is perfectly suited to my needs, being equipped with its own electrical generators, desalination plant, airfield, communications center, and so forth, while its location near the equator makes it an ideal site for launching satellites into orbit.” He looked out over the sprawling compound, which was guarded on all sides by a high, fully electrified fence. “We have, of course, made key renovations, improving on what the French left behind.”
“I can’t wait for the guided tour,” Roberta said, not entirely sarcastic. With any luck, she would get a chance to scope out Khan’s new real estate, before or after she attempted to escape.
A small cluster of people had gathered atop the roof to witness the launch of the rocket. Loudspeakers mounted at the rear of the roof provided a countdown toward the rapidly approaching lift-off: “Launch minus two minutes.” Khan toyed with his wristwatch, synchronizing it with the countdown, before strolling across the whitewashed rooftop to join the others. He gestured for Joaquin to bring Roberta along.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming!” she muttered irritably as the thuggish henchman hustled her across the rooftop. Looking away from the distant gantry, Khan’s associates eyed her with varying degrees of curiosity, seemingly none too concerned by her status as an unwilling captive.
“Launch minus one minute, thirty seconds.”
Khan ignored Roberta’s protests as well. “Permit me to introduce a few of the brilliant minds that I have assembled, at great effort and expense, on this island. “This is Dr. Liam MacPherson,” he began, indicating a lanky, red-haired man in a white lab jacket, “a superlative astrophysicist and the head of launch operations. Doctor, meet Ms. Roberta Lincoln, an uninvited guest at today’s event.”
MacPherson gave Roberta a cursory examination before turning his attention back to the prepped and pregnant rocket on the launch pad. A compact headset kept him in touch with Mission Control and he stroked his beard, a tuft of coppery bristles, absentmindedly as he whispered instructions into his mike. Roberta didn’t take the snub personally, figuring that MacPherson was naturally preoccupied with the Ariane’s imminent departure. “Pleased to meet you, sort of,” Roberta murmured, even though the carrot-topped astrophysicist was clearly not listening. “Let’s do this again sometime.”
“And this,” Khan continued, moving onto an exotically beautiful woman strikingly clad in a silk indigo sarong and matching top, “is the most exquisite Ament, one of my wisest and most trusted advisors.” Gleaming black pearls, native to the Tuamoto Islands, shimmered upon her earlobes, the nacreous beads as dark and lustrous as her shoulder-length black hair. Cool, amber eyes looked Roberta over silently, conveying an air of haughty amusement. Her lithe, languid body seemed both youthful and timeless.
Roberta disliked her on principle. “Nice pearls,” she stated flatly, figuring that if you can’t say something nice about a person, you can always compliment their jewelry.
“Thank you,” Ament said coolly. Her low, husky voice had a faintly Arabic accent. “They were a gift from Khan.”
He nodded, his hands clasped behind his back. “I wrested them myself from the giant black-lipped oysters found only in these islands. Did you know, Ms. Lincoln,” he expounded, “that a Polynesian pearl diver can descend up to forty meters in search of treasure? A remarkable feat, for an ordinary human, although, of course, easily within my own abilities.”
“Everybody needs a hobby,” Roberta said dryly. A little more pearl diving, a little less geopolitical powermongering, she reflected, and the whole world would be a happier place.
“More like an invigorating diversion,” Khan stated by way of clarification. He walked to the edge of the rooftop, the better to observe the rocket on its launch pad. “Not that today requires any stimulation beyond what we are about to witness.”
“Launch minus sixty seconds,” the loudspeaker announced, calling an end to the introductions. A hush of anticipation fell over the small grouping on the roof. On the launch pad across the turquoise lagoon, the massive metal structure of the gantry retreated from the Ariane, leaving the slender rocket alone upon the launch, pointed up at the sky like a gigantic blue-and-white hypodermic. An appropriate image, Roberta thought, given the high-tech poison carried in its payload.
“Launch minus forty-five seconds.” Plumes of white steam billowed from the base of the Ariane as its twin booster rockets fired. A deafening roar assaulted Roberta’s eardrums, like a dozen jumbo jets taking off at once, and she fought an urge to clamp her hands over her ears, unwilling to show any weakness in front of Khan and his fellow Übermenschen. Instead, she crossed her fingers, hoping in vain that something would still go wrong with the launch, that the Ariane would blow up on the launch pad. I’m sorry, Gary. She was barely able to hear her own thoughts over the volcanic fury of the unleashed engines, which were straining mightily at the bolts still holding the rocket to the concrete pad. I tried to stop him.
“Launch minus thirty seconds.” The roar increased as the Ariane’s main engines kicked in. Twenty-five tons of liquid hydrogen ignited, sending a rush of superheated gases through the engine nozzles, propelling the massive spacecraft against the pull of gravity.
“Look, Ms. Lincoln!” Khan shouted in her ear, striving to be heard even over the thunderous din. Roberta tried to pull away from him, but Joaquin’s heavy hands clamped down on her shoulders, holding her in place. “How fortunate you recovered just in time to behold my greatest triumph to date!”
Lucky me, she thought, unable to look away from the fiery spectacle.
“Launch minus one second . . .” The towering rocket rose from the launch pad, borne aloft by a blazing pillar of fire. Gigantic clouds of steam, produced by the explosive union of the Ariane’s red-hot exhaust with a flood of cooling water released in conjunction with the blast-off, swelled outward, hiding the launch site behind a churning, turbulent curtain of vapor. “Lift-off!” the loudspeaker exulted. “We have lift-off!”
Almost against her will, Roberta tipped her head back to follow the rocket’s meteoric ascent. She held her breath, still praying that, somehow, someway, the Ariane, along with its malignant cargo, would go the way of the Challenger, spiraling out of control to a catastrophic end. Please, she prayed, let Khan’s diabolical plan blow up in his face!
But nothing of the sort occurred. The lift-off was flawless, with the Ariane’s upward trajectory achieving escape velocity within less than a minute. As the rocket disappeared from sight, leaving only a snow-white trail of vapor behind, Liam MacPherson breathed a sigh of relief. Beneath his lab coat, hi
s shoulders slumped as the weight of his worries evaporated in the cool trade winds. Ament led the rest of the onlookers, excepting Roberta, in a round of polite applause.
Khan’s flawless profile remained turned to the sky, toward the apex of the vapor trail. Roberta wondered if the Indian prodigy’s superior vision had allowed him to follow the rocket’s soaring climb longer than she had. “Ah, Lucifer, child of the morning,” he declaimed proudly, twisting the Old Testament to his own vainglorious purposes. “How thou art risen!” Lowering his gaze at last, he savored Roberta’s crestfallen expression, his dark mahogany eyes gleaming in triumph. “I trust, Ms. Lincoln, that you appreciate the full purpose and potential of my Morning Star, my bringer of light?”
More than I’d like to, Roberta thought unhappily, knowing that her job had just gotten a lot more difficult. “You stole the technology from us, remember?” Her voice hardened at the memory. “The day you raided our office and murdered our computer?”
Images of a younger Khan firing a hail of bullets into the good old Beta 5 flashed before her mind’s eye. She could still hear the gunshots. . . .
“Technology,” he reminded her, holding up a finger in correction, “that Seven and I personally acquired from the ageless Dr. Evergreen, and not without considerable effort and hardship. I am as much entitled to the fruits of that enterprise as your unbearably self-righteous superior.”
Roberta knew what Khan was referring to, even though she had not taken part in those events. It had been that ill-fated mission, back in the winter of 1984, that had finally convinced Gary Seven that the precocious Sikh youth was too reckless (and ruthless) to be trusted. Just like his mother, she thought, recalling the late Dr. Sarina Kaur, founder and driving force of the Chrysalis Project. Kaur had been utterly ruthless, too, and fanatical enough to choose death rather than abandon Chrysalis, which had ultimately been consumed by a fierce thermonuclear conflagration beneath the deserts of Rajasthan. Roberta couldn’t help wondering if Khan had ever figured out that she and Seven had been indirectly responsible for his mother’s tragic demise. Probably not a good time to bring that up, she decided.
“Excuse me, sir,” MacPherson broke in, “but the rocket has achieved a low polar orbit. We’re ready to deploy the satellite.” He tugged on his beard nervously. “Perhaps you’d care to join me in Mission Control?”
Khan must be a tough boss, Roberta guessed from the scientist’s apprehensive manner. Even for another superman. She’d recognized MacPherson’s name, of course, from Seven’s database on the Chrysalis children. She pretty much knew the entire list by heart.
Khan scowled momentarily, unhappy to be interrupted while fencing verbally with Roberta. Larger aims took precedence, however, and he nodded curtly. “Of course, Doctor, I will be with you shortly.” He gave Roberta a parting bow. “We will have to continue our reunion later, Ms. Lincoln. The Bard once wrote that, ‘Unbidden guests are often welcomest when they are gone,’ but in your case I’m inclined to enjoy your company a while longer.” He reached into the pocket of his immaculately pressed white slacks and retrieved a familiar silver instrument.
My servo! Roberta thought, dismayed to see the device in Khan’s possession.
“I look forward to chatting with you,” he stated, “about the many singular technologies at your superior’s disposal; in particular, your miraculous means of teleportation.” He deftly rolled the servo between his fingers and across the back of his hand. “I confess that, while I have developed ways to block your ingenious matter-transmission beams, I have not yet succeeded in duplicating them.” After tantalizing Roberta with its proximity, he returned the captured servo to his pocket. “Perhaps, with your assistance, I can remedy the situation.”
Not if I can help it, Roberta thought fervently. She could barely imagine a worse scenario than Khan Noonien Singh adding teleportation to his arsenal. “You’ve got the wrong girl,” she insisted. “I have no idea how the darn thing works. As far as I’m concerned, it’s magic.”
This wasn’t entirely true; after nearly a quarter-century of broadcasting her atoms around the planet (and elsewhere), she’d learned her way around a transporter coil or two. There was no reason Khan needed to know that, though. With luck, a little old-fashioned sexism would add a veneer of plausibility to her protests. Girls never look under the hood, right?
Khan did not challenge her proclamations of ignorance, but his menacing tone made it clear that she was hardly off the hook. “Perhaps, then, your superior, the ever-manipulative Mr. Seven, will be willing to share his secrets—in exchange for your continued good health.”
Stepping away from Roberta, apparently content to let his implied threat linger in her mind, Khan addressed Joaquin: “Put her in one of the holding cells on Level M-2. I will interrogate her later, at my leisure.”
Yippee, Roberta thought acidly. I can hardly wait.
“But, Your Excellency!” Joaquin blurted, looking chagrined at the prospect of leaving Khan unguarded. His basso profundo voice emanated from somewhere deep within his cavernous chest. The bear’s head belt buckle snarled silently. “Your safety . . .”
“Will not be endangered by your brief absence,” Khan assured him. He laid a fraternal hand on the bodyguard’s broad shoulder. “My friend, while I appreciate your devotion to duty, I am quite capable of defending myself, especially on my own island.” He released Joaquin’s shoulder and turned to follow MacPherson. “Go. You shall find me in Mission Control, overseeing the next stage of today’s historic accomplishment.”
Placated, Khan’s looming flunky grunted in assent and took hold of Roberta’s arm. “Hey, watch the grip!” she yelped, unable to resist being pulled toward the stairs. “I’ve still got bruises from the last time you manhandled me!”
Despite her loud objections, plus a great deal of squirming, Roberta paid close attention to her surroundings as Joaquin forcibly escorted her down several flights of stairs, into the lower regions of the former atomic test base. Sealed white doors, labeled in French, hid much from her view, but she took what mental notes she could on the facility’s layout and capacities. A little extra reconnaissance could make all the difference later on, she reminded herself.
In particular, she kept her eyes peeled for any sign of biological research. According to their best informant, Khan intended to use Muroroa as more than a launch site for his incipient space program; he was also reputedly converting much of the complex into a laboratory capable of advanced biogenetic experimentation. Seven feared that Khan was deliberately trying to re-create the Chrysalis Project in order to duplicate his mother’s success at human genetic engineering.
Just what we need, Roberta thought tartly. A second generation of Chrysalis kids. Like the first batch hasn’t been trouble enough. . . .
Seven’s fears, not to mention hers, seemed confirmed when, precisely four floors beneath the sunlit rooftop, they passed what looked like a sturdy metal airlock, bearing the universal symbol for biohazardous material.
GENETIC TESTING AND DEVELOPMENT, read the heavy block letters on the airlock’s exterior, printed in both English and Punjabi. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Clearly, the signs had been posted after the French cleared out. Roberta couldn’t help wondering, and worrying, what sort of genes were being developed on the other side of the sealed metal door. Nothing warm and fuzzy, I bet.
The sudden whoosh of air escaping from the doorway announced that someone was preparing to exit the bio-lab. Stalling in order to see who it might be, Roberta deliberately tripped over her own feet. “Oops!” she declared, throwing out her free arm in hopes of breaking her fall, but Joaquin halted her clumsy descent by yanking hard on her other arm, nearly dislocating her shoulder. Unlike her stumble, the resulting cry of pain was totally sincere and spontaneous.
“Up,” he grunted, easily pulling her back onto her feet with just one hand. Roberta felt like a side of beef hanging on a grumpy, unfeeling meat hook.
“I’m sorry,” she stammer
ed, milking the moment for all it was worth. “I guess I’m still a little woozy from that high-voltage hello your boss arranged for me.”
A few feet away, the airlock door swung open, disgorging a statuesque Indian woman in a stained white lab coat. Clearly surprised by what she saw, the woman stared at Joaquin and his blond-haired captive with a baffled look on her face. She protectively clutched a three-inch floppy disk to her chest. “What is this?” she murmured. “Who—?”
“An intruder,” Joaquin explained gruffly, while Roberta compared the woman’s well-made features to the photos in her own memory. Their eyes briefly met, and a shudder ran through Roberta as she saw the horizontal black lines bisecting both of the woman’s dark eyes. The inky streaks across her corneas were, Roberta knew, twin legacies of the disastrous chemical disaster in Bhopal, India, many years ago, created when the other woman had squinted to see her way through the clouds of poisonous gas. Seven and Khan were both at Bhopal, Roberta recalled, although they had managed to avoid being scarred in this manner. Numerous survivors, however, had been permanently marked, including one of the Chrysalis children.
There could be no doubt: This was Dr. Phoolan Dhasal, a Nobel Prize-winning biochemist, who, like Khan, was also a product of Sarina Kaur’s illicit experiments back in the seventies. Roberta was familiar with Dhasal’s work, having once forced herself to wade through the precocious Ph.D.’s groundbreaking paper on the introduction of transgenic exons during late-stage RNA processing. Dhasal had also been one of the youngest contributors to the Human Genome Project, before mysteriously disappearing several months ago; her presence on Muroroa provided the final proof that Khan was up to hard-core genetic hanky-panky here in the South Seas. I need to report this to Seven, pronto.