Star Trek: The Eugenics War, Vol. 1 Read online

  “Good heavens,” she said in Punjabi. How on Earth did that get through the screening process? Lifting her face from the microscope, she used a grease pencil to mark the embryo in question for immediate incineration. Probably just a random mutation, she surmised, of the sort that spontaneously occurred every now and then. Oh well; if nothing else, catching an aberration like this one justified the long hours she put in giving the embryos a final checkup.

  Thankfully, the next cell sample, from # CHS-454- X, showed no apparent defects, while the fetus itself appeared to be developing normally. Peering at the tiny speck of pink protoplasm, she couldn't help marveling at the exquisite machinery tucked away in the nucleus of every cell in the fetus: nearly two meters of stringy nucleic acids capable of producing an individual who might someday change the world.

  Just like its older brothers and sisters. Her imagination pictured the struggling, chaotic world outside this pristine laboratory, an endangered planet filled with flawed, imperfect men and women. If they only knew, she thought triumphantly, what tomorrow brings . . . !

  CHAPTER THREE

  HOTEL PALAESTRO

  ROME, ITALY

  MAY 14, 1974

  “WELCOME TO ROME, DR. NEARY,” THE MAN AT THE FRONT DESK said. “May I see some identification?”

  “Sì,” Roberta answered, fishing around in her handbag for her phony ID. Traveling under an alias no longer troubled her; she knew from experience that Seven's advanced Beta 5 computer manufactured the best forgeries on the planet, even if the machine's snobbish artificial intelligence had something of an attitude problem. She blithely handed over “Veronica Neary's” passport and driver's license.

  Isis squawked impatiently from within the plastic carrying case at Roberta's feet. The cat's indignant outburst reached the ears of the hotel clerk, who leaned over the edge of the counter to check out Roberta's belongings. Amber eyes stared back at him defiantly.

  “ Scusi, Doctor,” said the clerk, who spoke excellent English, “but I'm afraid the hotel does not permit pets.”

  Roberta sighed inwardly. It wasn't my idea to bring the damn cat along, she thought. But Seven had insisted that Isis accompany Roberta to Rome, leaving the young woman to wonder who was supposed to be looking out for whom. “Maybe you can make an exception, per favore?” She slid several thousand lira in paper bills across the counter toward the clerk. “I'd really appreciate it.”

  The brightly colored bills, featuring high-powered denominations with plenty of eye-catching zeroes, were quite genuine. The Beta 5 was perfectly capable of producing perfect counterfeits, of course, but she and Seven tried to use real currency wherever possible, to avoid inviting the scrutiny of the world's various treasury departments. Fortunately, covering their expenses was no problem, since Seven's earthly predecessors had shrewdly invested in any number of developing industries and discoveries, from Kodak to cellophane. As the sole employees of a company supposedly devoted to “encyclopedia research,” she and her taciturn boss had money to burn, which certainly came in useful at times like this.

  The clerk looked about quickly, to make sure no one was looking, then pocketed the cash. “ Prego,” he said, returning his attention back to her documents. He handed them back to her along with a set of room keys. “The elevator is to the right,” he informed her. “Room 11- G.”

  Roberta nodded gratefully, then hefted both her suitcase and Isis's carrier off the floor. She yawned, pretending to be jet-lagged from the long flight from America. In fact, she and Isis had taken the Blue Smoke Express to a deserted back alley two blocks away, but there was no need to advertise that particular detail to everyone in the hotel lobby. As far as any curious onlookers might be concerned, she was just another newly arrived delegate to the International Conference on Genetic Research and Experimentation.

  Two months of pursuing assorted useless leads had not brought her and Gary Seven any closer to solving the Mystery of the Missing Scientists. This conference was one of their few remaining hopes for locating the vanished researchers, a not-quite-last-ditch ploy entrusted to Roberta while Seven followed another line of inquiry back in the States. Let's hope this little expedition pays off, she thought as she lugged her baggage across the lobby to the waiting elevator. Or that Seven has better luck with his investigation.

  Her mission in Rome was twofold: keep a sharp eye out for any of the absent geneticists who might be tempted to attend the conference, while simultaneously presenting a likely target to whomever was responsible for the scientists' disappearances. Just call me bait, she thought, a role she was all too familiar with from prior undercover operations; the hard part was going to be passing herself off as an upandcoming Ph. D. for as long as it took to attract the right ( or wrong, depending on your perspective) kind of interest.

  The weight of her suitcase tugged relentlessly on her arm and shoulders. Besides three days' worth of clothes and toiletries, the overstuffed bag also bulged with the latest scientific journals, along with a couple of weighty tomes on the theoretical applications of genetic engineering. She had started reading up on the subject after that eventful visit to Berlin, but she'd still brought along plenty of homework to keep her busy in her spare time, the better to impersonate a topflight biological whiz kid.

  No moonlight excursions to the Fountain of Trevi this trip, she thought, sighing wistfully. No time for sight-seeing while the fate of the world hangs in the balance. Unlocking the door to Room 11- G, she stumbled inside. Her suitcase landed with a thud on the carpeted floor, giving her tired arm a break, but she couldn't help wishing that she were in Rome as a tourist, not a secret agent. So what else is new? she mused, liberating Isis from the confines of the plastic carrier. Without so much as a meow of thanks, or even a backward glance, the jet-black feline scurried away to check out the bathroom. A few seconds later, the door to the bathroom closed behind the cat.

  At least she's housebroken, Roberta thought. Heck, Isis didn't even need a litter box; human facilities more than suited her needs, for reasons Roberta knew only too well. “Don't take all day in there,” she called irritably to Gary Seven's so-called pet. “You're not the only one who wants to freshen up.”

  Roberta heard the toilet flush, followed by the sound of water pouring into the sink. Isis seemed to take her own sweet time washing up, but eventually the bathroom door swung open and the cat padded out onto the carpeted floor. Ignoring Roberta completely, Isis sprang onto the windowsill and settled down to watch the city streets below. Fine, Roberta thought. She didn't feel like sparring with the cat anyway. . . .

  Shortly, after kicking off her shoes and making herself comfortable, Roberta retrieved a sheaf of folded papers from her carry-on bag, then stretched out on the queen-size bed to give them a closer look. No doubt the exact schedule for the conference had changed since this tentative itinerary had been mailed out, but there was time enough to look into that later this evening. Right now she just wanted to refamiliarize herself with the programming options available to her.

  Even the titles of the various panels and symposia were fairly daunting: “Replication of Chromosomal Segments by Means of Enzymes derived from Escherichia coli,” “Further Applications of Prokaryotic Bacteriophages as Transgenic Vectors,” “The Use of Recombinant DNA in Multiclonal Antibodies” . . .

  Let's see, Roberta thought, underlining some of indicated seminars with a colored pencil. Traffic noises drifted upward from the busy streets outside. If I was a brilliant scientific genius on the cutting edge of the genetic frontier, where would I go?

  The ten A. M. presentation on “Tomorrow's Medicine: The Genetics of Health” was being held in a crowded lecture hall on the hotel's mezzanine. Roberta arrived early to get a good seat, right up front where she could be nice and visible. The better to attract attention she had also worn a stylish polyester shirtdress in a cheerfully bright red-and-white print. A bit more conservative than her usual style— she felt like Florence Henderson on The Brady Bunch —but, then again, she wasn't
attending the conference as herself. Isis, thankfully, had been left behind in their hotel room, to watch Italian TV, call for room service, or do whatever insufferable alien kitties did to amuse themselves. Roberta couldn't care less; she had bigger things to worry about.

  As discreetly as she could, Roberta scanned the audience as the hall rapidly filled up, looking for one or more of the missing geneticists, whose photos she had committed to memory. So far the only faces she recognized, though, were from the dust jackets of some of the scholarly tomes she'd perused the night before. Would I spot the others if they were in disguise? she wondered; the Beta 5 had tracked down the best photo reference available on all of the missing scientists, but in some nstances, the results had been decidedly sketchy, especially for most of the Eastern Bloc subjects. In those cases, all Roberta had to go on were some blurry, black-and-white photos, sometimes years out of date. I might not even spot some of those characters if they sat down right beside me.

  The conference was definitely drawing a real international crowd, she noted, munching on a biscotti as she waited for the lecture to start. Among the hubbub of voices surrounding her, she identified American, French, German, Dutch, even Haitian and Pakistani accents. Her automatic translator was getting a workout, even though she had deliberately picked a talk that was being delivered in English, just to make her mission simpler. It was as good a criterion as any, she thought. Besides, this one sounds more general than some of the others.

  At approximately five minutes to ten, not one of the absent geneticists had made the scene, and Roberta seriously considered skipping over to one of the other events to scope out the crowd there. That seemed a little too conspicuous, however, not to mention rude, so she settled back into her seat, posed with her pencil poised above an open notebook, and prayed that her eyes would not glaze over too obviously.

  To her relief, the lecture, delivered by a Nobel Prize nominee whose name Roberta recognized from a couple of her marked-up scientific journals, was more accessible and interesting than she had feared. The good thing about gene splicing and cloning and all, it occurred to her, was that, since nobody could actually do all that stuff just yet, it was a lot easier to discuss their implications in the abstract than to get bogged down in all the messy little details.

  “The promise of gene therapy holds the hope of preventing—and even eradicating—a wide variety of human diseases and frailties,” the Famous Professor said after a ninety-minute survey of hereditary disorders and their genetic causes. “Cystic fibrosis, muscular dystrophy, mental retardation, sickle-cell anemia, juvenile diabetes, hemophilia, ADA deficiency, also known as ‘bubble boy’ disease—these and many other grievous human ailments will be stricken from the annals of mortal suffering once we can use recombinant DNA techniques to correct the chromosomal defects that cause such conditions. By splicing healthy genes into the germ cells of individual parents, whose families may have carried one of these harmful mutations for generations, we will be able to lift this curse from their children, their grandchildren, and all their descendants to come. Thank you.”

  Sounds good, Roberta admitted, joining in a round of polite applause. Her initial gut response to this whole gene-tampering business had been one of wary skepticism; messing around with people's DNA sounded a little too close to Brave New World for comfort, and Gary Seven's dubious attitude toward the endeavor ( even if faintly hypocritical) had only heightened her suspicion that maybe genetic engineering was one of those things that mankind was meant to leave alone, like nuclear missiles and streaking.

  On the other hand, she had to concede that the F. P. had made a good case for the medical benefits of selective genetic repair work. Roberta had known a girl with muscular dystrophy back in junior high; poor Tina had already been forced into a wheelchair by seventh grade, and her condition had only deteriorated over the years they went to school together. In the end, she had died early in her twenties. Roberta remembered attending her funeral, and thinking what a waste it was that such a bright and talented person hadn't lived to fulfill her full potential, all because of a genetic accident that occurred before she was even born. If gene therapy could have cured Tina's MD, Roberta thought, or maybe even fixed the problem in her parents' genes before she was ever conceived, then maybe conscientious chromosome-splicing isn't as bad as Seven makes it out to be?

  But now was no time for hesitation or indecision, she realized; if she wanted to reach the people behind the big project Seven feared was in the works, then she needed to place herself firmly and publicly on the side of bigger and better DNA.

  She waited for the applause to subside. Then, as soon as the F. P. asked for questions from the audience, her hand shot up faster than a Saturn V rocket.

  Her quick reflexes ( and snappy fashion sense) must have done the trick. “Yes?” the F. P. prompted, calling on her. “What is your question, please?” Roberta stood up in the first row of the auditorium, feeling the collective gaze of the entire assembly turn upon her. Good thing I'm not prone to stage fright, she thought as she cleared her throat. Well, here goes nothing.

  “So far all you've proposed is fixing preexisting defects in the genetic makeup of a few individuals whose DNA isn't quite up to code. What about making overall improvements in the ordinary human genome? Increasing life expectancy, for example, or intelligence?” She raised her voice, trying to sound inspired and enthusiastic. “Why settle for curing a handful of inherited disorders when you can use genetic engineering to create a better and more advanced form of human being?”

  Her remarks didn't exactly elicit gasps—this was a pretty savvy crowd where such notions were concerned—but Roberta thought she detected more and louder murmuring going on all around her, thanks to her bold ( and, to be honest, wildly reckless) proposals. So much for making a splash on Day One, she thought, sitting back down in her seat. Here's hoping somebody takes the b ait.

  She didn't have long to wait. Roberta first noticed she was being followed later that morning, while strolling through the Eternal City in search of lunch. After her successful infiltration of the conference, she'd figured she was entitled to a break and a little of the local cuisine. Why save the world if you can't stop and smell the pizza once in a while?

  The two men—one Asian, one Latino—started shadowing her shortly after she left the hotel and had been keeping her in sight ever since. They were being discreet about it, naturally, but years of spy games with Gary Seven had given Roberta very good instincts when it came to being the subject of covert surveillance. You're good, she silently granted her secret admirers, but I've been tailed by the best, including invisible aliens from Devidia II!

  She paused in front of a window display on the Via Sistina, ostensibly to check her reflection in the glass, but actually to take a closer look at the two strangers as they lingered on the sidewalk across the street, apparently engrossed in an Italian newspaper. The front-page headline said something about the Red Brigade and terrorism, but she doubted that the men were actually paying much attention to any news articles at the moment.

  The Asian man looked vaguely familiar; Roberta thought she'd seen him around the conference. He was a slender, handsome man, about her age, wearing a somewhat battered tweed jacket over a Godzilla Tshirt. His long hair and sideburns made him resemble some long-lost Japanese cousin of the Partridge Family. Roberta caught him peeking at her from behind his companion's newspaper, but pretended not to notice. From his lapse, she guessed that he was new at this, and not a professional spook.

  The other man was a whole different story: he was almost freakishly large, maybe seven feet tall, a yard across the shoulders, and a good deal more intimidating. Just like that robot Bigfoot up north, she thought, only a lot less shaggy. Indeed, the second man was a walking endorsement for Darwin's theory of evolution, complete with sloping brow and a noticeably prognathous jawline. Tinted sunglasses concealed the giant's eyes while the bottom half of his broad, square face maintained a stony expression. A black silk suit w
as draped over his imposing frame and a marine-style crew cut bristled atop his oh-so-simian skull. And they say the Neanderthals have all died out. . . .

  Roberta could readily believe that the first man was another visiting scientist, in town for the conference; there was something mildly nerdish about his appearance and body language. The big gorilla, on the other hand, looked more like an enforcer than a geneticist. Talk about your Odd Couples, she thought. These two make Felix and Oscar look like identical clones.

  Turning away from the reflective glass, she let them tail her for a few more blocks, until curiosity, not to mention an empty stomach, prompted her to see what would happen if she presented a stationary target for a while. Just how long would they be willing to hang out, she wondered, waiting for her to start moving again?

  Lunch was a slice of pizza, a can of Fresca, and, for dessert, a small helping of fresh gelato. Roberta sat on the spanish Steps overlooking the city, enjoying the warm spring weather as she gazed out at the rose-colored rooftops spread out before her, nestled snugly between Rome's famed seven hills. Throngs of tourists flowed up and down the steps, posing for photographs and admiring the view, while portrait artists, flower vendors, and portable snack carts competed for their attention. Roberta politely declined several roses, plus the opportunity to be immortalized in colored chalk or watercolors, and resisted the temptation to look back over her shoulder to see what her mismatched pursuers were up to. The pizza crust was thin and crispy, just the way she liked it. Your move, guys, she thought.