Star Trek: The Original Series - 147 - Devil’s Bargain (15 page)

“You’re a Vulcan Domination conspiracy theorist?” Sulu said in amazement. He had heard about such people, but he’d never met one before.

“It’s not a conspiracy when it’s right out there in the open for anyone to see who has eyes,” said Merling. “Only the cattle are too stupid to recognize that they’re being fattened up for a purpose.”

What a quack.
But then Sulu considered an alternate explanation: Maybe this was some sort of adverse reaction to medication.

“Have you been taking your autoimmune vaccine?” Sulu asked.

“I have, and what the devil does that have to do with anything?”

“And you’ve experienced no . . . adverse reactions? Chief Advisor Faber has become quite ill, I believe.”

Merling nodded knowingly and chuckled. “The children of Vesbius. Greatness built into their genes—
engineered
—and yet they refuse to take the next step.”

“What would that be?”

“To throw off the Vulcan yoke,” spat out Merling. “To take humanity’s rightful place in the galaxy.”

“Major Merling,” Sulu said respectfully, “I think I’ll get to my library studies now.”

Sulu stood up and made to leave the table.

As quickly as the look of rage had passed over Merling’s face, he seemed to gain control and stifle it. “Please excuse me, Ensign—”

“Lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant, I mean,” Merling said. “Yes, I have to admit that I’m not feeling myself. The injections are perhaps starting to take their toll.”

“Can I help in any way?”

The snarling Merling returned as quickly as it had fled.

“I don’t want your aid,
hinomoto oniko,
” said Merling in a low voice. The ancient insult meant “son of a devil”—a Chinese slur against Japanese soldiers.

Sulu thought it more amusing than insulting. He shrugged. “You know, if all that you say is true, what could we ‘cattle’ do about it? It seems that you believe we are not even capable of becoming aware of our own situation.”

“I would say you ought to rise up against the bastards,” Merling said. “But it’s too late for that. That man Khan, he had the right idea. You met him, didn’t you?”

“I had that misfortune,” Sulu replied evenly. He put his hands on the back of the chair he stood behind.

Guess I’ll stay a little longer and jawbone with this maniac,
he thought.
It’s still possible I may be able to talk some reason into him after all.

Merling had brought up one of Sulu’s most distasteful memories.

He had felt an instant dislike for the product of the Earth Eugenics Wars that had been brought aboard the
Enterprise.
His aversion had begun even before Khan showed his true colors and attempted to take over the
Enterprise,
almost killing the captain in a decompression chamber before he could be stopped. Sulu’s admiration for Kirk had been stoked higher when the captain had sentenced the Augment to life on a harsh unsettled planet instead of handing him over to Starfleet. It had been a bold move, one that Sulu had not thought of and that had only increased his desire to learn by serving with such an extraordinary captain.

“If Khan had won his war all those centuries ago,” said Merling, “humanity might have been able to stand up to the Vulcans and not become their chattel.” Merling shook his head and took another drink from his glass. Sulu saw now that Merling was pretty far in his cups, and what he was listening to was more drunk rambling than coherent philosophy.

“Well, I must do a little research on a library computer,” said Sulu. “So if you’ll excuse me, Major.”

Merling abruptly stood up. He glared at Sulu.

“Go about your business,
hinomoto oniko,
and I’ll go about mine.”

For moment, Sulu believed that Merling might physically leap across the table and attack him. He was quite certain that he could take the major out with a couple of blows, but then he would have so much explaining to do and so much paperwork that it was not worth the satisfaction he would get from putting the major in his place.

But Merling had solved the problem for Sulu by breaking off his gaze and then stumbling out of the rec room. Sulu, still standing with his hands on the chair in front of the table where Merling had been, looked after the exiting major in befuddlement.

“Well, you sure are cool under fire, Lieutenant,” said one of the ensigns in the rec room. “I’d have been tempted to brain that moron.”

Sulu smiled. “Not enough brains there to knock out,” he replied. “And definitely not worth the effort to find them.”

There was muted laughter around the rec room, and Sulu made his way to his intended destination.

What a strange, unhappy man,
he thought.
I have a very bad feeling about him. Not unlike the feeling I had when I first saw the
Botany Bay
.

Sulu decided his Horta research could wait. He wasn’t sure what Merling might be up to—probably just slinking back to his cabin. But
whatever it was, he was going to find out. And for that, a bit of research on Major Merling might be in order.

•   •   •

Major Merling stumbled down the corridor a few steps. When he got out of the line of sight of the rec room entrance, he straightened up and began walking in a sober manner.

So easy to fool the cattle,
Merling thought to himself.
Enjoyable as well.

It had been necessary that he appear drunk in order to establish an alibi for what he was going to do next. While Merling had once believed he had a ally in Kirk and the
Enterprise
—however misguided the Starfleet captain and his benighted crew actually were—it had soon become apparent that, while they were all for getting the Vesbians to evacuate the planet surface and find a new home, the reasons they wished to do this were counterproductive, to Merling and the Exos movement.

Merling was keenly aware that he was
not
an original settler. He had come to Vesbius after serving as a mercenary in several planetary forces inside and outside the Federation. What had been a job as a hired military chief to the chancellor had become a calling after the planet had begun to destroy his immune system. At that time, he’d had to make the choice to either stay and receive the genetic
alteration necessary to avoid the autoimmune rejection by the Vesbius biosphere, or move on.

Merling hated to remember that part of his life. The problem was that Vesbius was the last stop on the descending path of a military career that had not been distinguished to begin with. Merling had no offers anywhere else, and he had nowhere to go. He supposed he could have taken some sort of security billet on a merchant ship and gotten the hell off the planet in time to save himself from having to undergo the change, but he delayed until it was too late, and it was either receive the genetic alteration or die in a hospital bed on Vesbius. At that time, Merling had made a virtue of necessity and loudly proclaimed that he was ready to become a real Vesbian.

Like many converts to necessity, once he was fully a member of the society, Merling forgot his previous objections to the population—he’d once called Vesbians freaks of nature—and instead began to glory in his new condition. He sought out those who felt the same way he did, those who believed that the change had not only made Vesbians different, but
superior
to humans: the Exos movement.

Finally, he’d found a place to fit in. Be someone important. Be recognized as the superior man he felt himself to be.

An Exo understood this essential truth, and then it came time to
act
on it. To make changes. Exos, forced underground by edict of the Vesbian
Council, had been engaged in going further than the mere adaptation alteration. Why not use the opportunity of the crisis on the planet to get rid of the old settler deadwood attitudes and ring in a new future?

What mattered wasn’t Vesbius the planet but the superior product that planet had produced.

Vesbians.

Merling began to see himself as the vanguard for a change in galactic history. He’d worried about his own courage and heroism before, particularly under fire. He’d had several bad experiences on his previous assignments in that regard, experiences he tried hard to forget. But now Merling worried about his place in the grand scheme of things no longer. And when the asteroid had been discovered, he knew that this was another moment of chaos and crisis and it was his duty to exploit it. He had to use this opportunity to press the Vesbians beyond their mere alterations and onward toward becoming something better than what they had been before. The pressure of the autoimmune rejection illness that a general evacuation would precipitate would drive the Vesbians to engage in quick and massive genetic tinkering to save themselves and their children. They would make themselves better in the process, better able to withstand the rigors of planetary settlement than they ever had been before, better than humans ever had been.

They would finish what the ancient Augments
were never allowed to finish. They would make themselves into the natural successors of
Homo sapiens,
Merling believed. With the subtle manipulation of humanity from within, and with Merling’s foresight directing the movement, Vesbians would emerge as the natural rulers of the galaxy—and especially of humanity. Humans were their ancestors; therefore they would be their natural subjects. It was going to happen sooner or later, Merling believed. He wanted to be the one to bring it about and the one to reap its initial benefits. Perhaps one day there would be a statue of him on Earth: the man—no
super
man—who was the father of a new, better human race.

•   •   •

The major made his way carefully back to his quarters, trying to pass through as many of the crowded corridors of the ship as he could. He made sure to bump into a few crew members along the way and give them reason to remember him with either an apology or a harsh word. It didn’t matter which, so long as he left an impression. Finally, he arrived at his quarters in junior officer country and slipped inside. It was all part of his job.

If any creatures in the galaxy did not deserve his Vesbian respect, it was those bugs from Janus VI. Not only was it his duty to further precipitate the crisis on Vesbius until the desired outcome could
be accomplished, but he also considered it a sacred duty to eradicate this infestation of roaches that the Vulcan had talked the weak captain into shipping straight to a human world.

Merling brought out a communicator that he had concealed and brought aboard the ship. It was tuned to a little-used subspace frequency and double-scrambled for maximum secrecy. There was a matching communicator elsewhere on board.

“Head One. Head One calling Hand.”

After a momentary pause, an answer came over the communicator:
“Hand here. I do not have much time. I am on a short break.”

“The time has come to put a stop to the pollution,” Merling said.

“As you say, Head. When she was touring the shuttle bay and touching those creatures, I released your powder. I have the activation device ready.”

“Excellent.”

“Head . . .”
There was a momentary pause on the other end.

“Yes, what is it?” Still no reply. “Hand? Hand, answer me.”

A crackling response finally arrived over the communicator:
“Phase two of the plan . . . I do not believe . . . I can’t do it, sir.”

Merling sighed. Weakness. Why must he always be surrounded by weakness? He put the communicator back to his lips and spoke in a low, clear voice.
“You realize that I have the entire planetary vaccine supply in my control.”

“Yes, I . . . I suppose you do.”

“And here on the ship, do you think it was an accident that the chief advisor was experiencing autoimmune rejection syndrome so early? And what about Ferlein?”

“No, I . . . I supposed I preferred not to think about it, sir.”

“Well think about it now. They have received only half-strength vaccines. The fool ship’s surgeon trusted the supply I provided and has administered incorrect dosages. If you fail at carrying out your instructions, I will do to you what I have done to the chief advisor. Do you understand?”

A very long pause this time. Finally, a reply:
“I . . . do.”

“Good,” said Merling. “I know you are committed. You will not allow it to come to that because you will do what is right.”

Merling closed his communicator and lay back on his bed, not bothering to take off his boots. It would be even better if he fell asleep—any life-sign readings in the compartment would show him snoozing—but he was too excited for that. He wished he did not have to resort to subterfuge but could confront his enemy head-on.

The warrior who wins is the one who lives to fight another day,
Merling told himself.

The fight must go on. Against the Vulcan conspiracy. Against utterly alien devils such as the Horta who sought to taint the very breathing space of humanity.

Worst of all, they meant to entangle Vesbius in their depravity and decadence.

Vulcan manipulation, the desire to contaminate the pure stock of Vesbius with outside ideas and, eventually, outside blood. Outside DNA. To destroy what was better. Merling was not surprised at such perfidy in lesser species, although, as always, he could not contain his disgust no matter how many times he encountered it. Horta, Vulcan, Klingon . . . even humans. The galaxy would be a better place without any of them, and Merling was happy to do his part to bring that about.

The time of purification would come sooner rather than later—but come it would. He knew that, no matter what happened, he was on the right side of history. But, unlike Khan, he would see his revolution through.

Ten

The alarm went off on the bridge just as Kirk was attempting to take a sip of his coffee. Wasn’t that always the way? He quickly handed it back to the yeoman who had brought it to him.

Kirk pressed the intership button on his chair. “What do you have, Scotty?”