To Reign in Hell: The Exile of Khan Noonien Singh (2 page)

Kirk sighed, sympathizing with the Russian officer’s dilemma. “Naturally, had Ceti Alpha VI been selected for the experiment, Chekov would have immediately informed Terrell of the existence of a human colony one planet away. But that hadn’t happened yet and, as far Chekov and Kyle were concerned, Khan and his followers were safely stranded on Ceti Alpha V, without the means of spaceflight. They seemed to pose no threat to
Reliant
—or so Chekov believed.”

A reasonable assumption,
Kirk thought,
if tragically mistaken
. The ghastly consequences of Khan’s escape from exile were still fresh in his memory. Not only had Clark Terrell perished; Khan had also ruthlessly slaughtered nearly the entire science team at the Regula I Space Laboratory, and later launched a sneak attack on the
Enterprise
itself. Kirk winced at the thought of the many fresh-faced cadets who had lost their lives in the battle against Khan, including Scotty’s own nephew. According to the eventual Starfleet investigation, more than three dozen people had died as a result of Khan’s return, not counting Khan’s own crew, whose exact names and numbers remained unknown.

And those were just the direct fatalities,
Kirk realized. Khan’s escape had set in motion a chain of events that had led to Spock’s brief but harrowing demise, the creation of the Genesis Planet, the destruction of the original
Enterprise,
and the murder of Kirk’s son.
Who was really to blame for David’s death?
Kirk asked himself.
The Klingons? Khan? Me?

Where did it all begin—and where in God’s name will it end?

“Probably just as well that Chekov is not along for this trip,” McCoy observed. “Pavel suffered enough on that godforsaken planet.”

“Agreed,” Kirk said. The stalwart Russian had volunteered to join them, but, on his doctor’s orders, he had stayed behind on Earth in order to fully recover from the injuries he’d sustained during their recent whale-rescuing excursion to the twentieth century. “I’m sure Scotty and Uhura will appreciate his help getting the new
Enterprise
shipshape.”

Plus,
Kirk knew,
Chekov has his own burden of guilt to deal with
.

The
Yakima
executed a last few elegant maneuvers; then its flight path leveled out once more. The floating debris outside the porthole gave way to open space. “We’re through the asteroid belt,” Sulu reported. “Ceti Alpha V dead ahead.”

Here we are,
Kirk thought. The prospect of setting foot on the planet that had driven Khan mad cast a melancholy pall over Kirk’s spirits.
All the more reason to see it for myself,
he resolved.
After all, I was the one who banished him here
.

“I hear what you’re saying, Jim,” McCoy said thoughtfully. He peered through his own window, watching warily for the first glimpse of their forbidding destination. “But, me, I’m inclined to blame that whole mess with the
Reliant
on nothing more complicated than Murphy’s Law.”

It was, Kirk admitted, as good an explanation as any.

Ceti Alpha V loomed into view. It was an ugly planet, its surface hidden beneath clouds of yellowish brown vapor that swirled madly in the planet’s turbulent atmosphere. How very different it looked from the lush, green world Kirk remembered.

We’re coming, Khan,
he thought.
Let’s find out what made you hate me so much…
.

The planet was just as desolate as Chekov had described it. High-velocity winds ravaged the surface, creating a perpetual sandstorm that severely impaired visibility. Filtered through the sulfurous atmosphere, the daylight had a sickly yellow tinge. Sand dunes rose and fell in all directions, along with stony outcroppings and rock formations worn smooth by the constant windblown grit. The fierce winds shrieked like a phaser on overload.

Kirk found it hard to imagine that Ceti Alpha V had ever been a Class-M planet. Even safely encased within the protection of his environmental suit, he could feel the force of the mighty winds blowing against him. Only his heavy-duty gravity books kept him standing, however precariously, amid the never-ending gale. He peered through the tinted visor of his helmet and was impressed, despite himself, that Khan had managed to survive at all in this grossly inhospitable environment.

“Good Lord, Jim!” McCoy exclaimed, his shocked voice emanating from the headset in Kirk’s helmet. A medkit was
slung over the doctor’s shoulder, in case of an accident. “How could anyone live in this hellhole, let alone for eighteen years!”

“Fifteen years, by Khan’s reckoning,” Spock observed calmly, “given Ceti Alpha V’s altered orbit.” The dire conditions failed to rattle his composure. “In any event, life-forms can be remarkably tenacious, Doctor. My own ancestors thrived in the scorched deserts of Vulcan for countless millennia.”

“Maybe so,” McCoy retorted, “but this place makes Vulcan’s Forge look like a tropical resort!”

Kirk’s friends stood only a few meters away, sheathed in their own protective suits. Thankfully, the suits came in different colors, which made it easier to distinguish between the two men in the middle of a sandstorm. The doctor’s suit was orange-and-black, while, appropriately, Spock’s suit was a more severe black-and-white. Kirk’s own suit was orange as well, posing a bit of a challenge for Spock.
Let’s hope his superior Vulcan senses are all they’re cracked up to be,
the captain thought.

The abrasive sand fought a (hopefully) losing battle against the enamel coating of the men’s environmental suits. Kirk heard his own breath echoing inside the confines of his bulky helmet, along with the (also hopefully) steady hum of the suit’s breathing apparatus. In theory, the atmosphere retained enough oxygen to support life, but Kirk had no desire to inhale a raging sandstorm. He took a cautious step forward, wary of the shifting landscape beneath his boots.

Static crackled in his ears and he heard a scratchy, distorted voice that he barely recognized as Sulu’s. “Everything okay down there, Captain?”

“We seem to have materialized with all our parts attached, Mr. Sulu,” Kirk answered, raising his voice in order
to hear himself over the ceaseless keening of the wind. “The scenery leaves something to be desired, though.”

“What’s that, Captain?” Another burst of static punctuated Sulu’s query. “Please repeat.”

The fierce sandstorms, along with electrical disturbances in the atmosphere, were wreaking havoc with transmissions to and from the
Yakima
. Kirk found himself yearning for Uhura’s singular knack with communications technology.

“We’re fine!” he shouted into his helmet’s built-in mike. “I’ll contact you again—shortly. Kirk out.”

Landing the cruiser in this tempest had never been an option, so Sulu had remained in orbit with the
Yakima
. Kirk wished he could have given Sulu an exact time to beam them back up to the cruiser, but, to be honest, Kirk wasn’t quite sure how long this somber expedition was going to last.
What exactly am I looking for?
he wondered.
Absolution?

Kirk raised a tricorder and scanned the horizon. According to the coordinates Chekov had provided, Khan’s former abode should be somewhere in this vicinity, although the ever-changing topography of the windswept desert made it difficult to get one’s bearings. He eyed the tricorder’s display panel attentively, watching for some indication of anything besides sand, rock, and haze.

Chekov and Terrell, he could not help recalling, had been looking for a particle of preanimate matter, only to run into Khan and his genetically engineered acolytes instead. It was a chilling thought.

At first, the instrument yielded no hint as to which way to go, but Kirk had not come this far just to give up. He fiddled with the sensor controls while methodically surveying every centimeter of the surrounding wasteland. His persistence paid off as the tricorder picked up faint readings of
artificial alloys somewhere beyond a rocky granite ridge southeast of where Kirk and his companions were now standing. Duritanium mostly, plus composites of cobalt and molybdenum.

“This way,” he said, gesturing toward the ridge. Leading them on, he trudged through the treacherous sand, walking directly into the rampaging wind. The smooth slope of the escarpment made for an arduous climb, and Kirk was breathing hard by the time he reached the top. Sweat soaked through the lightweight garments he wore beneath the environmental suit. Ceti Alpha V was supposed to have Earth-standard gravity, but the heavy ceramic-polymer shell of the suit felt like it weighed a ton.
I could use a bit of Khan’s genetically enhanced strength and stamina right about now,
he thought enviously.

He paused atop the ridge, taking a moment to catch his breath. Spock and McCoy joined him, the doctor lagging behind his hardier Vulcan colleague. “Well, I’ll be damned,” McCoy muttered as he peered past the hill they had just climbed.

The crest of the ridge looked out over a shallow depression, partially shielded from the storm by steep granite banks, like the eye of a tornado. Less blowing sand meant better visibility, so all three men were able to see, nestled at the base of the hollow, several half-buried large metal structures. The sharp right angles of the rectangular buildings stood in stark contrast to the sinuous curves of the wind-crafted dunes and rock formations.

Just as Chekov described,
Kirk thought. Unlike the unlucky Russian, he knew right away what he was looking at: a crude shelter fashioned of recycled cargo carriers, Khan’s dismal abode during his long years of exile on Ceti Alpha V.
The ugly, boxlike shacks were a far cry from the sumptuous palaces Khan had enjoyed during his glory days back on Earth.

Anxious to get a closer look, Kirk set out down the leeward side of the ridge. Haste warred with caution as he carefully descended the pebbly concave slope, being careful not to lose his balance. Despite his impatience, he had no desire to tumble down the ridge head over heels.

Behind him, McCoy and Spock made their way down with equal care, but that wasn’t enough to keep McCoy’s feet from sliding out from beneath him as he awkwardly negotiated a particularly treacherous incline in his gravity boots. He toppled backward, waving his arms in a futile attempt to regain his balance.

Fortunately, Spock was there to grab the front of McCoy’s environmental suit, steadying the wobbly physician. “Careful, Doctor,” he admonished McCoy. “As I have often noted, your impetuousness will be your undoing.”

“There was nothing impetuous about it!” the doctor protested, not about to let Spock get the last word. “I just had a little slip, you pointy-eared rapscallion.”

Even with the somber nature of today’s outing, Kirk could not help but smile at his friends’ familiar bickering. It was good to hear Bones banter with Spock again, especially considering that, not so long ago, Kirk had thought they had lost Spock forever.

Thanks to Khan and his insane lust for revenge,
Kirk recalled angrily.
Khan may not have succeeded in killing me, but, like the bad marksman I accused him of being, he damn well murdered enough people in the process!

Kirk still found it hard to accept that Spock had actually died, albeit temporarily, in this very sector less than a year
ago. He winced at the thought of the Vulcan’s agonizing final minutes in the
Enterprise
’s radiation-flooded engine room.
One more death laid at Khan’s doorstep,
he reflected,
and perhaps, indirectly, at my own
.

Reaching the bottom of the slope, he arrived within moments at Khan’s literal doorstep. The pitted exterior of the cargo bays had been stripped of paint by the wind and sand, exposing the dull gray metal underneath. Signs of corrosion mottled the pressed steel walls. Rusted metal blinds covered a single small window, concealing what lay within the makeshift shelter.

Kirk had seen shantytowns on desolate mining asteroids that looked more livable than this.

He waited for Spock and McCoy to catch up with him, then took hold of a closed steel door, roughly fashioned out of an old bulkhead. Decrepit hinges creaked loudly as he tugged open the door, which led to a cramped vestibule that must have served Khan and his followers as a sort of primitive airlock. A second door occupied the far end of the entry. Stuck in its frame, the inner door resisted Kirk’s efforts, and he had to ram it with his shoulder before it finally swung open.

Taking a deep breath, Kirk stepped inside the abandoned lair of Khan Noonien Singh.

The ramshackle interior of the shelter resembled a cross between an army barracks and a junkyard. The sturdy cargo carriers had been laid end to end, like old-fashioned boxcars, creating a chain of rectangular compartments. A phaser had clearly been used to cut doorways in the interior walls, connecting the chambers; the charred edges of the open portals were rough and uneven. Dark red paint still clung to the riveted steel sheets composing the walls,
floor, and ceiling. A stamped white notice listing a compartment’s loading capacity betrayed its origins.

In silence, the three men toured the linked compartments. Evidence of habitation, if only of a marginal nature, could be seen all around them: benches, cots, a charcoal stove. Pots and pans hung on the walls, along with coils of recycled cable and wiring. Food and fuel canisters littered the floor, which was only infrequently carpeted with ragged pieces of canvas. A run-down protein resequencer, which looked as though it was being held together by baling wire and tape, rested on a dusty countertop.

Kirk spotted a makeshift chess set, the pieces composed of leftover nuts and bolts. Like most everything else in this improvised habitat, including the very walls, the game had been constructed from cannibalized pieces of scrap. Kirk wasn’t sure whether to admire Khan’s ingenuity or to be appalled at the desperate straits that had obviously driven Khan and his people to make use of every stray fragment of material they possessed.

The men’s heavy bootsteps echoed in the silence of the deserted shelter. Kirk felt as though he were exploring a tomb.
No doubt,
he thought wryly,
Khan would appreciate being compared to an ancient pharaoh
.