He had always been a man who seized his moments without remorse, ruthlessly when necessary, in order to achieve his objectives; he had studied human nature well over the years, and used his knowledge of individual and group patterns of behavior and weaknesses to formulate battle plans, insuring victory in his conquests, with deadly accuracy. But never had he factored in the random element of luck, being firm in his unshakable belief that he forged his own fortunes by wit and patience and force of his indomitable will alone.
Yet despite his certainty that "lucky" providence was an illusion which only lesser men could afford to place any store by, circumstances occasionally delivered exactly what he needed for his designs to succeed. Such seemed to be the case when the trim little hovercraft had slowed, then stopped at the side of the lonely desert highway, only a few meters away from him and the antique Mustang he had stolen following his escape from Marcus's secret facility on the outskirts of San Francisco. When a slim, dark-haired woman emerged from the vehicle, Khan had quickly calculated his chances of success—made bleak by the failure of the Mustang-had increased exponentially.
She had approached him with a surprising show of confidence, regarding him casually from behind her sunglasses, but her posture and movements betrayed a hidden caution. Smart enough to proceed with care, he surmised—for she left a safe distance between them as she addressed him-but surely she was curious as well, and even compassionate enough to offer aid in a situation that might catch her vulnerable. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, fate could be surprisingly kind after all—and now, when he needed it the most.
Charm would be his method to begin with, and as he read her further, he would adjust his tactics to obtain what he needed. Khan resolved to do his best not to harm her, although he realized that policy would be mitigated should she fail to cooperate.
And so he advanced her way, offering her his hand to shake, while wondering if that custom had become archaic in this time so far removed from his own. Her flesh was warm, smooth, soft—reminding him how little softness he had witnessed since he'd been awakened from his centuries long sleep. Marcus had isolated him from all but those sent to interrogate him; hard, cold-blooded men who performed their chores perfunctorily-until the time for the beatings came. They seemed to grimly relish those inevitable duties. Powerless to defend himself, Khan had striven to suffer those indignations silently, hoping to deprive the brutes of at least some of their sick satisfaction. In the end, though, if he didn't pass out, he eventually cried out from the pain—but he had never begged for mercy.
There were doctors too—well, medical men of sorts—to see to his broken bones and internal injuries, the nasty-looking welts, the horrible bruising, inflicted upon him. Those men would exclaim their astonishment at his ability withstand the relentlessly brutal punishment and at his astoundingly rapid healing, clearly unaware of his genetic makeup. Those doctors had surely turned their backs upon the Hippocratic Oath, be it from loyalty to Admiral Marcus and his cause, from lust for knowledge or power, or from one of the oldest persuasions in the world—greed. Whatever their reasons, they were not the least on his list of those from whom he would exact his vengeance should the opportunity ever arise.
Ah, but she was lovely, this Seraphina, this woman of the 23rd century; the first that he had seen up close and spoken to. Khan didn't bother to wonder if she fit the standard of beauty of this new world, for her poise and casual grace seemed timeless—and to his mind, distinctly American. Her lustrous fall of hair was nearly as dark as his own, and in defiance of her youthful appearance, was threaded through with generous streaks of silver that glistened in the sunlight. Artifice? He thought not; and unless feminine vanity had changed in the past three hundred years, it came naturally and she wore it proudly, emblematic of a nature that did not readily bow to social conventions.
Her voice was pleasant, merry—as though the world generally amused her—which made him smile despite his serious need; and when he managed to set her off kilter, it took on a surprised breathlessness that most men (of his time, anyway) would find appealing.
In short, Khan liked her immediately—an unfortunate complication that he could not allow to stand in the way of achieving his goals.
Once near enough to read her more subtle signals, he recognized that she was attracted to him; pupil dilation, rapid respiration, increased heart rate evidenced in the barely visible pulse in her neck (his eyes were far keener than an ordinary man's, her skin thin and free of subcutaneous fat), a slight blush in her cheeks which could not be explained away as a flush from the desert heat. Yes, he might take those things for heightened wariness or distress—but Seraphina struck him as rather fearless (until he gave her cause otherwise). A supremely Alpha male, Khan was well aware of the effect his physical presence could have upon non-Augmented females. It was as natural to him as the flow of rivers inexorably to the sea.
All the better, he had mused, to bend her to his will. Testing that thought, Khan had leaned into her precious, personal space, to see just what she would do; she had been surprised when he crossed that unspoken barrier, but had not flinched or given way. He liked that bit of quiet steel in her nature as well.
Taking her measure up close, Khan had also noted a familiar trace of scent; one he could not quite name, but which reminded him strongly of his youth. Such a potential distraction from his course could not be allowed, no matter how curious-but he promised himself to revisit it later to answer the unexpected questions it raised at the back of his mind.
Seraphina had been quicker to realize his cover story was a sham, resulting in him having to be rougher with her than he had planned. The heat overtook her quickly after that—another complication—and as much as Khan chafed at the delay, there was no question: he could not leave an innocent abandoned in dire such conditions. Instead, he carried her to safety, to wait and watch over her, mulling over his options.
And that memorable scent. Honey and jasmine. Her hair was rich with it, and the closer he was to the source, the more it begged to be acknowledged. It spoke to him of his days on the cusp of manhood; those long-past days when he had eagerly soaked up all the knowledge offered him by the many teachers and scientists, and the masters of combat and weaponry employed by his father to see to his education-and that of the dozens of other Augments who lived a protected life in their Madhya Pradesh compound. His "father", not father, but the chief architect of a new breed of men, who oversaw every aspect of the Augments lives, and had singled Noonien Singh out, at the age of seven, as the brightest, strongest, and most resilient of his group. Once he had proven his worth, Noonien had been dubbed "the Khan"—the one who would lead the revolution to a brighter future for mankind. He had defined himself by that appellation for more than half his life, and even in the bitter wake of the failed Eugenics Wars, he bore it with unbroken pride.
In the cool, dark of the hovercraft, he had watched as Seraphina came back to consciousness, shunting aside such indulgent and useless memories and, pondering instead, how best he could use her to achieve his ends, hoping he could keep his promise not to cause her harm. Not only because she seemed both brave and kind—but also for that lingering perfume of honey and jasmine, which had unexpectedly left an uncharacteristic softness in his chest.
Then, debating with her as they drove, deciding what his—what their—next step should be, his mind was hard at work examining the rudimentary plan that he had formed while she lay unconscious. As she focused on the road ahead, he studied her in profile, appreciative of the fascinating play of light upon her features, Khan's mouth went dry when the answer to the niggling question came to him at last. Honey…Jasmine…Inaaya.
(to be continued)