The Treachery of Tratos

[Tachyon 0]

“Treachery of Tratos”

July 9, 2156

Dr. Tratos

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The rain came down in torrents, and the stars were blotted out by the ominous black clouds that hung low over the city. Tratos stood beneath the overhang of the building, cursing and shivering and wondering why shady figures always chose bad weather in which to meet.

 

As usual, they approached silently and spooked him out of his wits. A single human male, as featureless as the generic street on which they stood, stopped near Tratos. He did not look at the doctor, instead choosing to scan the street. Then he spoke.

 

“Doctor,” he said, his voice a low whisper that the shrieks and rumbles of the storm nearly obliterated. “You have been busy. I trust that you did not forget our little . . . arrangement?”

 

Tratos sniffled. “Of course not. I am yours—that's the deal.”

 

“Good. I never did like loose ends, and this is no exception. I have been looking into your work, and that of your friends—Doctors Grey and McCellan? Very interesting. I see that you have been dabbling in genetics again, Dr. Tratos. As I recall, that didn't end well the first time.”

 

Tratos shivered. The two men always gave him the creeps—he knew that they worked for some sort of secret organisation, something that an ordinary citizen would never know about. But he had seen demonstrations of their power and their influence, and knew that they would stop at nothing to fulfil their aims.

 

The doctor said, “It isn't that simple.”

 

“Doctor, in my line of work, nothing is simple. So spare me the pedantic chatter and let's get on with this. You and your associates have gone too far. You cannot continue your research—we will not let you continue your research.”

 

“But a woman's life is at stake! I—”

 

The man raised his voice—not in anger, but to emphasis his next words. “We had a deal, doctor! We got you out of jail, and in return you carried out certain tasks for us. Are you saying that you would like to back out of that deal now?”

 

The lump in Tratos' throat grew larger and more uncomfortable. “Backing out”, he knew, would not be something from which he escaped with his life. The doctor was in between a rock and a hard place. He winced, because he knew what was coming next.

 

The man who represented the minority who preserved the fragile hopes of a species stared out into the storm and saw not a downpour but a gathering front. He saw it as his duty to contain this situation before it got further out of hand. “With Enterprise's Augment debacle, the difficulties in the Klingon Empire, and now this, my superiors are unsettlingly reminded of the Eugenics War. I don't need to remind you, Doctor, how that one nearly ended.”

 

Tratos' voice was a desperate whimper. “Please . . . don't.”

 

“It's too late for pleases and don'ts, Doctor Tratos. You should have thought of that a long time ago. But a man can no more change than his species can,” said the man. “The girl dies.”

 

His face was passive. “The girl dies, or you do.”