by Dayton Ward
“Do you require a pain suppressant?” Gejalik asked. Though several of the oft-used compounds in their medical kit had long ago been exhausted, she and her companions had been able to fashion acceptable substitutes using ingredients found in ample supply here on Earth.
“The pain is negligible,” Adlar replied, flexing his arm as though to test the treatment he had performed on his wound. “I expect that I shall be fully recovered within a day.” When he spoke, his voice lacked much of the authority and confidence he normally exhibited. That was understandable, given recent events.
“Excellent,” Gejalik said, nodding in approval, and relief. With the loss they already had suffered, she was grateful Adlar had not been more seriously injured. “I know you and Etlun were intimate. I am saddened by her passing.”
Saying nothing for a moment, Adlar merely stood in the middle of the room, looking at the dingy, stained carpet. When he returned his gaze to hers, Gejalik saw the sadness in his eyes.
“It was not our intention to bond,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet. “Not in the beginning, and not even after we had been here for some time. We both knew it was improper and that it violated conduct protocols, but . . .” His words faded, though Gejalik suspected she knew what he might say next.
“Such things rarely are bound by rules and protocol. It was the same with Jaecz and I, and even Etlun, for a time.”
Separated not only by distance but also by time from everything and everyone for which they cared, it was natural that the four of them turned to each other in order to satisfy such needs. Even Adlar, the group’s leader, was not immune to such failings, if indeed one considered compassion and love as a weakness. Gejalik did not, though she recognized the detriment such distractions could have during any covert or dangerous mission.
Adlar, his mood still somber, seemed intent on compartmentalizing his personal feelings for Etlun, at least until a less pressing moment presented itself. Ever the dependable leader, he drew a deep breath, his expression of sorrow seeming to vanish as he moved to sit on the edge of the room’s lone bed.
“Etlun’s loss is tragic, of course,” he said, but despite the straightforward observation, Gejalik still perceived a trace of grief in his voice. “Equally unfortunate, however, is the loss of the ship. That, coupled with the certainty that they will study Etlun’s body, means they now know of our presence here on Earth, and they will be taking steps to address that.”
“They have suspected the existence of beings from other worlds for some time,” Gejalik countered. “Such beliefs have informed their culture, particularly their various entertainment mediums.” She had studied several examples of this fascination with life from other planets, finding particular amusement in the bizarre human obsession of extraterrestrials using their superior technology to invade Earth. In a manner typical of this species, they assumed with no small amount of arrogance that a truly advanced civilization would find anything of interest here. While history—assuming it played out in accordance with what she and the others had been told prior to undertaking their mission—ultimately would record this planet’s impact on interstellar affairs in the centuries to come, its current technological and sociological status rendered it rather insignificant. Fate and circumstance had seen to it that the Earth of this time frame had been made part of a larger conflict about which it knew nothing, and perhaps even was responsible for the threat the planet one day would represent.
So, perhaps the childish fiction stories are not so wrong, after all? This, to Gejalik, also was amusing.
“While they may be aware of aliens among their kind,” she continued, “they know nothing about us or our mission, and they will learn little from Etlun.” She disliked the callousness of her statement, but it was a prudent observation.
Nodding, Adlar said, “I know. At least if we had managed to make use of the ship, her death might have more meaning.”
They had been surprised to discover that a small cadre of human military and civilian scientists had been working with the craft in the first place, which Etlun determined was reconstructed from the remains of a vessel that—through no small feat of skill and good fortune—had been brought down by Air Force fighter planes. Despite their best efforts, Etlun and Adlar had been unable to decipher any clues as to the ship’s point of origin, though they had rationalized that it must have been dispatched from a larger vessel. That much was evident from its propulsion system as well as its relative lack of consumables and other long-term subsistence equipment.
Adlar had first detected its presence on Earth using the limited scanning devices at their disposal, and he activated a communications signal he believed the ship capable of receiving while being well beyond the ability of current human technology to detect. As he had hoped, the vessel intercepted the signal and even dispatched a response, which had allowed Adlar to pinpoint its location in Yuma, Arizona. The region’s relatively isolated terrain coupled with the restricted nature of a military installation had allowed the humans in possession of the craft the freedom to conduct experiments on the ship while reducing the chance of any unwanted attention.
Upon arriving in Yuma, the Certoss agents had wasted little time disposing of the humans guarding the craft in the secluded storage facility, after which they came to understand at least some of what the humans were attempting. It was obvious that a reverse engineering effort had taken place, with the Earth scientists working toward an experimental flight with a human at the ship’s controls. Accessing the vessel’s compact onboard computer, Adlar had learned that the ship was an unmanned survey vessel tasked with simple passive reconnaissance, and upon the completion of its automated mission would follow its programming and signal for further instructions. Another, larger ship was waiting somewhere in deep space to receive that signal, all while continuing with its own survey tasks at another, unknown destination.
It was Adlar’s idea to use the craft to somehow make direct contact with its owner, a plan requiring modifications to the ship in order for it to carry a passenger including the installation of a life support system; something the humans had not yet done. Much of the computerized survey and recording equipment taking up space in the cockpit area had been removed and a seat installed for a pilot—a human pilot. Adlar and Etlun had planned to fashion a serviceable environmental control system to support a lone occupant, using whatever materials they could find on the army base without attracting attention. After a short test flight to verify the operational status of the new and modified onboard systems, it had been their intention to once more try contacting their fellow operative, Jaecz, before deciding which of them would make the attempt at a rendezvous with the other alien vessel, after which it was hoped their benefactors might help them make contact with Certoss Ajahlan. All of that careful planning had come undone at the hands of the human soldiers who found them at the military base.
“The humans now have proof of what they have always suspected,” Gejalik said, “that they are not alone in the universe, and that representatives of several different civilizations have visited their world. Their anxiety over this revelation surely will motivate their desire to learn more, and this may well prove advantageous to us.”
Adlar said nothing for a moment, rising from the bed and moving to the small sink at the back of the room, positioned against the rear wall next to the bathroom door. Gejalik watched him run water from the faucet, wetting his hands before pressing them to his face, then repeating the action to the top of his head.
“We know that the American military has pursued investigations of extraterrestrial activity, and Jaecz has reported that similar efforts are under way in other countries around the world. If we could infiltrate that program, it would give us insight into their progress.” He turned from the sink and leaned against the vanity. “I doubt that anything they currently know could possibly lead them to us, and neither can they comprehend why we are here. Still, it would be wise to confirm my suspicions.”
“Agr
eed,” Gejalik replied. They already had been infiltrating the American military establishment almost since their arrival, taking on numerous guises and identities in their ongoing quest to acquire ever more information. “It’s even possible that more thought and effort will be channeled toward responding to a perceived extraterrestrial threat by using nuclear weapons.”
In the wake of the Second World War, a new emphasis now was on the proliferation of such weapons even as other global powers worked toward the same goals. Maintaining close ties to the military and the immense industrial infrastructure that had been created to support it was the best means of keeping apprised of rapid technological advancement. In just the handful of years since the United States’s deployment of two atomic devices against its lone remaining enemy, Japan, to bring about the end of that conflict, the Soviet Union and Great Britain also had conducted successful tests of such weapons. Meanwhile, the political strain between the United States and Russia had only increased now that America’s principal rival had become a “nuclear power.” It was this heightening tension, Gejalik knew, that likely would provide their most promising leads toward accomplishing their mission.
“Any weapons the humans might bring to bear would be of little use,” Adlar said, his gaze not on her but instead on the dingy linoleum tile covering the floor space near the sink. “They likely would do more harm to their own planet, rather than having any detrimental effect on an attacking force from space. Such a foolhardy tactic would only help the aggressors.”
Gejalik considered this. “It would render large portions of the planet uninhabitable. Hardly a satisfactory conclusion, for either side. Then again, isn’t this not at all dissimilar to the result we’re trying to bring about?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Adlar said. “While I would like to think we might find a means of accomplishing our mission that did not involve genocide, manipulating events so that Earth’s major factions unleash their own destruction upon themselves is still the course of action with the greatest chance of success.”
It was not the first time he had expressed such thoughts, of course. Though Gejalik knew him to be a steadfast soldier, Adlar did possess a contemplative side that often had put him at odds with his superiors who tended to see things in much more stark, easily discernible lines of thought. Gejalik often had wondered if their extended exile here on Earth might be affecting Adlar’s perspective with respect to their goals, and whether he could be persuaded to abandon the mission. There was a time when she believed such a notion to be ludicrous, but now? She found it difficult to remain so confident, and she even wondered if Etlun’s death could somehow be playing into whatever doubts he might be harboring.
“You disapprove of our mission?” she asked, deciding a forthright query was warranted.
Sighing, Adlar shook his head. “Such actions do not require my approval in order to proceed; merely my obedience.”
“That does not answer my question,” Gejalik pressed.
Adlar pushed himself from the vanity, stepping back into the main part of the room. “Are you doubting my loyalty?”
“No,” Gejalik replied. “Merely your resolve.” Before Adlar could respond, she held up her hand. “It’s not an unreasonable concern, given everything we have experienced during our time here. After all, our experiences have shown us that this planet and its people have much to offer. Perhaps, if history had unfolded in different fashion, our two worlds might be allies.”
“And that is precisely what has consumed my thoughts,” Adlar said. “The question was always there, but the longer we remain here, the more I deliberate it. Perhaps the wise course of action is to do nothing, and allow history to unfold without our interference?” When Gejalik said nothing, he paused, scowling as though he was studying her expression. “Surely you must have considered this?”
“Of course, I have,” Gejalik snapped, turning from him and returning her attention to the slight opening between the curtains. “But our situation has not changed. Our orders are clear: Proceed as previously directed.”
Releasing an audible grunt of irritation, Adlar once more sat on the bed, pounding his fist into the mattress.
“I would never willfully disobey an order I thought to be just, but I find it impossible to dismiss the idea that our previous orders might no longer be valid. We could be working to stop a threat that no longer exists, or never existed, or never will exist.” He stopped, and Gejalik watched his expression soften. “I think I should have paid greater attention during those temporal theory classes they forced upon us as part of our training.”
His unexpected change in tone made her laugh, something she could not remember doing for some time.
“I have contemplated similar questions,” she said after a moment, “and I agree that the issue might well be far more complicated than either you or I can even imagine. However, until we know the answers, you and I both know we have one course of action.”
Nodding, Adlar reached up to rub the small indentation between his eyes and above his nasal passages.
“I find myself hoping that the humans will simply find a way to do our work for us.”
“That is not an outlandish possibility,” Gejalik replied, “particularly when considering current events.”
The conflict being waged in Korea was the first real test of the political strain between the United States and the Soviet Union, with the former’s government having already committed to the use of atomic weapons if the president felt such measures were warranted. Despite the looming specter of unleashing such devastating weaponry, a growing segment of the population seemed to have grown tired of war. It was a sentiment Gejalik could appreciate, even though she knew that Earth would endure its share of armed conflict for many years to come. Weapons would continue to be developed and built, armies would train, and governments would posture, each looking for some advantage or leverage to use over the others.
It was here, she knew, that their greatest opportunity to further their own goals was to be found.
Releasing another tired sigh, Adlar reclined on the bed. His hands clasped atop his chest, he stared up at the room’s low ceiling. When he said nothing for several moments, Gejalik moved from the window to stand next to him.
“Are you unwell?” she asked.
Adlar’s gaze did not move from the ceiling. “I am thinking of Etlun.”
“I understand,” Gejalik said, also feeling the loss of their friend and comrade. Though a lifetime of service had taught her the harsh realities of death and sacrifice, she could not help feeling as though the world around her and Adlar had just become larger and more foreboding. Anxiety, itself an uncommon sensation, gripped her. “Do you wish to be left to your solitude?”
Though it took him a moment to answer, when Adlar did reply his voice was low and quiet as he extended one hand to her. “No.”
It was with great relief that Gejalik moved to lie next to him, feeling his warmth against hers and the comfort and security—real or imagined—their closeness offered.
NINE
U.S.S. Enterprise
Earth Year 2268
The coffee was terrible.
Frowning, Kirk examined the dark brown liquid in his cup, eyeing it with suspicion and contempt. “I think I need to have a word with Mister Scott,” he said, placing the cup on the briefing room table and pushing it out of reach.
“Trouble, Jim?” McCoy asked from where he sat across the table from Kirk. A telltale hint of amusement played at the corners of the doctor’s mouth.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve been poisoned with stuff that tasted better.” Kirk glanced to the bank of food slots installed in the briefing room’s rear bulkhead, not recalling any notes about the food processors in the daily status and maintenance reports he reviewed at the beginning of his duty shift. Sighing, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You know, it’d be nice if the food processors were the most difficult thing we had to deal with today.”
“And
when do we ever have that kind of luck?” McCoy asked, making a point to pick up his own cup of coffee and drink from it. “Besides, this isn’t that bad. Maybe you’ve just had too much today.”
Kirk nodded. “I won’t argue that, but it’s the only thing that makes writing those reports bearable.”
Since the abrupt arrival of the Enterprise’s pair of unexpected guests along with the Certoss vessel, he had spent a good deal of time composing his official statements for Starfleet Command, all while Spock, McCoy, and Scott endeavored to provide him with information to supplement his official detailing of the odd events as they had transpired.
“I can’t wait to hear what they say about this report,” McCoy said, taking another sip of his coffee. “It’s always fun to see their reactions whenever we run into something like this.”
Kirk chuckled. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to describe some of the things we’ve encountered? Not just the details of the events themselves, but also what I was thinking and feeling at the time. When I go back and look at some of those reports, even I have a hard time believing some of those things really happened.”
There were occasions where the details of previous missions still sounded ridiculous, and he worried that others, while reading his reports and log entries back at headquarters or even in some Academy class decades from now, would consider certain accounts to be far-fetched if not outright fabrications. Therefore, he time and again found himself struggling to compose his official logs and reports in a manner he hoped would convey with absolute conviction and with all seriousness that the events as recounted did indeed happen.
McCoy offered him one of his sly, sideways grins. “Look at it this way, Jim: If commanding a starship doesn’t work out, you’ve got plenty of material to write a book or three.” He paused, and the smile widened. “Though, you may have to work on the whole believability thing.”
“You’re right,” Kirk said, returning the grin before retrieving his coffee cup and rising from his chair. As he crossed the room toward the row of food slots, he glanced over his shoulder. “Nobody would believe any self-respecting captain of a starship would ever put up with a chief medical officer like you.”