Star Trek: The Original Series: From History's Shadow

by Dayton Ward

  Kirk already had opted not to correct the Tandaran as to the origin of the unusual Certoss message, deciding the presence of the Certoss operative aboard the Enterprise was not a detail Abrenn needed at this juncture. What bothered him more was the little alert going off in his head, warning him that the current situation, already replete with enough twists, turns, and mysteries, was about to get even more complicated by the addition of this new element.

  “Colonel,” Kirk said, trying to choose his words with care, “the Certoss people are pacifists. Are you trying to say that there’s a reason to believe otherwise?”

  “More than you can possibly imagine, Captain.”

  Sighing, Kirk replied, “Oh, I doubt that, sir.” He turned from the viewscreen, looking to Spock. “I think it’s time we brought Miss Lincoln into this.” He wondered what his enigmatic visitor would think of this latest development. “Something tells me she’s going to find this interesting.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Carbon Creek, Pennsylvania

  January 22, 1958

  The sounds from the television in the front room filtered through the open door leading from his bedroom as Mestral worked. From the kitchen, the aroma of the soup warming on the stove was a pleasant mix of vegetables and seasonings he had purchased earlier in the day. There also was fresh bread baking in the oven, and by his calculations Mestral knew it would be ready in just under five minutes. With slow, methodical precision, he was in the process of determining the most efficient means of placing his possessions into his suitcase. It was a simple exercise, though one in which he found a degree of enjoyment; not for the task itself, but for what its completion signified.

  Tomorrow, Mestral would be leaving the small town that had been his home for more than three months as time was measured here on Earth. The security and relative obscurity it offered had served its purpose, but for him to pursue his goal of learning more about this planet and the people inhabiting it, he needed to travel. He wanted to observe humans in all their myriad environments, living and working not only among the cities they had built and the technology they had created, but also within the society they had forged. Primitive as they might be, they possessed a potential unlike many comparable species Mestral had observed on previous covert surveillance to other worlds. Their drive to push forward, to learn what was not yet known and accomplish what had not yet been achieved, was matched almost by their emotions, which based on their history were every bit as volatile as anything faced by ancient Vulcans before the Time of Awakening. If humanity could learn to harness its passions, its ability to evolve into an advanced society was all but unlimited. That Mestral was here, now, and a possible witness to such growth was an unparalleled opportunity for any xenosociologist.

  And it begins tomorrow.

  The time he had spent living with his fellow Vulcans, T’Mir and Stron, and studying the humans around him had provided Mestral with a robust collection of anecdotal data, which he had recorded with painstaking care in his portable scanner as well as the handwritten notes he had produced. The scanner and three journals, now filled to capacity with his observations, opinions, and even suggestions on how best to continue monitoring this world and its promising denizens, already occupied precious space in his suitcase. If nothing else, they—along with those he would continue to write—would provide an historical record of his activities here; an explanation if not a justification for his decision to remain on Earth in order to conduct what he hoped would be a very long-term covert pre–first contact survey.

  Perhaps, one day, Mestral even would get to share his findings with colleagues, or they might be read by someone at the Vulcan Science Academy. He had no way to know when—or even if—his people and those of Earth might come together to establish formal relations, something he hoped would come to pass. Until that day came, and regardless of whether he played any meaningful role in such an event, he wanted to ensure that the time he would spend here, living in secret among the humans while at the same time endeavoring to better appreciate them and their potential, was not squandered. If his work one day provided a bridge of understanding between Earth and Vulcan, then Mestral would take great satisfaction from that accomplishment.

  He had elected to remain behind, rather than going with T’Mir and Stron, after the trio learned that the distress message they had sent prior to crashing on Earth had been intercepted by a Tellarite freighter. That vessel in turn had contacted Vulcan and relayed the relevant information, resulting in the dispatching of a rescue ship. Faced with this new information, Mestral had asked his companions to do the unthinkable: lie to their rescuers and tell them he had been killed in their ship’s crash along with their captain. T’Mir and Stron had been reluctant to honor this request, but eventually agreed, and Mestral had hidden in the depths of the coal mine as the rescue ship removed or destroyed all remnants of his wrecked vessel before ferrying T’Mir and Stron back to Vulcan.

  And what of Maggie?

  It was a question Mestral had asked himself several times in the days that had passed since T’Mir and Stron were recovered by the Vulcan survey ship. The time he had spent in the company of the Earth woman, Maggie, and her young son, Jack, had been an enlightening experience, but he could not ask her to accompany him in his travels, and he knew that staying here in Carbon Creek only increased the likelihood of her or someone else learning his true identity and nature. Indeed, he found it intriguing that Maggie herself had not yet stumbled upon the truth. Their friendship had continued to grow since their first conversation in the tavern she owned, the Pine Tree, to the point that Mestral could sense her desire to explore more intimate aspects of their relationship. Doing so was impossible, he knew, if he was to avoid revealing his alien heritage, and he had hastened his decision to leave town at the earliest opportunity.

  Perhaps one day, I can tell Maggie the truth.

  Music from the television in the front room told Mestral that the program was ending, a cue that also served to remind him that it was time to take his baking bread out of the oven. Placing the shirt he had been folding on the bed next to the suitcase, he turned and made his way from the bedroom. The pleasing odor of the bread was a welcome complement to the soup, which he also calculated as being near ready for consumption. He crossed the main room toward the kitchen to turn off the stove and move the soup pot from the hot burner.

  Behind him, one of the wooden floorboards creaked, but before Mestral could turn, something slammed into the back of his skull.

  • • •

  Though not unmanageable, the pain still was quite evident.

  Releasing an involuntary grunt as consciousness returned, Mestral opened his eyes only to confront a hazy, multicolored blur. A steady pulsing at the rear of his head reminded him of the impact it had sustained, but he also felt a dull ache along his left temple. When he tried to blink, he realized that his left eyelid felt as though something had stuck to it. He moved to touch his face and discovered he could not move his arms, though he was able to flex his fingers. Testing his legs told him that those extremities also had been bound to the chair in which he was sitting. As his vision cleared, he was able to make out the apartment’s familiar surroundings. He was facing the kitchen, and the air was filled with the acrid stench of something burning. The baking pan from the oven lay atop one counter, upon which sat a scorched, oval-shaped mass.

  The bread, he thought. A pity.

  “You’re awake,” a voice said from behind him, and Mestral jerked his head around, trying to see the speaker. “Excellent. For a time, I was worried I might have injured you too severely.”

  Verifying that his arms were securely fastened to what he now understood to be one of the wooden dining chairs from the kitchen’s small dining table, Mestral again turned his head toward the voice. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I want to know who you are,” the intruder replied, after which Mestral heard slow footsteps across the apartment’s wooden floor, and he waited until a fi
gure stepped into his field of view. Though his eyes still were blurry, he discerned that his captor was a human male—or, humanoid, at least. He was dressed in nondescript denim pants and a dark red shirt, over which he wore a brown leather jacket. An olive-drab satchel that Mestral recognized as being of a type used by military forces was slung across his body from his left shoulder. His dark hair was short, in a manner similar to styles Mestral had seen favored by human male military members. “Who you are, and why you’re here. I suspect the answers to those queries will occupy us for quite some time.”

  His throat dry, Mestral tried to swallow but found the effort difficult. “I do not understand why you are interested in me.” Blinking again seemed to help his vision, as the apartment furnishings now were coming into better focus. He looked down to see that he had been tied to the chair with what looked to be sections of the cotton rope T’Mir had used for stringing up clothes to dry behind the apartment. Though not possessing any real tensile strength, it still was enough to immobilize him. Given time, Mestral believed he could loosen the rope’s knots enough to free himself. “Do I know you?”

  “No,” the man answered. “As for my interest in you, it begins with the fact that you’re a Vulcan.”

  Despite a lifetime spent learning and improving upon how to control emotional responses of any sort, Mestral’s reaction to that simple statement betrayed him as he stiffened in his chair, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on his captor. Seeing no logic or gain to be made by lying, he asked, “How do you know that?”

  The man pointed to him. “Your ears, of course, but also that blood on your face. I apologize for that, as it was an unfortunate result of you hitting your head on the counter when you fell.”

  “After you struck me,” Mestral added.

  His captor nodded. “Yes. Again, my apologies, for that and also for your restraints. I hope you’ll understand my need to mitigate unnecessary risks.”

  “The fact that you know I am a Vulcan suggests that you have encountered my people before,” Mestral said. “How is that possible? How did you find me?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not from around here,” the man replied. Crossing the kitchen to the dining table, he retrieved another of the chairs and pulled it across the floor until it was positioned nearly two meters in front of Mestral. “Which brings me back to one of my original questions: Why are you here? I assume it’s for some sort of cultural observation.”

  Endeavoring to hide the fact that he was continuing to test the ropes holding him to the chair, Mestral replied, “I was a member of a survey vessel. Our planet has been monitoring Earth for some time, studying your technological advances and their effects on the planet’s society. You are just now making your first tentative forays into space, and we are interested in tracking your progress. We represent no threat to you.”

  The stranger laughed. After a moment, he said, “Sorry, but you’ve made an understandable yet still incorrect assumption. I’m not human. My name is Jaecz, and my world is called Certoss Ajahlan, a planet even more distant from Earth than your own.”

  “I am unfamiliar with that planet.”

  “That does not surprise me,” Jaecz replied. “From what I know, humans are not yet aware of Vulcans at this time. Indeed, they have no real knowledge of any extraterrestrial species save for a handful of scattered encounters, the details of which largely are kept secret from the rest of the public. You being here, among them, presents a tremendous risk of discovery.”

  “Our ship crashed,” Mestral said. “Our captain was killed, and the three of us who survived were forced to approach this settlement in order to find food and shelter. For a time, we were unsure if our distress signal had even been received. It had, but rescue did not arrive until after we already had been living here in secret for more than three months.”

  Frowning, Jaecz leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms atop his thighs as he clasped his hands. “Three months? I detected a ship in this area just three days ago. That was the rescue ship?”

  “Yes,” Mestral replied. “How were you able to detect it?” He felt the rope around his left wrist slacken. It was not much, but it was a start.

  “Never mind that,” Jaecz said, rising from the chair. “Where is this ship now?”

  “On its way back to Vulcan, I presume.” The rope securing his right arm also had loosened. Though he was able to disguise these movements by appearing to adjust his position on the chair in search of greater comfort, he could do nothing to test the restraints around his ankles.

  Jaecz frowned, his eyes narrowing. “You didn’t go with your friends?”

  “No,” Mestral said. “I wished to remain here in order to continue my study of human culture.”

  “The humans will throw you in a cage if they find you,” the Certoss countered. “They’re not too keen on visitors from other worlds lurking among them. Trust me on this.” He paused, studying his captive. “Do you have means of communicating with that ship of yours?”

  Mestral shook his head. “I do not. My companions took our communications equipment with them, to ensure it was not discovered by the humans, just as the rescue team disposed of the remains of our own vessel.”

  “Are you expecting me to believe that you have no means of contacting that ship, or your home planet?”

  “If you know my people as you claim to,” Mestral replied, “then you know that we do not engage in deceit.”

  For the first time, the Certoss laughed. “Spare me that old myth. Your people are more than capable of lying when it suits you. It’s probably a consequence of your exposure to humans, who lie without effort about even the most inane things. You certainly had no problem engaging in subterfuge with the Andorians, or even my people.”

  “As I told you,” Mestral said, “I am unfamiliar with your civilization.” He almost was able to free his right hand.

  Jaecz now was pacing back and forth across Mestral’s field of vision. “Yes, yes. I know.” He released a small laugh, though his attention seemed more on the floor in front of him than on his prisoner. “The funny thing is that you’re telling the truth, and yet you’re still so completely wrong. Vulcans and humans are staunch allies, something they’ll demonstrate all too well when they come after my people.”

  What did he mean? To Mestral, it seemed as though the Certoss was giving voice to delusion. “Vulcans are a peaceful society. We do not attack others, and we use violence and arms as last measures of defense.”

  “Again, so very wrong,” Jaecz said, before stopping his pacing in abrupt fashion and crossing the floor toward Mestral. “I’ve grown tired of these useless pleasantries, Vulcan, just as I long ago grew weary of living on this worthless hunk of rock and tolerating the parasitic, primitive vermin who call it home. I want to leave this place, and you seem to be my best hope of doing that. Tell me how to contact your ship, or I will kill you.”

  Hoping to delay any such action against him for a few more seconds, Mestral looked up at his captor while keeping his expression passive. “If you kill me, you will only hamper your own efforts.”

  “So you can communicate off-world,” Jaecz snapped, reaching forward to grasp Mestral’s jaw in his left hand. “Tell me.”

  Jerking his right arm upward, Mestral felt the cloth rope give way and he followed through with the motion, throwing as much strength as possible into striking his captor’s arm and breaking the grip on his jaw. Jaecz’s eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected move and he stumbled back. Reaching across his body, Mestral freed his left hand just as the Certoss stepped forward. He grasped his opponent’s arm as it came at him and pulled Jaecz off balance, sending him crashing to the floor behind and to Mestral’s right. Already hearing his captor lumbering to his feet, the Vulcan pulled at the rope holding his ankles to the chair, managing to free only the left leg before footsteps behind him made him abandon the effort. Then Jaecz was swinging down at him and Mestral threw his body left, sending him and the chair tilting toward the floo
r.

  He fell heavily, his left ankle caught beneath the chair as it struck the floorboards, and he winced in momentary pain from the shock. The rope on his right leg was loosening, but it was not enough to pull himself free. Instead, he rolled toward the kitchen before turning onto his stomach and used his hands to push himself from the floor. He just managed to get himself to an awkward standing position as Jaecz approached, the chair lying to one side while still tied to his right leg and pain shooting through his left ankle. With no other weapon available and hobbled by the chair, Mestral did the only thing allowed by his current predicament and kicked out with his right leg.

  The chair jerked upward, its back catching Jaecz under his chin and snapping back his head. Spinning as he fell, the Certoss dropped face-first with a heavy thud to the wooden floor. He lay unmoving as Mestral freed his leg, but it only was when he redirected his full attention to the downed Certoss that he realized his assailant’s appearance had changed.

  Instead of the dark-haired human who had confronted him, Mestral now saw a humanoid alien wearing a black, form-fitting jumpsuit. All that remained of its human appearance was the canvas satchel. Its skin was a shade of copper rather than an ordinary human’s pale complexion, and there was no visible hair on its head. Instead of ears, two small openings on either side of the alien’s head suggested auditory canals. Mestral stepped closer and, after determining that the Certoss was not faking unconsciousness, rolled the alien onto its back. Its eyes were closed, and Mestral saw the pair of small holes in the center of its face, just above its slack, open mouth.

  “Intriguing,” Mestral said, to no one. He noted the strange harness the alien wore across its chest, and the sets of controls embedded into it. Was it this device that allowed the Certoss to assume human form? It seemed to Mestral a logical deduction. Jaecz had fallen forward during the brief struggle, so had his impact with the floor triggered whatever control oversaw the device’s activation? There was no time to answer any of the numerous questions presented by this mysterious alien.