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

by Dayton Ward

  There is one way, he reminded himself.

  How long had it been since his last mind meld? Since well before setting out on the expedition that had brought him to Earth. Even on Vulcan, such opportunities were rare. After discovering his natural telepathic aptitude at a young age, Mestral’s mother had instructed him how to utilize the technique in order to avoid harming another meld participant. She also taught him the necessity of keeping private his abilities, owing to Vulcan societal mores with respect toward those who chose to merge thoughts. While his mother and others with whom Mestral had interacted from an early age had shown him the ritual was something to be respected rather than shunned, it was viewed as aberrant behavior by the majority of Vulcans. Mestral always had found such attitudes illogical, but no more so than after his time spent on Earth. Humans possessed their own variety of irrational prejudices and hatreds, to be sure, often stemming from a fear of things not yet understood, or otherwise perceived as some threat to their well-being. At least here, such behavior could be explained if not justified, owing to an emotional and cultural immaturity that Mestral believed would correct itself over time. His own people, given the struggles their ancestors had overcome and the measures they had taken to rescue themselves from oblivion, had no such defense.

  It was because of his mother’s teachings and his own experiences that Mestral now found himself conflicted as he considered the unconscious Certoss before him. The prospect of a nonconsensual mind meld might be an expedient method of obtaining at least some information, but it went against everything he had learned and come to respect.

  Given the current circumstances, I see no other choice.

  Kneeling next to Jaecz, he ignored his reluctance and personal distaste and placed his fingers in as close to the proper position as he was able, given Certoss physiology. After a moment, he sensed the first tendrils of connection as he made mental contact with the unconscious alien.

  “My mind to your mind,” he whispered. “My thoughts to your thoughts.” He did not yet know if the Certoss possessed telepathic capabilities, or, if so, whether such abilities were superior to his own. It therefore was a delicate balance of melding with Jaecz while at the same time maintaining his own mental shields against possible assault. Then, full contact was made, and Mestral braced himself as a torrent of thoughts, memories, and emotions rushed at him.

  Mission . . . Earth . . . humans . . . war. Gejalik . . . Adlar. History . . . Na’khul. Etlun dead. Humans know. Mission . . . hide . . . escape. Time . . . future . . . war. Ship . . . Pennsylvania. Contact . . . mission . . . need information . . . call for assistance. Destroy. Mission. War. Earth. Destroy. Mission.

  Jaecz’s eyes opened.

  The jolt of his abrupt awakening was such that Mestral yanked back his hand, severing the mental connection just as the Certoss pushed himself from the floor. His clumsy movements were enough to demonstrate that he still was hampered by the previous skirmish, but that did not stop him from regaining his feet. He blinked several times in rapid succession as he moved away from Mestral, raising his hands as though wary of attack. He stumbled several steps before bumping into the dining table, almost losing his balance, all the while never taking his eyes from Mestral. It was obvious that being struck by the chair had hurt him, his apparent disorientation perhaps explained by a head injury. Would that make him easier to confront, or more dangerous? The question was answered when Jaecz charged forward.

  Mestral readied himself for the attack as the Certoss crossed the floor between them, but his own unsteadiness was his undoing as he tripped, stumbling forward and crumpling back down to the floor. Jaecz struggled to push himself up one last time but finally succumbed, collapsing once more into unconsciousness.

  Mestral, fearing he may have killed the alien, verified that Jaecz still was alive. After retrieving his small medical scanner from his suitcase, he was able to calibrate the instrument in a manner to determine the Certoss’s condition was not life threatening, but that he likely would not wake again for several hours. Mestral administered a general-purpose pain medication that his scanner confirmed was compatible with Certoss physiology, then left the intruder alone.

  It is time to leave, he had decided, spending the next several moments securing the rest of his belongings—including the particle weapon from its hiding place—in his suitcase. Those articles were joined by new items: the contents of Jaecz’s satchel. The devices were of unknown construction and purpose, but he would have time later to examine them. He wanted to be well away from here when Jaecz came around, as another confrontation would in all certainty require him to kill the Certoss in self-defense. Ending the alien’s life now was out of the question, though it was with no small amount of shame that Mestral had considered the idea.

  No, he rebuked himself. There could be no justification for such a heinous act. Besides, leaving Jaecz alive might be helpful in locating his companions. That was the logical course of action, he knew, already refocusing his thoughts on the future as it lay before him now that he possessed knowledge of the alien’s purpose here on Earth. His own priorities had changed, and while he could not stand by and allow Jaecz and his fellow Certoss agents to carry out their mission, there was precious little Mestral could do on his own.

  He would need assistance.

  EIGHTEEN

  Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Dayton, Ohio

  July 29, 1958

  “They’re calling it NASA, sir,” said Staff Sergeant Allison Marshall, sitting at her desk and reading whatever memo was at the top of the stack of similar documents. “National Aeronautics and Space Administration.”

  Reclining in the chair behind his own desk, Major James Wainwright held his coffee cup in both hands as he looked across the dimly lit room at Marshall. Night had fallen, and the office’s only illumination came from the lamps sitting on their desks for the simple reason that neither of them had bothered to walk to the wall switch to turn on the overhead lighting. That was fine with Wainwright, as he preferred it this way. “NASA. Has a nice enough ring to it, I suppose. Eisenhower’s been going nuts about space since Sputnik. He wants us up there, fast, so you can bet these boys will be getting all the money they need to do it.”

  “You can say that again.” Marshall held up the memo for emphasis. “If only they’d channeled that effort toward us, we might’ve been able to get something up there before the Russians. A satellite, something based off the X-2, anything. Now, it looks like the civilians will be getting all the money and having all the fun.”

  “The military still has all the rocket research, along with the best group of test pilots around,” Wainwright countered. “This might be an ‘us and them’ thing on paper, but there’s no way Eisenhower’s going to let that be an issue when it comes to getting something done.” The still fledgling Advanced Research Projects Agency had been formed earlier in the year as a response to the Soviet Union’s launch of the Sputnik satellites. A military project operating under the supervision of the Department of Defense, ARPA had but a single, broad-reaching mandate: ensure the United States did not fall behind in its ability to exploit for military purposes emerging technology in any of numerous fields including communications, transportation, nuclear energy, and, now, space.

  Rising from her chair, Marshall laid the memo atop the pile before moving around her desk. “ARPA’s official mission is to keep us ahead of the Russians.” The heels of her shoes clicked along the floor’s linoleum tiles. “What about other things?”

  Force of habit made Wainwright look toward the door as she asked the question. One thing he had learned after more than ten years on this job was that “caution” was his watchword; one never knew when someone might be listening, even within the confines of an office operating within the security envelope of a classified military project.

  “I’m sure that’s been factored in somewhere,” Wainwright replied. “Eisenhower’s as big a supporter of what we’re doing as anyone.”

  The current presi
dent was on record with his belief in the possibility of life existing on other worlds, and his administration had provided Majestic 12 and Blue Book with generous funding and support. There were rumors that Eisenhower had met with extraterrestrials on three separate occasions in 1954. Despite his best efforts, Wainwright had been unable to confirm the meetings, or with whom or what the president may have conferred. Even Professor Carlson had been tight-lipped on the subject, which Wainwright had taken as tacit authentication.

  He set his coffee cup on his desk as Marshall stopped next to his desk. Glancing at the clock over the door, Wainwright noted that it was coming up on seven in the evening. The words and numbers on the various reports he had been reviewing were starting to blur together, and the ache in his stomach told him it was well past time for something to eat.

  Marshall leaned against one corner of the desk, folding her arms. Even this late in the day, after being in the office since before sunrise that morning, her hair, makeup, and Air Force duty uniform remained impeccable. How does she do it? It seemed almost too much effort for Wainwright to keep his tie straight. “I wonder what Professor Carlson thinks about this?”

  “Good question,” Wainwright replied, reaching up to rub his chin and frowning at the beard stubble beneath his fingers. Had he shaved that morning?

  Yeah, fourteen hours ago. Go home.

  “When was the last time you even heard from the professor?” Marshall asked.

  It took him a moment to think about that. “A couple of months, I think,” he said as he opened his desk’s center drawer and retrieved the pack of cigarettes and lighter he had stashed there. “Between Washington, here, and that base out in Nevada, they’ve been keeping him pretty busy.” The professor’s duties, many of which carried a security classification so strict that even Wainwright did not possess the required “need to know,” along with the established curtains of secrecy separating Project Blue Book from the other missions and operations overseen by the Majestic 12 organization, saw to it that the different groups exchanged little information, despite Wainwright and Marshall still receiving most of their direction and assignments from the MJ-12 command structure.

  After offering Marshall a cigarette, which she declined, he lit one for himself and took the first drag from it before blowing a stream of smoke into the air above his head. “Carlson’s never told me straight out what he’s been up to these past few years, but he’s dropped enough hints for me to figure that his group and this new NASA organization won’t be strangers.” It was the professor who, for example, had been given responsibility for studying the craft discovered six years ago in Yuma, Arizona, by Wainwright and Marshall. As a consequence of that incident, the professor had exerted whatever authority he possessed to keep Wainwright and Marshall under his indirect supervision and attached to Blue Book. Without that influence, both then and in the years to follow, Wainwright was certain that he and Marshall would long ago have been transferred away from the project, perhaps even banished to some remote location such as one of the early warning stations in Alaska, where they would be unable to cause much trouble.

  He reached up to stifle an abrupt yawn and caught Marshall smiling at him. “What?” he asked, taking another pull from his cigarette.

  “It’s late, sir,” she replied, “and we’ve been here since before the sun came up. You should go home.”

  Wainwright nodded, blowing out smoke and moving to crush the remainder of the cigarette in his ashtray. “Fine idea. I’m beat, anyway.” He stood, stretching his back and rotating his arms to work a few kinks from his shoulders. Sitting at a desk day after day had been taking its toll on him, despite his best efforts to remain fit with regular running and boxing at the base gym. He had celebrated his forty-first birthday earlier in the year, itself a stark reminder of just how long he had been stationed here, committed to this one effort. It was irregular for a military officer to spend such an extended length of time at any duty station, but the special demands of Project Blue Book and the assignments given to him and Marshall by Professor Carlson required a certain continuity that could be served only by keeping the same people within the organization’s security envelope. “Or, maybe I’m just getting old.”

  “Not too old, I hope,” Marshall said, casting a suggestive look over her shoulder as she returned to her desk. What had begun between them that morning last fall in Carbon Creek, Pennsylvania, had continued unabated, though they both had taken steps to keep their personal relationship guarded from the attention of their colleagues and superiors. So far, there seemed to be no indications that anyone around them was aware of their romantic involvement, or if they did suspect, then they had seen fit to keep that information to themselves. Regardless, Wainwright and Marshall did their level best to maintain proper decorum at work, though that did not prevent the occasional comment or look from being exchanged whenever it was just the two of them in the office. Of course, there was that one time they had pushed the limits of that façade right here, on . . .

  Wainwright’s reverie was broken by a knock on the office door. “Come in,” he called out. The door opened and a male staff sergeant entered the room, wearing the duty uniform variant Wainwright recognized as one worn by personnel assigned to Wright-Patterson’s military police contingent. Behind him was a tall, lean man Wainwright did not recognize, dressed in a civilian business suit complete with fedora. Thanks to the office’s already dim lighting, the sergeant’s helmet and the brim of the civilian’s hat cast shadows across the upper portions of their faces. Stepping into the room, the sergeant snapped to attention and offered Wainwright a salute.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said, his tone clipped and formal.

  Wainwright, still standing behind his desk, returned the salute. “At ease, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”

  “Sorry to bother you this late, sir,” the airman replied, “but this gentleman arrived at the front gate asking to see you.” Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder at his charge. “He says it’s important, sir.”

  Frowning at this unusual turn of events, Wainwright exchanged glances with Marshall before directing his attention to the mysterious man, who had said nothing since entering the room. “I don’t understand.”

  The civilian lifted his head just enough that Wainwright could see his eyes before saying, “Please forgive the odd nature of my arrival, Major, but if I am correct, then you and Sergeant Marshall are the two people who would be most interested in certain information I have in my possession.” His eyes narrowed as he fixed on Wainwright. “It pertains to a set of investigations you have conducted, particularly in Yuma, Arizona, and Carbon Creek, Pennsylvania.”

  Wainwright forced himself not to respond to the surprising statement. Instead, he cleared his throat and nodded to the airman. “Thank you, Sergeant. We’ll take it from here. I’ll be sure to call if I need anything.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied, saluting before taking his leave. He pulled the door closed behind him as he exited the room, leaving Wainwright and Marshall alone with their unexpected visitor.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Major,” said the visitor, before directing his gaze for a moment to Marshall. “And to you, Sergeant.”

  Stepping around his desk, Wainwright said, “Well, you’ve certainly got our attention, sir, and you seem to know who we are well enough, so who might you be?”

  Instead of replying, the new arrival turned and reached for the switch on the wall next to the door and flipped it, and the office overhead lighting flickered on and chased away the shadows. With the improved illumination, Wainwright now was able to see that the man’s complexion was pale, possessing a tinge that made him think the man might be suffering from jaundice or some other similar condition. His face was long and thin, with sharp, pale eyes regarding Wainwright from beneath dark, upswept eyebrows.

  “My name is Mestral,” the man said, “and I have come to offer my assistance in your quest to understand the activities of those who have
come from the stars to visit your world.”

  He removed his fedora to reveal his black hair, cut in an odd bowl style that in some respects reminded Wainwright of Moe from The Three Stooges, but all of that was forgotten as his eyes fixed on the man’s pointed ears.

  • • •

  So, is this what alien mind control feels like?

  The thought echoed in Wainwright’s mind as he regarded Mestral across the small, round table occupying one corner of the apartment’s main room. The room itself was a functional affair, with sparse furnishings that gave Wainwright the impression its occupant had only recently moved in, or perhaps did not plan on staying for any great length of time. Marshall sat to his left, and he noted her worried expression. He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “To be honest, I haven’t felt this well-rested in years.”

  “You are welcome,” said Mestral. “The mind meld can be a taxing experience, particularly for someone lacking their own nascent telepathic abilities, but the initiating party can mitigate those effects if they possess the proper training. If you do experience any lingering discomfort, I hope you will alert me.”

  Aside from an odd thirst he did not recall before subjecting himself to Mestral’s touch, Wainwright was obliged to admit that there appeared to be no untoward effects to what had just transpired. For his part, Mestral seemed to have anticipated this one consequence and had provided a glass of water, which Wainwright drank in rapid fashion. Forcing a smile, he asked, “Is this all part of the brainwashing?”

  Mestral’s right eyebrow arched. “I am unfamiliar with that term, Major, but if you are worried that I may somehow have manipulated your mind for my own personal gain, I can only offer you my assurances to the contrary, along with the evidence I already have presented to you.”