by Dayton Ward
“What was it like, Jim?” Marshall asked, her tone conveying her persistent concern for him. “Can you describe it?”
Reaching up to rub his temples, Wainwright replied, “Like a very intense dream, though even more vivid than that. It’s like I was . . .” He stopped, studying Mestral’s face. “Like standing in a foggy room, where every sound echoes, and in front of you is a giant movie screen. It felt real and yet not real, at the same time. Does that even make sense?”
“It does,” Mestral said. “Mind melds often produce a sensation of viewing an event from a sort of detached reality. Participants have described the experience as being separated from their corporeal form, feeling as though they are nothing more than an unfettered consciousness.”
Marshall placed her hand on Wainwright’s arm. “For what it’s worth, you didn’t seem to be in any pain, and he didn’t do or say anything I found off.” Her words made Wainwright glance to the Colt .45 pistol resting in her lap, which she had kept with her throughout the entire “thought exchange.” Though Wainwright himself had been willing to subject himself to the procedure, Marshall remained the voice of reason and caution. He smiled at her, placing his other hand atop hers and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m fine,” he said, “really.” Redirecting his attention to Mestral, he added, “Calling it eye-opening’s a damned understatement, that’s for sure.” The revelation of Mestral’s true identity and reasons for being here sounded like something out of one of those science fiction stories Wainwright had read as a teenager. The devices he had offered for examination certainly appeared to be far more advanced than anything possible from modern human science, and there could be no mistaking the differences in his physiology. First there were his ears, of course, but he also had submitted to an impromptu examination that had revealed his green blood—which had helped to explain his skin’s odd hue—and the fact that his heart was located not in the center of his chest but instead along his left flank, beneath his arm, and beat much faster than a human’s even at what Mestral called a resting rate. As startling as Mestral’s own disclosures had been, it was what else he had offered that now troubled Wainwright.
Leaning toward the table, Wainwright turned to the small stack of photographs Mestral had provided as evidence of his encounter with another alien. “You say he called himself a ‘Certoss,’ right?” The figure in the pictures—Jaecz, according to Mestral—was lying in what appeared to be a state of unconsciousness, and the Vulcan had captured it from several angles offering full-body shots and close-ups of the alien’s face.
“It’s the same thing we ran into in Yuma,” Marshall said, sliding one of the pictures closer to her and tapping it with one fingernail. “Same general skull shape and facial features, same clothing, and this harness he’s wearing is identical.”
Wainwright nodded. “The alien we killed in Yuma was a female. If the information you took from this one is accurate, then there are still three of them, running around out there somewhere and doing who knows what.” He noticed that Mestral seemed to stiffen a bit in reaction to his words. “Something wrong?”
Clearing his throat, Mestral replied, “Your use of the term ‘took’ with respect to my mind meld with the Certoss agent. Though your description is essentially correct, the act itself is one in which I do not take pride. My people consider an involuntary mind meld to be a violation of the highest order. We are taught that it is acceptable only in the most extreme of circumstances. While my encounter with Jaecz certainly fit within those parameters, I find that I still am troubled by the entire affair.”
“They don’t seem to have any problems messing with our heads,” Marshall said. “It’s the only explanation for why we can’t remember what happened in Carbon Creek, right?” She paused, her eyes lowering to look at the table for a moment. “Well, now you can remember it, I guess.”
“I guess,” Wainwright repeated. Though Marshall had not yet partaken of Mestral’s offer to undergo the process, the Vulcan’s mind meld with him had helped uncover what the alien described as “suppressed memories” of his and Marshall’s visit to the small Pennsylvania mining community the previous November. Wainwright now recalled with vivid clarity the crashed space vessel they had seen that night, where it had come to rest in the mountains outside the town.
“These Certoss,” he said, his eyes fixed on one of the photographs depicting the alien’s face, “could they have . . . mind melded . . . with us to make us forget what happened?”
“I found no evidence that Jaecz possessed such telepathic ability,” Mestral replied, “though he was unconscious at the time of our meld and my contact with him was brief. None of the devices I took from him seem designed for that purpose, but this does not preclude some other technology to which I had no access.”
“If they can do that,” Marshall said, “along with those devices that let them change their appearance? They could be anyone, anywhere, covering their tracks wherever they go. For all we know, we’ve run into them a dozen times over the years.” She pulled back from the table, crossing her arms as though a sudden chill had gripped her. “That’s scary just to think about.”
Wainwright tapped the photo. “What do we do about it? I don’t think we can take this to the higher-ups; at least, not yet. Even with you to tell them, it’s still a tough story to swallow. Time-traveling aliens out to destroy us before we’re able to get out into space and destroy them? You have to admit it sounds pretty crazy.”
Marshall frowned. “You’re probably right. Even if we could convince Captain Gregory, what would he do? We definitely need more information, more proof.”
“Agreed,” Mestral said.
“It’s not Gregory I’m worried about,” Wainwright countered. “It’s the establishment above him.” Blue Book’s current commanding officer, Captain George Gregory, had no real interest in finding the truth so far as UFOs and alien activity were concerned, which suited his superiors. The bureaucracy surrounding the project and Majestic 12 along with all of their ancillary activities had become so compartmentalized and convoluted that it often was difficult if not impossible to determine how or even if information was being shared. Gregory had no direct knowledge of the truth behind the Roswell affair, nor did he know the full details of incidents involving certain case officers, such as Wainwright and Marshall’s adventure in Yuma. Indeed, many of those assignments were carried out at the direction of MJ-12 rather than Gregory. Wainwright long ago had been forced to concede that Blue Book was little more than a façade designed to mollify the public while at the same time feeding it disinformation about the ongoing investigations of extraterrestrial activity. Meanwhile, Wainwright and Marshall and a few other select teams of senior investigators continued their investigations in relative isolation.
“We know Professor Carlson will believe us, but getting the Pentagon involved will be impossible unless we have more in the way of direct evidence. We need to show them that the threat is real, and these aliens are working right now to hurt us.” Wainwright looked to Mestral. “You’ve come this far, and taken a huge risk exposing yourself to us. Are you willing to take it the whole way, and help us?”
Mestral replied, “Regardless of how I came to be here, Earth is now my home, and I do not wish to see it or its people harmed. I will do whatever I can to assist you.”
“Good,” Wainwright said, feeling a sudden bolt of conviction welling up within him. After years of being marginalized while pursuing the truth, the time at last had come for him, Marshall, and the entire Blue Book project to carry out their primary mission and validate the resources and faith entrusted to them. Wainwright took a small measure of satisfaction in knowing that the naysayers who had obstructed and ostracized the entire effort from its inception now were due for a very rude awakening.
NINETEEN
U.S.S. Enterprise
Earth Year 2268
It required effort for Kirk to keep from staring at the conference table’s tri-sided viewer a
nd the small chronometer displayed in the screen’s lower left corner, which served as a reminder of how many minutes remained until the arrival of the Tandaran vessel. Every department had checked in with Spock, assuring the first officer of their readiness should events take a turn for the worse. At Scott’s suggestion, Kirk had ordered the Certoss vessel brought onto the Enterprise’s shuttlecraft deck, rather than having the starship trying to protect the smaller craft by extending its shields should a tactical situation develop with the Tandarans. The Balatir fit within the space, though getting it through the hangar bay doors had proven somewhat tricky even with the aid of tractor beams and computer guidance. With that final item addressed, there was nothing else for Kirk to do on that front but wait, and that was an activity he loathed.
Turning his chair so that he could ignore the monitor, he focused his attention on Roberta Lincoln sitting next to him at the table. “These Tandarans have access to at least some of the same information you do regarding the Temporal Cold War. How is that possible?”
Lincoln, sitting with her arms crossed, replied, “They were smart. At some point during their involvement in the conflict, a cadre of their leading scientific minds realized that time itself was being used as a weapon, altering the pasts of target worlds in order to influence the war’s outcome on several fronts. They figured the only way to know if their own planet had been messed with was to create a protected archive that could preserve information for historical review while insulating it against changes in the timeline.”
“A form of temporal stasis?” Spock asked.
Nodding, Lincoln smiled. “I think that’s the right term. We’re talking about a time capsule in the purest sense, here; a container inside which time—for all intents and purposes—has no meaning. You know about the Slavers and their stasis boxes, right?”
Spock replied, “I am familiar with such artifacts, yes.”
“Same thing here. Though changes in our timeline would affect us all, anything held within the confines of such an archive would be shielded.”
“It sounds like something that could cause its own flavor of problems,” Kirk said, admiring yet again how much Roberta Lincoln seemed to have grown in the week—the year—that for her had passed in alliance with Gary Seven. “How is someone finding such an archive and discovering its contents any different than the situation the Certoss are facing?”
“In the case of the Tandarans and a handful of other groups possessing similar technology,” Lincoln replied, “only highly trained specialists are even allowed to know of the existence of such data, and for the very reasons you bring up. Still, despite whatever organizations or other safeguards are put in place to protect against abuse of such knowledge, that’s always a risk.”
Spock said, “And this is what the Tandarans fear.”
“You got it.” Unfolding her arms, Lincoln turned her chair and leaned in the first officer’s direction. “They know the real history of their involvement in the war. What I don’t know is if they know how history plays out for them from this point forward in the timeline where the Certoss destroyed their planet. I suspect they don’t, but I’m learning that you just never know when it comes to this kind of thing.”
“So, what do we do about it?” Kirk asked. “We know how easy it is to disrupt history even through the most innocent acts, but we’re talking about a deliberate, maybe even targeted, alteration of the time stream.” He could not help recalling how, in another reality, McCoy’s inadvertent traveling back through time to Earth had altered his planet’s future, forcing Kirk and Spock to take drastic action in order to restore the time stream to its proper place. Regardless of how he tried, Kirk could not keep his thoughts from turning to the one person upon whom the conflicting versions of history had converged: Edith Keeler.
Don’t. She’s dead. It had to be. She would understand. Let her rest in the peace she deserves.
Lincoln, oblivious to his internal battle, said, “What’s crazy about a conflict involving time travel is that there’s no real way to know if it’s really over, everywhere. We’re sitting here talking about the war in the past tense, because so far as we can tell, it’s been over for at least a century, or three centuries if you go with subjective time, but what about a century from now? Anything is possible.”
“Perhaps the Tandarans believe Gejalik represents a faction of the Certoss people that still exists in some parallel timeline,” Spock said, “with the ability to travel to our timeline. In that reality, the same one in which the Certoss people view Earth as a threat, the Tandarans would be considered their adversaries, as well.”
Lincoln released a long sigh. “I really, really hate temporal mechanics.”
“Just the fact that she’s from a future that knows of the war makes her a concern for the Tandarans,” Kirk said. “How far will they go to keep this information from becoming public, or at least being used or misused by someone else?”
The answer to that question was not forthcoming, as the conversation was interrupted by the briefing room’s doors opening to admit Ensign Minecci and Minister Ocherab, whom the security officer had escorted from the Balatir on the hangar deck. Rising from his chair, Kirk made his way around the table until he stood before the older Certoss female.
“Minister, thank you for joining us,” he said, before directing her to a seat at the table. “I trust your crew is being made comfortable?”
Ocherab nodded. “Indeed they are, Captain. I know about Federation starships, of course. Another vessel like this, the Endeavour, even visited our homeworld not all that long ago, but we only saw the images as distributed by our information broadcasts. It is a work of beauty.”
“My chief engineer will enjoy hearing you tell him that,” Kirk said, smiling. “I only wish you could be here under more pleasant circumstances, and I apologize for the abruptness of our greeting when you and your ship were brought aboard. I thought time might better be spent with giving you as much information as possible before the Tandarans arrive.”
Now it was Ocherab’s turn to smile. “I thank you for everything you have done on our behalf, Captain. It has been a rather enlightening experience, to say the least.”
Kirk at first had wanted to keep Ocherab and her crew aboard the Balatir insulated from the “truth” of the Certoss people’s involvement in the Temporal Cold War, but Spock and Lincoln had convinced him that doing so would only delay the inevitable. Colonel Abrenn would show no such reluctance if and when he was given the opportunity to confront Ocherab with respect to the message he believed her ship had sent to her homeworld. With that in mind, Lincoln spent the next several moments providing a succinct explanation of the war and the role of the Certoss people in that time-spanning conflict, as well as the activities of Gejalik and her fellow operatives sent four centuries back through time to Earth. It was a lot to take in, Kirk knew, but Ocherab seemed to be handling the process with aplomb.
“I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you to absorb, Minister,” he said, “but rest assured we’re prepared to help you in any way we can.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Before Ocherab could say anything else, the briefing room doors opened again, this time to allow Ensign Hawthorne and her own charge, Gejalik. The security guard directed the Certoss agent to a chair at the table opposite Kirk’s, but instead of taking her seat Gejalik stood behind it, her attention transfixed by Ocherab.
“Gejalik,” said the elder Certoss, rising from her chair and clasping her hands before her in what Kirk assumed was a gesture of welcome, “I am Minister Ocherab, of the Unified Envoy Vessel Balatir, and I bring you greetings from all the people of our world.”
Mimicking the gesture, Gejalik offered a formal nod to the minister. “Thank you.” To Kirk, she seemed nervous, as reflected in the way her gaze moved from Ocherab to Kirk and Spock and even Lincoln.
“Is there something wrong, Gejalik?” Ocherab asked, no doubt having perceived her unease.
Her eyes lowering to
fix on the conference table, the Certoss replied, “I apologize, Minister. Given the amount of time I spent on Earth, and after learning what has happened, I was unsure how I would feel upon meeting someone from my homeworld. Perhaps this sounds odd, but in some ways I feel as though I now am alien even to my own people.”
Would Edith Keeler have felt the same way, three centuries in the future from the world she had known? It was a question Kirk had asked himself countless times in the year that had passed since he, Spock, and McCoy had returned through the Guardian of Forever from Earth. Would it have made a difference to whisk her away from her fate, removing her from danger at the moment of her death so that she might live out her days seeing the universe she had dared to dream might exist one day in the distant future?
Stop it.
“It sounds like a perfectly natural reaction to me,” Ocherab said, moving from her chair and walking around the table to Gejalik. “I am still in the process of accepting what Captain Kirk and his people have told me. They say that you are able to provide a unique perspective on our shared, if very disparate, history.” The minister took Gejalik’s hands in her own, and the Certoss exchanged a long look without saying anything. After a moment, Gejalik turned to Kirk. “How does one react to the knowledge that their entire existence may as well be an illusion? Which of the realities that we represent is the correct one?”
“This one,” Lincoln said, her voice firm. “All available information tells us that the Certoss always have been a people of peace. Your past was altered by another civilization so that you could be their ally at a future point in history.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, I don’t know which of the factions fighting the war was responsible. Perhaps it’s for the best that we don’t know.”
“And you’re able to corroborate what Miss Lincoln has told me?” the minister asked Gejalik, who nodded.
“Yes,” the Certoss agent replied. “Where I come from, our people, at one time, were at war with the Tandarans; however, by the time I came of age, the conflict between our two planets had ended.” Once more she paused before directing her gaze to Kirk. “We destroyed the Tandaran homeworld by subjecting it to an unrelenting orbital bombardment that ultimately led to the entire planet becoming incapable of sustaining life. A fraction of the population was able to evacuate, but the vast majority of the Tandaran people perished at our hands. At the time I left, Tandaran Prime was still projected to remain uninhabitable for centuries.”