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

by Dayton Ward

  “Something from the probe?” Adlar asked.

  “I don’t know.” Keeping the scanner activated, Gejalik reached with her free hand to retrieve the .45 pistol from her purse. “Ready?”

  Pulling out his own sidearm, Adlar said nothing as he used the driver to unlock the door before pushing it open. The entrance led to another short, dimly lit corridor that ended ten meters ahead of them at a heavy black curtain. Adlar held up a hand and motioned for Gejalik to listen, and she nodded as she confirmed what he thought he had heard: Someone beyond the curtain was talking. To Adlar the voice sounded female. Gesturing for Gejalik to follow, he peered through the curtain, but saw nothing in his immediate line of sight. With as little movement as possible, he pushed through the curtain.

  The room beyond was large and open, rising two stories above the floor to the warehouse’s vaulted metal ceiling. Rows of metal shelving dominated the chamber’s back half, connected by catwalks and ladders. The forward area had been converted to an open workspace that reminded Adlar of the building in Yuma where they had found the spacecraft being tested by the humans. In the center of the open area, surrounded by work lights mounted on tripods, was a metal object, its shell almost black in color. The probe was not quite a cylinder, its squat height making each end appear ovular in shape. Smaller cylinders mounted to either side suggested to Adlar a form of faster-than-light propulsion. He also recognized one of the written Vulcan languages from collections of symbols scattered across its surface. Standing before the probe was a human male with short blond hair and wearing green fatigues, talking in a low voice though no one else seemed to be nearby. It took Adlar an extra moment to realize that the man appeared to be talking into something he held in his hand, a slim, silver object.

  Who is this?

  That was all Adlar had time to consider before something moved to his left, and he saw a dark figure aiming something at him.

  • • •

  Cynthia Foster was sure she had hit the intruder with her servo, the compact weapon’s stun beam in theory being more than sufficient to pacify a target from this distance. The new arrival’s reaction—firing a pistol in her direction—told her otherwise.

  “Ian! Look out!” she shouted, diving for cover behind a row of wooden cargo crates as more shots rang out in the warehouse. Who were the man and woman who had come through the curtain? It was unlikely that they were ordinary Air Force officers, not if the small device the woman held was any indication. It had emitted an energy reading unlike anything to which any normal human should have access. Moving to the row’s far end, Cynthia maneuvered herself so that she could peer over the top of the crate she now found herself behind, orienting herself to face back toward the curtain and the entrance through which the intruders had come. No sooner was she able to get a look than the woman fired her own pistol in Cynthia’s direction.

  The guns are conventional enough, she chided herself. Move your ass, Agent 6.

  Recalling the warehouse’s interior, she adjusted her servo’s settings before taking off at a run back the way she had come. As she moved, she looked up over the top of the cargo crates and aimed the servo at the large, single-bulb floodlights hanging from the ceiling nearest the entrance and fired. The bulb exploded from the force of the servo’s sonic beam, sending shattered glass cascading to the floor. She saw the two figures running away from the curtain, seeking cover, and she repeated the action on another of the lights. The two intruders moved behind another large wooden crate and Cynthia destroyed a third light, plunging the forward half of the room into near darkness.

  “Ian,” she murmured. Ian Pendleton, standing exposed next to the Vulcan probe at the time of the intruders’ arrival, obviously had sought cover once gunfire erupted. Where was he? Cynthia forced herself not to worry about her fellow agent and concentrate instead on the two assailants. Who are they? It was likely that they had come for the probe, but how did they even know it was here? The device was supposed to be a closely guarded secret, known only to a handful of American military and civilian officials. She and Ian knew about the probe only because they had tracked its movements as it had assumed orbit over Earth and began its clandestine surveillance of the planet. The mission given to her and her fellow agent was supposed to be simple: Retrieve the probe and safeguard it from further study by the American military or anyone else.

  Cynthia dove across an open space between two crates, hearing the whine of a pistol shot skipping off the concrete behind her. Then she heard the sound of Ian’s servo followed by shattering glass, and another section of the warehouse fell into darkness. Agent 42 was mimicking her actions from wherever he had ended up in the large room, and now she heard the sounds of footsteps running across the warehouse floor. She saw a lone, shadowy figure sprinting toward the rows of storage shelves at the back of the room and recognized Ian’s distinctive running stride. More bullets followed after the agent, a few of them chewing into the crates he passed as he lunged once more for protection. With their attackers distracted, Cynthia rose from her crouch and fired her servo, but the weapon’s stun beam again had no effect save to alert the intruders to her position.

  “Halt!”

  The shouted voice was coming from the other end of the warehouse, and Cynthia looked around the crate to see three men running into the chamber, each brandishing M2 carbine rifles. One of the guards, a senior airman judging from his rank chevrons, was the group’s apparent leader and he already was raising his rifle to point it at the pair of intruders. Now that they were standing near one of the lights that had not yet been destroyed, Cynthia could see that they both were wearing Air Force officer uniforms.

  “Hold it right there!” he yelled. “Drop those weapons right now!”

  Neither of the intruders hesitated before turning their pistols on the new arrivals and firing. Cynthia flinched as the men were cut down in seconds, only one of them able even to call out in surprise and pain before all three dropped to the floor.

  No!

  “Cynthia!”

  Ian’s shout made her look over the crate to see that her partner had scrambled to the second-level catwalk bordering one aisle of shelves. He had found a weapon of his own, another M2, and was aiming it at another section of the warehouse floor.

  “They’re to your right!” he called out, gesturing with the rifle’s muzzle. Bullets ricocheted off the metal framework around him and he ducked, returning fire with his own weapon. Cynthia knew Ian was not attempting to hurt or kill their opponents, but instead was laying down covering fire for her. Dashing for a collection of larger cargo crates near the base of the shelves, she saw the other woman aiming her pistol and firing. A pair of bullets whipped past the back of her head and Cynthia heard them tear into the wall to her left before she jumped behind the nearest crate. She landed in awkward fashion on the unyielding concrete floor, wincing at the stab of pain in her ribs.

  More gunfire echoed across the warehouse, and Cynthia saw Ian sag against the railing, crying out in pain. The rifle fell from his grip as Ian flailed for something to hold before his body rolled over the handrail and tumbled to the floor.

  “Ian!” Disregarding her own safety and the pain in her side, Cynthia bolted from her hiding place, rushing across the open floor to where Ian now lay strewn on the concrete. He was on his back, his left leg bent at an unnatural angle, and she saw at least three bloody holes in his chest. Ignoring the approaching footsteps behind her, she dropped to her knees next to Ian, reaching for his face but freezing at the sight of his open, unseeing eyes.

  “No,” she whispered, tears clouding her vision. There was nothing she could do for him, but her body refused to heed the warnings her mind sent, screaming for her to remain focused on the dangerous situation still unfolding before her. Then a hand on her shoulder snapped her out of her shock and Cynthia whirled around, lashing out with her right fist. The punch caught the male intruder across his temple with enough force to make him stagger back, his service cap falling from his hea
d and giving Cynthia the opening she needed to regain her feet. She saw the man’s female companion coming up behind him but ignored her as she pressed her attack.

  “You bastard !” she hissed between gritted teeth, landing a kick to the center of his chest. He released a grunt of pain and surprise that was accompanied by an electronic snapping sound, followed by the bizarre sight of the man’s entire body wavering and stretching before his appearance underwent an abrupt, startling change.

  He was an alien.

  Dressed in a black bodysuit and wearing a metallic harness across his chest, the figure now possessed dark, unfamiliar humanoid features. Cynthia could not even begin to place the being’s species.

  “Leave her!” shouted the alien’s companion, still appearing as a human female.

  The alien did not heed her, instead setting himself to lunge at Cynthia, but she and both intruders cringed at the abrupt flash of light illuminating the entire warehouse an instant before the explosion.

  Holy . . .

  Instinct made Cynthia throw herself behind a nearby cargo crate, wincing again at the pain from her ribs as the shockwave rolled past them. Shrapnel and whatever else peppered the walls, shelves, and other crates. Waiting for the storm of debris to subside, Cynthia peered out from her momentary place of safety. The alien and his companion were gone. Their bodies were not lying anywhere on the warehouse floor, leading Cynthia to believe they somehow had escaped the blast. When she looked toward the center of the open work area, she saw only scattered pieces of smoldering metal where the Vulcan probe once had been. The worktables and lights positioned around it also had been destroyed, littering the floor with scorched debris. What could have caused that?

  The sirens were very loud outside the building now, and Cynthia also heard frantic voices beyond the warehouse’s metal walls. She had to make her escape, but she also could not leave Ian to be discovered or taken into custody. Though the almost perfect product of selective breeding that was Ian Pendleton’s human physiology likely would astound whatever doctor was tasked with conducting an autopsy, the devices he carried would attract unwanted attention. Cynthia would have to carry him out of here, with help from the translocator in their office back in Washington. Wiping away new tears, she reached into her pocket for her servo in order to contact the Beta 4 for exfiltration, but the device was not there. She patted her pockets but found nothing.

  Damn it! A frantic search around her did not produce the servo, but she felt Ian’s in one of his trouser pockets. She tore at the clothing, trying to retrieve the tool when a shadow fell across Ian’s body, and she jerked around to see not either of the intruders but instead a man, dressed in a black business suit. He looked to be in his thirties and despite his civilian attire there was a definite military air about him. Another figure stood nearby, wearing a similar suit but also a fedora that cloaked his face in shadow. When the man extended his right hand, Cynthia saw that he was holding her servo.

  “You’ll need this,” he said, tapping one of the controls hidden in the servo’s pocket clip. The device emitted a string of high-pitched beeps before Cynthia heard a familiar, almost musical warbling sound from behind her. She turned to see the familiar blue-black mist forming behind the nearest row of cargo crates.

  Dumfounded at her bizarre turn of good fortune, Cynthia turned back to her mysterious savior. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  “There’s no time,” he replied. “You have to go, now. Come on, I’ll help you.” Thanks to her enhanced strength, Cynthia did not require assistance to lift Ian’s body and lay it across her shoulders, but she still accepted the offer. That done, the man regarded her with a saddened expression. “I’m sorry about Agent 42. I know you were close.”

  “You’re one of us?” Cynthia asked, just before gunfire echoed from the front door leading to the warehouse’s main floor. Someone must be shooting off a lock, she reasoned. Only seconds remained until she was discovered.

  “Yes and no,” said the man. “It’s a long story. Maybe later. Now go!”

  Cynthia glanced to the dark blue cloud, her escape hatch, before thinking to ask the men to come with her, but when she turned back, her benefactors were gone.

  “Where . . . ?”

  “Secure every door!” a new voice barked. The order had come from someone Cynthia could not see. “I want this whole place locked down!” She caught sight of an Air Force officer, a major, pointing at various airmen and other personnel, deploying them around the warehouse, and she knew it was time to go. With a final look at the room’s center to verify that the Vulcan probe had been destroyed, Agent 6 turned and, holding the body of her lover tight across her shoulders, plunged into the blue fog.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Dayton, Ohio

  September 27, 1963

  More than four years had passed since James Wainwright last had seen Jeffrey Carlson, but in that brief period the professor seemed to have aged a decade. His black hair had long since been replaced with gray, the same color as the full beard he now sported which, along with the wire-rimmed glasses and their circular lenses, made the man a dead ringer for Santa Claus. The only real distinction was his weight, in that Carlson seemed to have lost a great deal of his. He was stoop-shouldered as he paced a circuit around the meeting room’s conference table, which, like the chairs and other furniture, was metal and painted the same shade of standard, military-issue flat gray. The obvious visual evidence suggested the professor was much older than his fifty-five years.

  What the hell are they doing to you out there in Nevada?

  Carlson walked in circles around the room, his hands buried in the pockets of a worn, beige cardigan button-down sweater that to Wainwright looked as though it had seen better days. In fact, he was sure he remembered the professor wearing it during one of their infrequent meetings at least ten years earlier.

  Don’t they ever let you out once in a while, at least to buy some new clothes?

  “And the device was completely destroyed?” Carlson asked, his voice soft and possessing a raspy quality.

  From where he stood at one end of the table, Major Lucas Fellini replied, “That’s right, Professor. There’s not much left, but it’s been collected and sealed in a packing container per your instructions and ready to ship out when you are.” Fellini was a tall, broad-chested man, with what Wainwright considered “classical tough guy” looks—square jaw, thin nose, and piercing eyes that seemed to take in everyone and everything in a room in cold, calculating fashion. The major wore his Air Force officer’s uniform in a manner as close to picture-perfect as Wainwright had seen on anyone, himself included. Every button, every device above the pocket of his uniform jacket, was precisely positioned and polished to a high luster that reflected the room’s lighting. His jacket and trousers seemed tailored with mathematical exactitude to his muscled frame, and his shoes were like mirrors. Even the handgrips of the service pistol holstered at his waist, a revolver from what Wainwright could see, were a glossy bone white. Fellini wore his officer’s cap cocked slightly to the left, and while that was a bit outside of accepted regulations, it gave the major a confident, almost arrogant air that seemed to fit him. By all accounts, he was a capable, by-the-book officer who took with all seriousness his assignment as one of Wright-Patterson’s three security division commanders. Wainwright already knew that the events of the previous evening which had taken place while Fellini was on duty were—at the moment—nothing short of a sore spot with the major.

  Carlson, continuing to pace around the room, paused as he came abreast of Fellini. “And you still have no indications as to what happened?”

  Shaking his head, the major looked to the floor for a moment, as though embarrassed by his answer. “No, Professor. Our first guess is that the satellite had a time-delay explosive planted inside it, or some other self-destruct mechanism that might even have been damaged when it crashed. We were lucky that warehouse wasn’t filled with brass or
other VIPs trying to get a good look at it before it went off.”

  “Yes, that would’ve been most unfortunate,” Carlson said, nodding in agreement.

  Casting a knowing glance at the professor, Wainwright asked, “Major, do you still think this thing was a Russian spy satellite?”

  “That’s the most likely explanation, Mister Wainwright,” Fellini answered, seeming to regain at least a bit of the confidence Wainwright had seen him exhibit on other occasions. “What else could it be? It’s definitely not one of ours. We’ve already had people calling the space agency and the Pentagon, and neither of them has reported losing anything.”

  Even though he had not been an active Air Force officer for nearly a year, Wainwright still felt odd whenever another service member addressed him as “Mister.” His and Allison Marshall’s continued involvement in Project Blue Book—and Majestic 12, to a somewhat lesser, discreet degree—had begun to have detrimental effects on their prospects for advancement. Neither he nor Marshall had any desire to leave the program, so Wainwright had accepted official retirement from the Air Force while Marshall was allowed to transfer to the Air Force Reserves. Both now worked as civilian employees for the Department of Defense. Whereas Marshall still had the option to return to active service, Wainwright decided he had spent enough time in uniform. His son, Michael, was coming up on his seventeenth birthday and already was talking about joining the Air Force and carrying on the family service tradition. The boy’s mother had not been happy with this news, judging from the last terse phone conversation with her Wainwright had endured.

  She’ll get over it, he mused. Maybe.

  “And what about the intruders?” Carlson asked, keeping his attention on the major as he resumed his pacing. “Are you of the belief that they were Russian spies?”

  Fellini replied, “That, or someone they recruited to do their dirty work for them. According to the sentries they got past, it was a man and a woman dressed in Air Force officer’s uniforms. The guards don’t remember anything after that.”