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

by Dayton Ward

  Marshall shrugged. “Let’s keep moving and see what happens.”

  As they walked, Wainwright glanced at the scanner, eyeing the moving gauge needle as it indicated a decrease in distance between them and their target. That they might have stumbled across at least one of their quarry with so little difficulty already had him feeling suspicious, and this only furthered his worry. Without his thinking about it, his right hand moved up to reach beneath his jacket for the snap holding the pistol in its holster beneath his arm.

  At the far end of the catwalk, less than fifty feet from them, one of the apartment doors opened and a man stepped out. He looked to be in his forties, balding and with a thick midsection barely contained by his short-sleeved white dress shirt. His tie, thin and black, was too short, as were the cuffs of his black trousers. To Wainwright he could have been any of the hundreds of employees on NASA’s payroll.

  When he turned in their direction, Marshall was the first to react to the gun in the man’s hand.

  “Look out!”

  The man’s right hand rose toward them and Wainwright saw the pistol’s muzzle the instant before it flashed and the gunshot echoed off the concrete walls. Then Marshall cried out in pain. He saw her falling backward but he kept his attention on the other man, drawing his .45 and firing a quick shot down the catwalk. The round went wide but the man ducked anyway, giving Wainwright the chance he needed to better his aim. His next shot struck the man’s right arm, pushing him off balance and throwing him sideways against the wall near the catwalk’s far end. Wainwright caught sight of something dark spattering the painted concrete; too dark to be human blood.

  “Stop right there!” Wainwright shouted, firing again as the man turned a corner and disappeared. His first instinct was to give chase, but then his mind snapped back into gear. Allison!

  He knelt beside Marshall where she had fallen to the ground, clasping her right hand at the point where her left arm met her shoulder. Blood seeped between her fingers, and her expression was a mask of pain.

  “Hold on,” Wainwright said, pulling the handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressing it to her wound. Marshall laid her bloody hand atop his, squeezing shut her eyes and gritting her teeth. There was blood beneath her body, and a quick check revealed the exit wound on the back of her shoulder. He pulled back his free hand to see his fingers stained red. “It went through. We need to get you to a hospital.”

  Doors had opened behind him and he looked up to see a young woman peering out at him from her own apartment. “Call an ambulance!”

  “Who the hell are you?” the woman asked.

  “I’m with the Air Force. Someone just shot my partner. Now call me a damned ambulance!”

  The woman disappeared back into her apartment, but another man now was running the length of the catwalk behind him. Wainwright looked up to see that it was an army captain, his uniform shirt unbuttoned and untucked. He likely lived here and had come running in response to the shots.

  “What happened?” he asked as he came closer. “Who shot her?”

  “A spy,” Marshall replied. It was close enough to the truth. She nodded toward the catwalk’s far end. “He went that way.”

  Instead of running off, the captain instead took off his uniform shirt, leaving him in a white undershirt as he folded the other garment into a square. Kneeling next to Marshall, he applied his makeshift bandage to the wound on her back. “This’ll hold her until the ambulance gets here.”

  Looking up at Wainwright from where she lay on the floor, Marshall whispered, “Jim, you need to go after him.” Her eyes were glazed and heavy, and he heard the slur in her words. She was going into shock.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Wainwright said. “Besides, he’s already long gone. I’ll never find him.”

  She reached up to grip his arm. “McKinley. He’s got to be going there.” Hesitating, she glanced at the captain before adding, “You know why.”

  “He could hide anywhere.” A sense of dread and failure was beginning to grip him. Was this encounter enough to send the Certoss running for cover? What if they already had done whatever task was required to put into motion their plans for the nuclear platform stored aboard the rocket? Perhaps everything, including Marshall’s being shot, had all been for nothing, and it already was too late. “I’ll never find them.”

  “We may be able to help with that.”

  Startled, Wainwright looked up to see two men, and his mouth dropped open. “You?” Agent 937, the thirty-something brown-haired man with the intense hazel eyes, and his stoic companion in the fedora, Agent 176, now stood before him. Where the hell had they come from? Both men wore dark gray suits of similar cut, and it took Wainwright a moment to realize that they looked almost exactly the same as the last time he had seen them. How long ago had that been? A year? “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Believe it or not,” replied Agent 937, “we’re here for the same reason you are.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Highway 949, Cocoa Beach, Florida

  March 29, 1968

  Her hands tight on the steering wheel, Elizabeth Anderson kept her foot on the sedan’s gas pedal, rounding the last turn and leaving behind the surface street as she accelerated their car, following the white station wagon onto the freeway.

  “Where did you learn to drive?” asked Ryan Vitali from the passenger seat, his hands pressed against the dashboard. “Daytona?”

  “Monaco,” Elizabeth replied, keeping her eyes and attention on the road. Most of the traffic was heading in the opposite direction along the divided highway, and within moments there were but a few cars in the lanes ahead of her. Only one vehicle commanded her attention: the one driven by the fleeing Certoss.

  So close. So damned close!

  The thought echoed over and over in her mind. After their encounter with the renegade alien operative at Cal Sutherland’s apartment last month and following weeks of the Beta 5 sifting through information combed from numerous sources regarding the thousands of people employed by NASA and other government agencies, Elizabeth and Ryan believed at least two of the Certoss operatives were here, having infiltrated McKinley Rocket Base while posing as civilian engineers supporting the military’s top-secret weapons project. It was the Beta 5’s opinion that the aliens would use their positions to influence or even hijack the platform set to be launched into space later today. Their investigation had given them half a dozen employees to check out, though the first two they had visited had ended up being dead ends. It was upon visiting the residence of one Dennis Thompson that they realized they had found at least one of the Certoss. Their plan to capture the alien and sabotage the rocket so that it would be destroyed shortly after liftoff—thereby preventing the deployment of its nuclear payload—was scuttled by the untimely interference of the two Air Force investigators from the military’s Blue Book project.

  “We should’ve found a way to get them to back off,” Ryan said, referring to Wainwright and Marshall. “They were in over their heads. We should’ve stepped in, somehow.”

  “Maybe,” Elizabeth replied, keeping her eyes on the road. “But when you boil away all the nonsense, we’re all on the same side. We could’ve done more to help them, too, if for no other reason than to avoid what happened back there.” They had arrived too late to prevent Allison Marshall from being shot, and neither could they risk losing their chance to apprehend the Certoss agent, so they had set off in pursuit when the alien, still in human disguise, bolted from the apartment complex. Elizabeth and Ryan had only just been able to keep tabs on the operative’s car as it fled.

  Ahead of them, the station wagon was speeding in the left of the dual lanes heading north. The highway’s southbound lanes were hidden from view by thickets of cabbage palmettos, pines, and sickly oaks that seemed to be the only trees allowed to grow in Florida. Any chance of sneaking up on their quarry now was gone, thanks to the veritable absence of almost any other cars on this stretch of road. Elizabeth’s fo
ot was pressing the gas pedal to the floorboard, coaxing every bit of speed out of the rental sedan. The steering wheel vibrated in her hands, a sign that she was pushing the car beyond its limits.

  Rolling down the passenger door’s window, Ryan repositioned himself so that he could lean out of the car. Elizabeth glanced over to see him brandishing his servo.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Ryan was resting his right arm atop the side-view mirror on his door. “Maybe I can disable the engine.”

  “Too dangerous,” Elizabeth replied. She did not want to kill the Certoss if it could be avoided, even knowing that the alien would not show her and Ryan the same courtesy.

  “So what do we do?” Ryan asked. “You going to try running him off the road?”

  The station wagon now was less than ten car lengths ahead of them, close enough for Elizabeth to see the back of the driver’s head. As the car entered a curve on the highway, she guided the sedan toward the inside lane, using the opportunity to pick up some precious distance. By the time the lanes straightened out she had cut the distance between them in half. She was preparing to close it even further on the next curve when the white car’s brake lights flashed crimson and its nose dropped as the vehicle decelerated. Elizabeth jerked the wheel to the left to avoid crashing into the station wagon’s rear end, and as they began coming abreast of the other car she saw an arm extend from the open driver’s-side window.

  “Look out!” she yelled, lifting her foot from the gas pedal, but by then she already was hearing the crack of the pistol in the Certoss agent’s hand. Elizabeth flinched, anticipating the bullet ripping into her own body or the spraying of blood as Ryan was hit, but instead she felt the sedan jerk to the right and the steering wheel buck in her hand.

  “Tire!” Ryan yelled. “He got the tire!”

  Elizabeth stomped on the brakes, feeling the car throw off speed as she wrestled to regain control. The sedan skidded over the hot asphalt, crossing both lanes before she felt the car lurching as it left the road and hit the gravel shoulder. The ground fell away from beneath the right front tire and then the entire sedan was heaving in that direction, and Elizabeth felt her stomach lurch as the car began tumbling. The passenger side and the roof spun across gravel, dirt, and grass and she heard Ryan crying out over the cacophony of metal groaning, protesting, and wrenching all around them. White-hot light exploded in her vision as her face slammed into something flat and unyielding, and there was a sharp stab in her rib cage.

  The roll was slowing, and Elizabeth was aware of the car settling on whatever remained of its wheels on the grass at the edge of the forest lining the highway, settling against one of the thicker oaks competing for space among the other trees. Light and blurred color danced in her vision and she could not feel her left arm. Her face was wet and throbbing, and she tasted something bitter and metallic. Something was ringing in her ears, screaming for her to move, to get out of the car right now.

  It took two tries to push open the driver’s-side door, and she all but fell out of the car onto the grass. That impact only sent her head spinning all over again, though she still was aware of the grass and dirt beneath her hands and the Florida sun beating down on her. “Ryan!” she called out, her own voice sounding dull and distant in her buzzing ears. Gripping the edge of the door, Elizabeth tried pulling herself to her feet, but dizziness washed over her and she dropped once more to her knees. Now facing the car, she was able to see Ryan, unmoving in the passenger seat and hanging out of the passenger-side window. Blood was everywhere.

  Get up!

  Her left arm hanging limp and useless at her side, Elizabeth gritted her teeth, biting back pain as she forced herself to her feet. She needed help. Ryan needed help. How to get that?

  Servo. Beta 5. The thoughts mashed together in her muddled mind. She could contact the computer back in New York and have it dispatch police and an ambulance. Her right hand fumbled into her jacket, looking for her servo, but her fingers seemed numb and unresponsive to her conscious control. What the hell was wrong with her? Shock, she knew. It already was impairing her. There was something else. What was she forgetting?

  Propping herself against the car, Elizabeth willed her eyes to focus and her hand to grasp the servo in her pocket. She pulled her hand free, seeing the sunlight reflect off the device’s silver finish. It shook in her grip and she clenched her fist, fighting for control. Something moved in her jumbled peripheral vision and she looked up to see the middle-aged man in a short-sleeved white shirt and black tie, pointing something at her.

  • • •

  “Wainwright!”

  Ignoring Agent 937’s warning cry as he guided his car around a curve, Wainwright saw the man standing before the wrecked sedan on the side of the highway, aiming what only could be a pistol at the injured, bloodied woman leaning against the car.

  The pursuit had been fast, assisted by Agents 937 and 176. After appearing at the apartment complex as though from thin air, the agents had told Wainwright they needed to work together if they were going to apprehend the Certoss agent. Leaving Allison Marshall at her insistence in the care of the army captain before the ambulance arrived, Wainwright had set off with the two mysterious men in pursuit of the rogue alien.

  He stomped the gas pedal, driving it to the floorboard as the car shot forward. His hands gripping the steering wheel so that his fingers hurt, Wainwright guided the car off the highway’s asphalt surface and into the grass. The man holding the gun turned before he could fire his weapon, and he saw the sedan bearing down on him, his eyes widening in surprise. Just before the car would have plowed into him, the man jumped to avoid being hit, all but escaping from danger save for the glancing blow to his leg by the sedan’s front corner as it drove past.

  “Shit!” Wainwright snarled, his foot mashing the brake pedal and bringing the car to a halt. The vehicle shuddered in protest at the sudden deceleration, and he felt the hand of the other agent, 176, pressing down against the top of the car’s couch-like front seat as the man braced himself against being thrown forward. Wainwright was already taking the car out of gear, his left hand grasping the door handle and yanking it up.

  “Wainwright,” 937 said, and Wainwright felt the man’s hand on his arm. “Wait. It’s not safe.”

  “Forget it,” Wainwright hissed. “He’s not getting away this time.” Fueled by anger, with visions of Allison perhaps bleeding to death taunting him, he jerked his arm free and pushed himself from the driver’s seat, his right hand already closing around the grip of his pistol and yanking it from his shoulder holster. With one single, practiced move, he raised the weapon and cocked its trigger, turning to where the Certoss agent should be.

  He still was not fast enough.

  The single shot rang out a heartbeat before white-hot fire tore through his stomach and Wainwright gasped. His legs gave out and he stumbled, falling against the open car door. Fighting to retain his grip on the pistol as the first wave of pain washed over him, he clamped his left hand to his gut where blood already was staining his white shirt. Movement ahead and to his right made him look up to see the Certoss, its human façade now gone, pulling itself from where it had been kneeling in the grass. Wainwright realized that hitting the alien with the car must have damaged the harness it wore to present its human appearance. The Certoss seemed unsteady as it rose to its feet, though its arm did not waver as it raised its pistol in Wainwright’s direction. This time, and despite his own injury, Wainwright was faster, the .45 bucking in his hand as he fired his first shot. It hit the Certoss in its torso and it stumbled backward, almost falling but somehow managing to keep its balance. It was holding its free hand against its midsection as it continued forward.

  Tough son of a bitch.

  “Captain! No!”

  The sudden cry from somewhere behind him was squelched by the sound of a shrill whine as a blue beam crossed the open space between the car and the Certoss. It struck the alien in the chest and this time it fell,
crashing backward to the grass. Agent 937 appeared around the rear of the car, dividing his attention between Wainwright and the fallen Certoss. “Damn it,” he said as he got his first look at Wainwright’s injury, then looked over the top of the car. “Spock, get over here. He’s hurt.”

  From around the driver’s-side door appeared Agent 176—or “Spock,” as 937, or “Captain,” had just called him—moving to crouch next to Wainwright. “He requires immediate medical attention.” Removing his suit jacket, the agent rolled it and pressed it against Wainwright’s abdomen.

  “What about the other two agents?” The question sounded tiny and distant in Wainwright’s ears.

  Agent 176 shook his head. “Both dead, Captain, as a consequence of their injuries. We do not have much time.”

  Much time? Time for what?

  “Who are you?” he asked, pushing each word past his clenched jaw. While he was somewhat certain that the one man, 937, was human, seeing his partner in the daylight for the first time only strengthened his belief that Agent 176 was a Vulcan like Mestral. The fedora concealed the top of the agent’s ears, but Wainwright was betting they were pointed.

  His tongue felt swollen and his gut throbbed, a new pulse of agony accompanying every heartbeat. A haze seemed to have fallen across his vision, blurring everything.

  Shock.

  Leaning close, Agent 937 said, “We’re friends, Mister Wainwright. We’re going to get you medical treatment as quickly as possible.”