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

by Dayton Ward

  “And what mission is that?”

  “Earth technology and science have developed at a rate exceeding current political and social advancement. Agents assigned to this planet are to secretly observe progress of human civilization and take appropriate clandestine action to prevent premature annihilation.”

  It was an interesting notion, Gejalik conceded, one at total odds with her reasons for being on Earth. Was it possible that the work of these agents might one day lead to a human civilization that did not view her people as a threat? Her superiors had never discussed activities of this type taking place in this time period. Was it a secret to them, as well, or had such agents simply not been present in whatever timeline had brought about Earth’s aggression against Certoss Ajahlan? Gejalik’s mind swam with the possibilities.

  Deactivating her shroud harness so that her human façade vanished and left her with her natural form, she said, “Computer, are you able to scan me and make a physiological determination?”

  “Scans indicate you are a humanoid; not native to this planet. Notations in my record banks support preliminary findings that you are a member of the Certoss race.”

  Gejalik nodded even though there was no one to see her gesture. “Do your records have any other information regarding other members of my species?”

  There was a pause as the Beta 5 processed the query, then it said, “There are notations in files recorded by Agents 6, 201, and 347 regarding humanoids matching your physiology. Notations supported by numerous classified United States government agency reports.”

  “Are any members of my species in the custody of the United States government?”

  “Affirmative. One specimen collected in Yuma, Arizona, in 1952. No other specimens are indicated.”

  So, either the American military did not have Jaecz in their custody, or else that information had not yet been entered into any file or record to which this computer might have access. Deciding to change her line of inquiry, Gejalik asked, “What can you tell me about the spacecraft that was in orbit five days ago?”

  “U.S.S. Enterprise,” the computer replied. “Traveled back in time from the year 2268 to observe activities on present-day Earth.”

  Three hundred years in the future? Not so far as from where she had come, but Gejalik still was impressed. There had been no discussions with her superiors of humans sending ships or teams through time to Earth’s own past for study. “Has the ship returned to its own time?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Frowning, Gejalik asked, “How do you know this?”

  “I am able to lock onto their present location in space and time, in accordance with instructions provided by Supervisor 194.”

  Lacking the necessary technical skills, Gejalik had no idea how such a feat might be possible. She also was uncertain as to the identity of the “supervisor” mentioned by the computer, but she assumed it was the older human male she had seen entering and exiting the apartment during her reconnaissance. “So, you’re able to link to the ship?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “What about other locations and periods in time?”

  “Yes, but new coordinates can only be entered with direct supervisor authorization and security protocols.”

  Gejalik hissed in frustration. To be so close to home and have it remain just out of her reach? Though she and her companions had long ago consigned themselves to the probability of never returning to their own world, the discovery of these mysterious humans and their incongruous technology had—she was forced to admit—given her new hope. With time, Jaecz might well have devised a way to override the computer’s security procedures, but she did not possess his technical expertise.

  “What about communications?” she asked, more to herself than the computer. Jaecz’s scanner had given her access to the computer’s communications system, so perhaps she could send a message, if not to the Certoss Ajahlan of her own time, then whoever might be listening. It took her several moments to compose what she thought might be a message that would not be dismissed out of hand by whomever received it. She did not even know if receiving a return message was possible. With limited time at her disposal before the office’s true occupants returned, Gejalik knew she would have to work fast.

  “Message transmitted,” the Beta 5 reported a moment later. From behind her, Gejalik heard a low mechanical hum. She turned to see the glassware shelves parting to reveal what at first appeared to be a large bank vault. The wheel at the vault door’s center spun of its own accord before the door itself swung open to reveal the interior chamber, from which emitted an odd high-pitched whine. A check of the scanner revealed that the vault in actuality was the matter transmission device about which Jaecz had informed her.

  “This is amazing,” she said, at first not realizing that she was talking aloud, and therefore was surprised when she received a reply, but not from the computer.

  “Indeed, it is.”

  • • •

  Mestral had but a moment to study the advanced computer interface that was the office’s most interesting feature, aside from the Certoss herself, who now regarded him with an expression of shock. She stood still, hands away from her body as she caught sight of the particle beam weapon in his hand.

  “Gejalik, I presume?” Though he never had met her, the memories from his mind meld with Jaecz provided him with the identities of the Certoss agent’s companions, and Gejalik was the only surviving female member of their group.

  It had taken some time to locate her, working from the incomplete information given to him, James Wainwright, and Allison Marshall from the reporter, Cal Sutherland, about possible alien activity at NASA facilities in Florida and Texas. Mestral spent months studying the activities, comings, and goings of hundreds of employees matching vague descriptions offered by Sutherland’s contact, before he determined the identities of the disguised Certoss. Still more patience and time was required before one of the agents, Gejalik, led him to the loft building in Trenton, New Jersey, where he had found the eclectic assemblage of cannibalized and repurposed equipment. Mestral had been impressed with the setup, and acquainting himself with its functions had been a challenge. In contrast, following Gejalik here to New York had been a simple task.

  Her brow furrowing, she said, “You are the Vulcan, Mestral. Jaecz told us about you; the observer, content to watch humanity and their fitful progression from primitive society to interstellar tyrants. You’re working with the humans, trying to stop us.”

  Mestral nodded. “Yes. Your actions cannot go unchallenged. I am aware of the ‘temporal war’ in which your people fought, and how you believe that your mission is a just one, protecting your planet from potential future harm, but such action no longer is required. That conflict does not exist in this timeline. In the future to come, this planet and yours will be allies.”

  “How can you know that?” Gejalik asked, making no effort to mask her skepticism. “Are you from this future?”

  “No,” Mestral conceded, “but Vulcan was a party to the war in the timeline from which you came. That is not the case in the reality we inhabit. My people are peaceful explorers, studying emerging cultures like this one. If you are allowed to carry out your mission, Gejalik, you will not be acting in defense of your people, but instead be committing global genocide.”

  “I’m supposed to just trust you, Vulcan?” For the first time, the Certoss moved, lowering her hands a small degree. Mestral raised the particle beam weapon and she again stopped.

  “I have no desire to harm you or your companions, but I cannot allow you to proceed. You already have lost two of your friends, and your attempt to trigger a nuclear war has failed. No such further attempts will be permitted. You must know that.”

  Gejalik scowled. “I know only that I have my mission.”

  She was fast. Moving before Mestral even could register what was happening, she vaulted over one of the office’s stuffed chairs and dropped to one knee behind it. Mestral saw her hand reachi
ng for something at her waist and he fired his weapon. The particle beam whipped past the chair, but Gejalik already was moving again, jumping over the chair toward him. Trying to adjust his aim, he saw the flash of light reflecting off something metallic in her hand.

  He raised his free arm in time to block the knife’s downward thrust, but Gejalik swept her other arm to knock the particle weapon from his hand. Mestral heard it fall to the carpet behind him but he ignored it, concentrating instead on the immediate threat. The knife pulled back before again coming at him and he dodged, lashing out with his left foot and catching Gejalik in her stomach. She grunted, stumbling to one side and giving him an attack opening. Lunging forward, he ducked beneath her knife and swung with the edge of his left hand, trying to dislodge the weapon from her grip. Gejalik anticipated the move and retreated, scrambling backward to give herself room. Her eyes fell on the particle beam weapon and she snatched it from the carpet. Before she could turn the weapon on him, Mestral sprinted across the carpet to close the distance, crashing into her and carrying them both into the vault.

  “Wait!” Gejalik cried as they both fell to the floor, but by then it was too late. Mestral felt an odd tingling sensation playing across his exposed skin as a blue-black mist settled around them. They both scrambled to their feet and Mestral turned to look where the vault’s entry should be, but saw nothing. The fog obscured everything.

  What was happening?

  THIRTY-TWO

  Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Dayton, Ohio

  April 22, 1968

  Welcome back. —JC

  The short missive was lying at the center of his desk. It was written on a small note card bearing no header or other identifying mark, but James Wainwright recognized Professor Jeffrey Carlson’s impeccable handwriting. While others might think the greeting lacked flair, Wainwright knew better, and he smiled at his friend’s simple yet thoughtful gesture.

  “What’s it take for a girl to get some flowers sent her way?” asked Allison Marshall from where she stood behind her own desk. Her left arm was supported by a sling in order to keep from aggravating her wounded shoulder, but she showed no other signs of the injury she had sustained. In her free hand was a card similar to the one Wainwright held, and she gestured toward his note. “You, too?”

  Wainwright nodded, realizing that he had been resting his free hand on his stomach, his fingers tracing the scar beneath his shirt that ran across his abdomen. It still itched, though he tried to ignore it. “He probably took heat from somebody up top just for offering this much.” Given the current climate surrounding Majestic 12 and Project Blue Book, Carlson might be damaging his own standing within both organizations by choosing not to distance himself from Wainwright and, to a lesser extent, Marshall. Since the McKinley incident and throughout his recovery these past few weeks, Wainwright was able to discern the shift in thinking with respect to his and Marshall’s status within the project. It manifested in various ways, from the pointed lack of official visitors while they both convalesced at the base hospital to the lack of response as—from his apartment while on restricted duty as part of his recuperation—he attempted to catch up on the backlog of paperwork waiting for him at his office. Now that he and Marshall had returned to their official duties, or whatever remained of them, it was obvious to see that other “adjustments” were being made. Several of the filing cabinets that once had dominated their office’s rear wall were gone, as were many of the files and other boxes of documents that had filled floor and shelf space around the room. Change was in the air, Wainwright knew. What remained to be seen was its scope, and its ultimate impact on him and Marshall.

  “Do they have UFO sightings in Alaska?” Marshall asked. “Something tells me we’ve got a good chance of finding out.”

  Chuckling at her gallows humor despite his darkening mood, Wainwright replied, “I don’t think you have too much to worry about. You weren’t involved in the worst of it. They’ll probably go easy on you, but me?” He frowned, shaking his head. “Maybe I should buy a parka.”

  “You shouldn’t beat yourself up so much,” Marshall said. “It’s not healthy, Mister Wainwright.” She stepped around her desk and he mirrored her movements so that they met in the center of the office. He began reaching with his right hand but stopped himself when he realized he was about to touch her injured shoulder and changed hands. “Everything will work out. You’ll see.” She raised her free hand to touch the side of his face. “Besides, we’ve still got each other, right?”

  Wainwright grinned, reaching up to squeeze her hand. “Maybe we should retire, find someplace warm and sunny, with lots of beach to walk on, and lots of drinks with rum and little umbrellas in them. Forget all about this, and go enjoy life for a change.”

  Her eyes brightening along with her smile, Marshall cast a glance toward the window, which revealed the start of another gray day. “I’m liking the sound of that.”

  A knock on the door interrupted their quiet moment, and they released each other’s hands before Wainwright called out, “Come in.” The door opened to admit Jeffrey Carlson, the professor carrying a well-worn brown leather briefcase. Now close to sixty years of age, he appeared older still, his thin hair and full beard having gone from gray to white. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and he wore a pair of narrow-lens glasses perched on his nose. He was thinner than the last time Wainwright had seen him, though he moved with a confidence and strength that belied his appearance. Wainwright was not even aware that the elder man was in Ohio, figuring him to be ensconced within the confines of the super-secret Air Force base in the middle of the Nevada desert where he had been consumed with all manner of classified shenanigans.

  “Jim, my old friend! Welcome back,” Carlson said, entering the office and extending his hand. As they shook, the older man gestured toward Wainwright’s stomach. “I trust you’re healing rather nicely?” Turning, he embraced Marshall while minding her injured shoulder. “Allison, the years are powerless against your beauty. You’re as radiant as ever.” Stepping back, he offered them both a warm smile. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who feels that way,” Wainwright countered.

  Carlson offered a derisive snort as he set his briefcase atop Marshall’s desk. “Not at all.” He waved in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, don’t get me wrong; there are quite a few people who are none too happy with what transpired down in Florida.” Lowering his voice, the professor added, “But there are those of us who know at least some of the truth regarding your activities, and are therefore among your group of loyal supporters.”

  Marshall smiled. “Of course. Figures they’d bring you back for that.”

  “Regardless of what you may think, my friends, your accomplishments have not gone unnoticed.” Carlson shrugged. “On the other hand, they do raise as many questions as answers, such as how you were able to track the Certoss agents’ movements to the McKinley base and other locations.”

  Clearing his throat, Wainwright said, “You can thank Mestral for that.” After discussing it, he and Marshall had elected to keep to themselves the assistance provided by the two mysterious men, the human and his Vulcan companion who had referred to themselves by their code designations, Agents 937 and 176.

  “We’re still the only three who know about Mestral, right?” Marshall asked.

  Carlson nodded. “So far as I know. Have you heard from him?”

  “No,” Wainwright replied. “The last time we were together, he was on his way to New York. He thought he’d figured out where the Certoss might’ve had a base of operations, either there or maybe New Jersey.”

  “He was going to contact us when he had something concrete,” Marshall added, “but that was before we left for McKinley.”

  Moving to one of the chairs positioned before Marshall’s desk, Carlson took a seat. “So, he’s presumably still out there, somewhere, along with two more Certoss aliens who’ve become experts at keeping a low profile afte
r living among us for almost twenty-five years. For all we know, their life spans are such that they could go another twenty-five years, and simply outlive us.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Marshall retorted, before reaching out and patting the older man’s shoulder.

  “Where does that leave us?” Wainwright asked.

  Carlson settled into the chair. “That’s a very good question, my friend. The short-term answer is that very little will happen. For the time being, Project Blue Book’s profile is to be curtailed; drastically, in some respects.”

  Feeling his heart sink, Wainwright scowled. “They’re shutting us down?”

  Marshall leaned against her desk. “But, we’ve more than proven that other alien species are out there, studying us, and a few of them don’t seem to like us all that much. What about those?”

  “As always, my dear, MJ-12 will continue to take the lead in those matters, but this business of investigating every civilian UFO sighting or report of ‘alien abduction’ has done more to harm our efforts than anything else. It’s the debunked reports that give pause to those in Congress who control our funding, and they have other priorities, to say nothing of little time or patience for unrealized threats when there are plenty of real ones plaguing our world right now.”

  “For years, we’ve straddled the fence between Majestic 12 and Blue Book,” Wainwright said, eyeing Carlson. “So, what about now? Are you finally pulling us over to your side of the fence?”

  The professor smiled. “That’s certainly my intention, but these things do take time. In the interim, you and Allison will be attending to various close-down activities for Blue Book. Once that’s completed, and if I get my way, you’ll be working directly for me. No more of this liaison nonsense. You’ve been watching from the sidelines and staring through the windows for far too long, and I need people I can trust.” Reaching for his briefcase, he laid it across his lap before opening it. “And on that subject, I have something I’d like you to see.” From the case, he removed a manila file folder, which he handed to Wainwright, whose eyes narrowed as he read the label adorning its front: “TOP SECRET/MAJIC EYES ONLY.” He had seen such warnings only on rare occasions over the years, and always as a consequence of Carlson sharing with him information Wainwright likely was not supposed to see.