by Dayton Ward
“You think an alien spaceship is here to disrupt the moon landing?” Christopher frowned. “What will that accomplish?”
Waving the folder, Wainwright snapped, “Can’t you see? They want to slap us down, keep us pinned to our own planet. That way, we’re all right here when they come to take us over. They can’t wait ten or fifteen years to make their move. By then we’ll have space stations and a base on the moon. They’re striking now, before we have a chance to learn how to defend ourselves against them.” He had no proof of this, of course. All he knew was that the Certoss had pledged to destroy Earth by any means necessary. The mysterious ship photographed in orbit the previous year—the same craft Christopher had described during his intercept mission—could be a Certoss vessel, and if that was the case the world might well have arrived at the eve of invasion.
“This is unbelievable.” Christopher looked around the room, and Wainwright saw that the captain’s attention was not just on him but also the door leading from the room. Was he contemplating escape?
“You’re talking movie stuff,” he said. “Martians and mind control and taking over the world. It’s ridiculous! There’s no such thing as little green men.” Then he stopped, as though forgetting his next words. His expression slackened and he blinked several times, as though trying to call forth a memory stubbornly refusing to reveal itself.
“What?” Wainwright asked, stepping closer. “Something’s bothering you. I can see it in your eyes. What is it?”
Reaching up to rub his forehead, Christopher grimaced. “No. I . . . I was there,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “On the ship. They brought me aboard, destroyed my plane.” Confusion clouded his face and he shook his head. “But, that’s impossible, isn’t it? There was no time for that to happen. I only saw it for a second, but I was there. I can see a man . . . was it a man? He had weird, pointed ears.”
Now it was Wainwright’s turn to be surprised. “Pointed ears? Are you sure?”
Christopher nodded. “Yes.”
This was unexpected. Had the Vulcans returned? Were they continuing their covert observations of Earth? If that was true, then perhaps the ship in the photograph was not an actual threat. There was no way for Wainwright to know, not without the assistance of someone who could provide the required insight. Mestral might know, but he had not been heard from for more than a year. For all Wainwright knew, the Vulcan was dead.
“You know something about this,” Christopher said, his gaze hardening. “I can read faces, too, Mister Wainwright, and I can see that you know something. Who are these people? Where do they come from?” Instead of waiting for an answer, he now started moving about the room as though working to organize his thoughts. “I don’t understand why I can’t remember everything, but there are still bits and pieces. It’s all a jumble.” He held up a hand, as though waving away his uncertainty. “I have to report this; tell them what I saw.”
Wainwright replied, “Yes. We have to get this information out, warn people that there’s an alien ship up there waiting for God knows what.”
“My superiors will inform the joint chiefs,” Christopher said. “The president will take action, maybe delay the launch until they can figure out what’s going on.”
“The president?” It took all Wainwright’s self-control not to burst out laughing. “Captain, this country is preparing to send three men to the moon. They know about that ship just like we do, but they can’t afford to acknowledge it. Putting a man on the moon is a political imperative. There’s no way they’ll risk screwing that up, even if it costs the lives of three brave men and the work of thousands of other people.”
He stepped forward, holding out the folder. “But, we don’t have to let that happen. We can take this to the newspeople, get it on television. The government won’t have the chance to bury it. They’ll have to delay the launch and deal with the problem.”
Disbelief clouded Christopher’s features. “I can’t do that. My superiors already know I saw something. I have a duty to report what I know.”
“No!” Wainwright barked, shaking the folder in his hand, and all but waving it under the captain’s nose. “All these years we’ve spent trying to get them to understand, to accept the truth and deal with it, but they’ve ignored us! Now they’re shutting it all down and throwing it away, and me along with it. This could be my last chance to prove to them how wrong they’ve been. You’re not going to take that away from me.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Christopher said, stepping away from him and moving toward the door. “I’m going to go report. Somebody has to be wondering where the hell I am, anyway.”
Wainwright drew his pistol and cocked its trigger, which was loud enough in the small room to make the pilot stop in his tracks. “I can’t let you do that, Captain.”
Eyeing the weapon’s muzzle, Christopher said, “Shooting me won’t help.”
“I don’t plan to shoot you unless you force me to,” Wainwright countered. He hated that the situation had deteriorated to this point, but the captain was leaving him no choice. Going to his superiors would all but guarantee that both of them would be hushed until after the launch, and by then it could be too late.
Christopher made no attempt to hide his astonishment. “You can’t be serious. All this time, you say you’ve been working to protect us all from supposed alien threats, and now that you’ve got someone to help corroborate your story, you’re going around them just so that you can prove to them how right you’ve been all these years? Don’t you realize how pathetic that sounds? Where’s your honor or duty?”
“Gone, along with my marriage and my son and the rest of my life,” Wainwright said. The Air Force owed him quite a lot, he had decided, and it was long past time for them to settle their bill. “You’ll get to tell your story, Captain, but we’re going to do it my way.” Using the pistol, he motioned for Christopher to move to the door. “Let’s go.” The pilot reached the door and opened it just enough to look out into the gray, empty corridor. He paused, and Wainwright placed the muzzle of the pistol between his shoulder blades. “Move, please.”
“Fine,” Christopher said. Then he yanked the door open, and Wainwright realized he was standing too close. The door’s edge caught him across his face and he winced in pain as he reached for his nose. Christopher turned and swung at him, the punch connecting with the side of his head and forcing Wainwright to his knees. His lost his grip on the pistol and he felt it slide from his fingers before it went clattering across the floor. His vision blurred and filled with spots, and he heard Christopher’s heavy boots running down the corridor.
Wainwright staggered to his feet and set off in pursuit, lurching into the hallway in time to see Christopher sprinting toward the elevator. “Stop!” he shouted, bringing up the pistol. The first shot echoed in the corridor but Wainwright missed. His aim was better when he fired a second time, watching as Christopher’s body jerked before he stumbled and fell to the floor. Blood already was staining the left shoulder of the pilot’s orange flight suit. Rolling onto his side, Christopher pressed his right hand to his wounded shoulder, and Wainwright could see the blood seeping through his fingers.
Holding his free hand to his nose and feeling wetness coming from it, Wainwright jogged up the corridor, aiming his pistol at Christopher. “I’m sorry.” He had not wanted things to go this way; had not wanted to make the pilot his enemy. Christopher was supposed to be his ally in this. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Well, good job with that,” Christopher said, hissing the words through gritted teeth. “I’m sure the TV stations will love how you shot me so I’d go along with you.”
“It doesn’t look too serious,” Wainwright said, kneeling close enough to inspect Christopher’s wound. He extended his hand. “Come on. I’ll take you to a medic.”
Wincing, the pilot asked, “Before or after I help you?”
Even as Wainwright began to reply, both men turned at the sound of a single bell
tone from the elevator just as the doors parted to reveal a young blond woman. At first Wainwright scowled, not recognizing her as anyone who even should have access to the building, then he paused as something triggered in his memory. She seemed familiar, somehow, but from where?
“Who the hell are you?” he snapped.
The woman smiled. “A friend you don’t remember.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
U.S.S. Enterprise
Earth Year 2268
On the transporter room’s viewscreen, Minister Ocherab, flanked by Gejalik and Adlar, clasped her hands in what Kirk now recognized as a Certoss friendship gesture.
“We are in your debt, Captain. Thank you, for everything.”
Kirk smiled. “On behalf of my crew, Minister, it was our pleasure. Gejalik and Adlar, I wish you the best of luck. I think you’re going to love what your world has become.”
Looking first to Adlar, who nodded, Gejalik replied, “Thank you, Captain. We look forward to seeing it for ourselves. Like Minister Ocherab, we too are in your debt.”
“Safe travels,” Kirk said. “Enterprise out.” The image on the screen shifted to show the Balatir arcing away before it disappeared into subspace.
“Another day, another crisis averted,” said McCoy from where he stood in front of the transporter console.
“I quit counting.” Kirk looked to where Roberta Lincoln stood with Mestral on the transporter pad, with Spock standing near the steps leading to the raised platform. Mestral once more was dressed in the 1960s-era clothes he had been wearing upon his and Gejalik’s arrival aboard the Enterprise.
“They’re not the only ones in your debt,” Lincoln said, smiling. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for everything you did to help me. I’m sorry I even had to ask, but sometimes a girl on her own needs help from people she can trust.”
“You and me both, sister,” McCoy said, grunting in agreement.
Kirk asked, “So, everything’s where it’s supposed to be? The Certoss are still a peaceful people, and the Tandarans are satisfied that will remain the case. Earth was never destroyed by an advanced alien race from the future, and neither did it head out to destroy other worlds once it gained the technology to do so.”
“Not bad for a day’s work, if you ask me,” McCoy said.
There still were some issues to smooth over, Kirk knew. The encounter with the Tandarans and their attack on a Federation vessel would keep the diplomatic cadres of both governments working overtime for the next few weeks, but Kirk already planned to submit a report he hoped would offer mitigating explanations on the Tandarans’ behalf. It was not hard to understand the situation they believed they were facing, incredible as that scenario might seem.
Great, Kirk mused. More paperwork.
“What about Wainwright?” he asked.
Lincoln replied, “I’ll keep an eye on him, but I doubt he’ll be any trouble. I’d just as soon leave him in peace. He’s certainly earned that much.”
McCoy asked, “Can you tell us what happened with Project Blue Book and Majestic 12?”
“Blue Book was ended in 1969,” Lincoln replied. “Officially, anyway. There were still a few activities that carried into the 1970s, but the United States government never acknowledged that. Some records were declassified and made available to the public as years passed, but it continued to generate controversy and conspiracy theories because of what wasn’t released.”
“Such beliefs persisted well into the twenty-first century,” Spock said, “with many people remaining convinced that the government was keeping information about extraterrestrials from the public.”
Lincoln shrugged. “They were right, of course. As for Majestic 12, since it was always Blue Book’s classified cousin, not much is known about them or their activities. UFO fanatics believed the organization continued in some capacity for decades. I tried to do some digging on this, myself, but they covered their tracks very, very well.”
Spock said, “There is almost no documentation about them in the data banks. Either such files were deliberately destroyed by the group to maintain its secrecy, or they simply didn’t survive through that period during the twenty-first century when so many records were lost.”
“Probably not the worst thing that could happen.” Lincoln shrugged. “For my money, the public was better off not knowing how close they came to being destroyed on however many occasions, not just by their own governments but because of interference from outside forces.” When she paused, Kirk saw that she seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then, she sighed. “Sometimes I think I’d have been better off not knowing, but what are you going to do? When I think about how I got involved in all of this, it really was my own fault, you know?” That seemed to raise her spirits, and she even laughed a bit. Turning to Mestral, she bobbed her eyebrows. “All right, let’s get this show on the road.”
“I am grateful to you for allowing me to return to Earth, Miss Lincoln.” He nodded to Kirk. “And to you, Captain.”
“Earth?” McCoy asked, frowning. “Not Vulcan?”
Mestral replied, “It is my desire to continue my observations of Earth and humanity, Doctor. The time period I left was something of a turning point in your history, and I wish to be on hand to see what happens next.”
“What if you’re discovered?” McCoy asked. “Won’t that affect our history, too?”
Lincoln said, “We’ll be keeping tabs on Mister Mestral as well, Doctor. Besides, how do you know his being on Earth doesn’t prove beneficial to our history in some way?” She said nothing else, leaving the cryptic question to hang in the air as she retrieved her servo from a pocket. She keyed the device, and a blue-black fog appeared at the rear of the transporter chamber.
“Thank you for your help, Roberta,” Kirk said. “And to you, Mestral.”
Spock offered a traditional Vulcan salute. “Peace and long life, Mestral.”
Returning the gesture, Mestral replied, “Live long and prosper, Spock, and to you and your crew, Captain Kirk. It pleases me to know that our two peoples become friends and allies. I’ve always believed that it would be our differences—as much as our similarities—that would bring us together.”
“That’s one way to put it,” McCoy said, grinning at Spock, who responded only by lifting his right eyebrow.
Lincoln led Mestral onto the transporter platform before turning back to Kirk and the others. “It was good seeing you again, Captain.”
“Same here, Miss Lincoln,” Kirk said. “Feel free to drop in the next time you’re in the neighborhood.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” After a final wave, she turned and, followed by Mestral, disappeared into the blue fog before the cloud itself dissolved into nothingness. Only the echo of its energy field remained for a few lingering seconds before it also faded.
“Please tell me I’m not the only one who could use a drink after all this?” McCoy asked. “Not that it really matters, but I really hate drinking alone.”
“I may have time for one,” Kirk said, “but the big question is whether I want it before or after I write my reports for Starfleet Command.”
“Before,” McCoy answered, crossing his arms. “And after, the more I think about it. Maybe even during.”
“I’m probably asking for too much,” Kirk said, “but I really hope our next mission isn’t quite so . . . odd.”
His expression unreadable as always, Spock replied, “Past history would suggest that is highly unlikely.”
Kirk grinned. “Point taken.”
ONE LAST THING
THIRTY-EIGHT
Yountville, California
November 6, 1996
“Dad? Is it okay if I turn it down a little?”
Turning from the television, Michael Wainwright could not help smiling as he looked over to see his father once again dozing in his favorite recliner. That seemed to happen a lot these days, which Michael knew to expect. The doctors had told him that the elder Wainwright’s new prescriptions mig
ht make him prone to drowsiness, particularly toward the later part of the day and when coupled with his father’s propensity for being an early riser. That odd habit had resurrected itself after being absent for many years, but now James Wainwright awoke promptly at five thirty each morning, often without the aid of an alarm clock, and was dressed and sitting in his recliner by the time the nurse came around to dispense the day’s first rounds of medications. Michael remembered a similar morning routine from his early childhood, when his father would be up, groomed, and in his Air Force uniform reading the paper by the time he and his mother came down the stairs for breakfast.
His father had eschewed the practice during the early years of his retirement. It was not until he came to live here at the veterans home in Yountville, an hour’s drive from Michael’s home outside Sacramento, and after the onset of Alzheimer’s disease, that the occasional yet increasing reversion to past habits and memories began to assert itself. The doctors had cautioned Michael that such behavior was normal, and that he should be prepared for references or statements that on their face might make no sense, while still holding meaning for his father. It was not uncommon to hear him call out a name Michael did not recognize, or to make reference to something he had done during the war or some other period of his long military career. Most of the references were cryptic, and later forgotten when his father managed for a while to escape the delusions. It was this aspect of his condition that was the most frustrating, as there were days when he displayed total clarity, with no demonstrable signs of the disease that—although still diagnosed as being in an early stage—was waging slow, inexorable war upon his mind. He and Michael could be having a normal conversation one afternoon, but his father would have no memory of the meeting on Michael’s visit the next day. So far, there had been only one occasion that the elder Wainwright failed to recognize his son, an event that had so shaken Michael that he sat in his car for an hour, crying in the home’s parking lot.