by Dayton Ward
“No,” she replied with an irritated expression. “I can activate the beam close to their location, but it can’t grab them while they’re on the move.”
That made it simple, Kirk decided. “Then we’ll have to go and get them. Spock, I need you to stay here and keep trying to deactivate that thing. We can’t let it go off.”
“I believe I may be of assistance.”
Everyone turned to see one of the Iramahl standing before them. He appeared unarmed, his hands held away from his body.
“My name is Canderon.” He pointed to the Iramahl ship. “I was the technical specialist aboard that vessel. I should be able to assist in deactivating the destruct protocol.”
Lincoln said, “That’d be awesome, right about now.”
Canderon did not appear to understand her tone. “Drevina, the leader of our group, seems to think you are allies, rather than enemies.”
“That’s right,” Kirk said, taking his phaser and, in very deliberate fashion, placing it in his jacket pocket. “We’ve come a . . . long way to find you. We want to help you and your people, if you’ll let us.” He gestured to the ship. “It’ll be easier if you can stop that.”
Canderon nodded. “I understand. I have only one request: please help my friends.”
“We can do that,” said Lincoln, and when Kirk looked at her, she nodded toward the door. “Come on. I’ll drive.”
“Drive?” Kirk asked.
Lincoln smiled. “You’ll see.”
Twenty-Eight
Major Daniel Wheeler felt his heart leap into his throat as the helicopter’s spotlight focused on the speedboat below them. After several minutes of the boat’s driver attempting to evade pursuit, Wheeler finally found himself staring into the face of an actual, honest to goodness alien.
“Son of a bitch. Right there.” Reaching over, he tapped the chopper’s pilot on his shoulder. “Get after them,” he said into his helmet microphone, his voice filtered through the helicopter cabin’s communications system.
Captain Peter Edwards, one of a handful of air force pilots detached to Project Cygnus at Raven Rock, guided the MH-53J helicopter closer to the water.
“They’re making a run for it,” said Wheeler.
Edwards shook his head. “From this distance, taking them out is easy.”
“No. We want them alive.” It was the first time since his taking command of Project Cygnus that such an opportunity had presented itself. Encounters with extraterrestrials had happened more than once to other case officers during his tenure with Project Blue Book, and he had been on hand when remains were recovered and studied. Though he had been an outspoken skeptic about such things at the beginning of his tenure with these assignments, Edwards had seen far too much by this point to doubt the existence of aliens, let alone the threat they represented.
And now here he was, looking into the face of an actual specimen.
Tracking the alien transmission had been a stroke of incredible luck, even if it had still left them with a sizable area to search. The Brooklyn Navy Yard, all but abandoned, provided a huge number of potential hiding places. They had been attempting to hone in on the signal when Edwards had spotted an explosion from one of the buildings along the waterfront. With nothing to lose after several fruitless hours of searching, it was their best lead of the day, and it had panned out in spectacular fashion.
Would you just look at this damned thing?
Though seemingly humanoid at first glance—as seemed to be the case with so many others they encountered—the differences in this alien’s physiology were stark. Its pale yellow skin and hairless head gave it an odd, sickly appearance, at least to Wheeler. It wore a dark bodysuit that both served to highlight its human-like build while at the same time helping it to blend into the darkness that was broken now only by the helicopter’s spotlight. As far as Wheeler could tell, this specimen was a female, accompanied by a male companion who currently was driving the boat.
“I don’t think we’ve ever seen one like these,” he said, looking over his shoulder to where Lieutenant Moreno stood hunched between Wheeler and Edwards. Behind the young Marine was Master Sergeant Dwayne Wallace, an older enlisted man who also was the helicopter’s gunner, sitting behind the M60 machine gun mounted just inside the open hatch just aft of Edwards’s seat on the craft’s flight deck.
Moreno, wearing a helmet like the rest of the crew, shook his head. “Me neither, sir. I don’t think anyone has.”
Another triumph for Project Cygnus, Wheeler thought. While he had the support of General Vessey and therefore the rest of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, capturing live specimens of a newly encountered extraterrestrial race and being able to study and exploit whatever advanced technology they possessed was at the heart of the mission he had been given. It would serve as a harsh wake-up call for those who had expressed doubt about the worth of efforts like Cygnus, or who continued to live in ignorance of the very real danger hiding and living among them all.
If the aliens could be taken alive.
“Can we disable the boat without hurting them?” he asked.
Edwards replied, “If we can get them to slow down, then maybe, but there’s no guarantees, Major.”
“Let’s give it a shot.” Wheeler shifted in his seat, angling for a better look at the boat as the pilot guided the helicopter even closer to the water. For a few brief seconds, he was reminded of his own time behind the stick, flying low and fast over treetops and rivers before deciding that there were challenges to be found elsewhere. He still felt the rush, though, and it was hard to keep from smiling.
Such thoughts vanished right along with the boat as it disappeared without warning from the spotlight’s beam.
“What the hell?” Wheeler twisted in his seat, trying to track the boat even as Edwards was slowing the helicopter and beginning to turn it back the way they had come. It was obvious that the boat had just decelerated, using the cover of darkness to provide a few precious seconds as the aliens aboard it made some desperate bid at evasion.
Edwards completed the turn so that the helicopter now faced up the East River leading back to the Navy Yard, but the boat was not there. Using the controls for the spotlight, Wheeler swept the beam from left to right until he saw the wake trailing the boat as it headed back the way it had come. Wheeler realized what the aliens were planning.
“We’ve got to cut them off before they go ashore,” he said, pointing through the windshield. “Otherwise, we’ll lose them.”
Turning in his seat, Wheeler pointed to Master Sergeant Wallace. “Fire across their bow.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the gunner, adjusting his position in his seat as Edwards banked the helicopter to give Wallace a shot. The master sergeant let loose a string of fire from the M60, every fifth round a tracer that produced a bright orange streak that let Wheeler see the shots plowing into the water ahead of the boat. With Edwards continuing his approach, Wallace adjusted his aim to keep his fire ahead of the craft. With the spotlight now once more capturing the boat in its harsh glare, Wheeler could see the two figures moving beneath the protective canopy, and then the female turned to face him.
There was something in her hand.
Wheeler pointed toward the boat. “Pull up!”
• • •
The aircraft was moving low enough to the water and at a sufficiently slow speed to make targeting it a simple matter.
Drevina waited until Glorick decelerated the boat as they approached the wooden-and-metal seawall before firing her weapon. The single burst cast off a sphere of intense light as the energy pulse spat forth, striking the nose of the helicopter. The craft’s response was immediate, its pilot attempting to maneuver it away from danger as she fired again. This time the pulse slammed into the helicopter’s flank, and she could see its armored metal siding buckle from the impact. There was a noticeable change in the p
itch of the craft’s engine, and it seemed to wobble in midair as its pilot regained control and guided it away.
The seawall was within reach as Glorick slowed the boat and deactivated its engine. “Come,” he said, reaching for his own weapon and moving to climb onto the wall. “We must keep moving.”
With Glorick leading the way, they set off running away from the water. This area of the Navy Yard was all but deserted. No buildings here featured any internal light sources, with only a few dim lamps scattered the length of the nearby street making any attempt to ward off total darkness.
“Which way?” asked Glorick. “And what do we do about Canderon?”
Drevina had already been considering that part of the problem. They could not leave their friend behind, not now. With Ptaen hunters and now human agents pursuing them, the chances of being captured or killed was increasing by the moment. They already knew what would happen if the Ptaen found them, but what of these humans and their odd, obviously alien companions? Had she heard them correctly? Were they potential allies? As for those now giving chase in the helicopter, it was not difficult to surmise their intentions: capture, at any costs.
There also remained another, more pressing issue: the ship and the destruct protocol. Drevina could not allow that to happen, regardless of what happened to her, or Glorick and Canderon.
Then you have but a single course of action.
Taking a moment to survey her surroundings and orient herself according to the map she had memorized, Drevina pointed toward a cluster of buildings to the west.
“That way.”
It was time to end this.
• • •
“Wait, something’s wrong.”
Kirk scowled as he adjusted the tricorder’s settings. Was the unit malfunctioning, or was he just reading the display wrong? His gut told him it had to be the latter.
“What is it?” asked Roberta Lincoln from where she sat behind the steering wheel of her car, guiding the vehicle down the Navy Yard’s darkened streets.
“The Iramahl,” he said. The readings were correct. “They’ve changed direction. They’re no longer on the water. I think they’re moving on foot.” After first escaping the area in a boat they must have brought with them, the other two Iramahl now were back on land. Had they changed their minds? Were they worried about their companion, who was helping Spock and Mestral? That made sense, particularly with the Ptaen still in the area.
At least Kirk was sure they were still in the area. Unlike the Iramahl, he had been unable to track the Ptaen’s location with the tricorder since leaving the Aegis building. Were they able to evade the scans somehow?
One thing at a time, Admiral.
Adjusting the tricorder’s settings again, he said, “Three hundred yards west of our present position.”
“Hang on.” Lincoln stomped on one of the car’s pedals, and Kirk braced himself against the dashboard as she spun the steering wheel to her left. The vehicle’s speed dropped in dramatic fashion and its tires screeched in protest as Lincoln guided the car onto a side street. She hit the accelerator again, and the car jumped forward, its engine howling with power and purpose and its rumble echoing off the metal and brick facades of the abandoned buildings they passed. Kirk noted how she handled the vehicle with the confidence of an experienced driver well versed in the capabilities of the vehicle under her control. What had she called it back at the Aegis building? Her baby? Painted a bright red with a retractable black top, she called the car a Mustang. Manufactured nearly twenty years earlier and given to her by her father, the vehicle was subjected to meticulous care, which now was bearing fruit as the vehicle raced down the dark, empty streets.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked, unable to resist despite the gravity of their current situation.
Her eyes on the road, Lincoln smiled. “I live in New York City. I never get to drive like this. Hell, I hardly ever get to drive at all.”
“But you know how, right?”
Instead of replying, Lincoln made the car go faster.
Trying not to cower in the front seat as he braced himself against the dashboard, Kirk divided his attention between the tricorder and the road ahead of them, which to his critical eye looked to be suffering from neglect. Lincoln seemed unfazed by any of that, however, navigating the car around those potential hazards with deft precision.
“Haven’t you ever driven a car, Admiral?”
Kirk frowned. “There’s been some debate.” Before he could clarify, the tricorder beeped in response to one of the prompts he had programmed it to provide. Looking at the road ahead, he saw a junction where the road intersected with another thoroughfare to the right. “Turn here.”
“Got it.”
Gripping the door handle as Lincoln executed the turn at speed, Kirk felt inertia pulling his body toward her at the same time the car’s tires squealed on the pavement. She eased off the speed until the Mustang was at the turn’s midpoint, then hit the accelerator again. The car’s engine roared with new power.
“They’re up here,” Kirk said, his eyes on the tricorder. He pointed toward two large, abandoned buildings standing along the waterfront. Aside from the headlights on Lincoln’s car, a lone streetlamp provided the only illumination. “They’ve stopped. Probably holding position and waiting to see what we’re about.”
Lincoln slowed the car, pulling it to one side of the road and extinguishing its headlights before turning off its engine. With his side window rolled down, Kirk was struck by the near silence of their surroundings. Aside from the sound of water lapping against the nearby seawall, the odd bell from a buoy somewhere in the East River, and insects, there was almost no other ambient sound.
No, Kirk realized. There was something else.
“What is that?” he asked, unable to identify the odd, rhythmic thump that seemed distant and yet close at the same time.
Lincoln said, “Helicopter.”
“Is that what we saw before?” Kirk had noted an odd, wingless aircraft flying fast and low over the water as they had made their way down the street running parallel to the waterfront. Then he reviewed the scan data collected by the tricorder during the past few minutes. “That’s it. They must have been chasing the Iramahl.”
“Sure, because why not?” asked Lincoln, though he could tell from her tone along with whatever else she muttered under her breath that she was not seeking an actual answer. Instead, she pushed open the door on her side and exited the car.
By the time Kirk got out, the sound from the helicopter seemed to be fading. No, he decided, that was not it. Instead, the aircraft’s engine sounded as though it was powering down. Had the helicopter landed somewhere nearby?
Wonderful.
When his tricorder beeped again, Kirk glanced at its display, and for an instant the image on the unit’s compact screen seemed to break up before refocusing itself.
“Something wrong?” asked Lincoln.
Eyeing the tricorder, Kirk frowned. “I’m not sure. For a second, it was acting like it was getting some kind of ghost or double reading, almost as if—”
He flinched at the sound of Lincoln’s servo whining and a burst of energy erupting along the side of the warehouse building ten meters from the road. Only with the flash did Kirk see the figure hugging the wall, all but invisible with its dark clothing. Its black hair and violet skin identified the alien as a Ptaen. Lincoln’s shot missed but not by much, the servo’s energy bolt chewing into the side of the building now that she had upped the device’s power level. The resulting blast sent brick and mortar shrapnel exploding in all directions. The Ptaen was cowering to protect itself, and it stood still long enough for Kirk to take aim with his phaser. His weapon’s blue beam lanced across the open space, but the Ptaen somehow avoided the salvo. Then it was running again, using the darkness to its advantage as it plunged between two abandoned
warehouses.
Searching the area for other threats, Kirk saw nothing. Then the dark retreated somewhat as Lincoln activated a silver flashlight she had taken from her car. She shined its beam along the nearby building, but Kirk saw nothing.
“Come on,” he said, checking his tricorder again. “The Iramahl are close.”
Kirk started jogging, Lincoln fell into step beside him, and they set off into the night.
Twenty-Nine
The cockpit was cramped, with just enough room to accommodate Spock, Mestral, and Canderon, but it pulsed with a power it had not known for more than a century.
“Access enabled,” said Canderon from where he sat at one of the workstations facing away from the center of the confined chamber. The Iramahl had been working at a brisk pace since the three of them had boarded the vessel, and though his species did not appear to perspire, Spock was able to see the strain on the alien’s face as he focused on the tasks before him. Canderon’s long, thin fingers moved across the workstation’s smooth surfaces with an assuredness that communicated his skill with the equipment, which Spock found remarkable given the amount of time that had passed. His efforts were being rewarded, as several of the consoles and displays around the cockpit had come to life and were beginning to communicate an array of information Spock only partially understood.
“Detonation in five minutes, twelve seconds,” reported Mestral. “I am detecting no change in the destruct protocol.”
“There will be no change,” said Canderon, not turning from his console as he worked. “We will either deactivate it, or it will execute. The ship’s intruder control efforts have removed all but the most extreme options that would normally be available to us.”
Mestral said, “I find it interesting that we did not somehow accidentally trigger the protocol ourselves.”
“Several of the oversight systems are compromised or inoperative,” replied Canderon, “including most of the safety protocols. However, there are contingency processes in place, designed to prevent premature execution of the protocol when the system detects the presence of what it has determined are innocent parties. What I do not understand is how it did not interpret your attempts to infiltrate the computer system and disengage the protocol to be an attack. In theory, that is the sort of penetration it is designed to prevent.”