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

  “What?” Scott asked. How had he missed something like that? “Are you sure?”

  “Affirmative,” replied the first officer. “I am not surprised that your instruments failed to register it. My tricorder is programmed to detect a much broader spectrum of readings than your diagnostic tools.” Then, as though realizing he may have said something a human might find inappropriate, he looked up from his tricorder. “It was not my intention to impugn your skills, Mister Scott.”

  The chief engineer smiled. “Worry not, sir. However, I wouldn’t mind you having a look at my scanners. Maybe you can give them the same bit of adjusting you’ve obviously given your tricorder.” He nodded to the Certoss transmitter. “After we figure out this wee beastie, though.”

  Handing Scott his tricorder, Spock said, “If you’d please monitor these readings while I attempt an adjustment.” He reached across the table and retrieved the multi-phasic transducer from Scott’s diagnostic kit, adjusting the compact unit’s power setting before aiming it at the Certoss device. The chief engineer studied the tricorder’s display screen as Spock worked, noting the fluctuations as the transducer went about its work. Then, the tricorder beeped at the same time Spock nodded in apparent approval.

  “That should prove sufficient,” the Vulcan said. “If we can activate it, we should be able to gain a better understanding of its functionality before we risk allowing it to transmit.”

  The device, with no assistance from Spock or Scott, chose that moment to activate of its own accord.

  “What the devil?” Scott asked, flinching in response to the shrill beeps the device emitted.

  Retrieving his tricorder, Spock said, “The unit has acquired a connection with our communications system and is transmitting some form of encrypted burst data packet.”

  Scott grabbed the device and pressed each of the buttons on its recessed control pad, and a moment later the electronic litany ceased. “Irritating little bugger.”

  “Bridge to engineering!” called the voice of Ensign Chekov, filtered through the intercom system. “Mister Spock, our sensors have just detected a subspace burst transmission originating from your location!”

  Stunned by the report, Scott almost felt his jaw go slack. “Subspace? That whole array is under constant security lockout. How in the name of William Wallace was this thing able to do that? It couldn’t possibly be that sophisticated.”

  “I don’t believe it is,” Spock said, taking the device from Scott and eyeing it with his hard, dark eyes. “All that would be required was the interface protocol. As intriguing as this unit’s capabilities may be, however, I’m afraid we face a more pressing question.”

  “Aye,” Scott said, nodding in comprehension. “We need to find out who’s on the receiving end of that message.”

  • • •

  Kirk took a seat at the briefing room’s table across from Mestral. A pair of security guards, Ensigns Minecci and Hawthorne, stood to either side of the doorway leading from the room, but the Vulcan wore no restraints. A glass of water sat untouched on the table. Doctor McCoy had given Mestral a physical and found him to be in good health, and the mysterious guest even had accepted the physician’s offer of a meal prior to being brought here.

  “I trust you’re being treated well,” Kirk said by way of greeting.

  Nodding, Mestral replied, “Yes, Captain. Thank you.” He sat with his hands clasped and resting on the table before him, ramrod straight in his chair. His expression, of course, betrayed nothing, though his eyes tracked Kirk’s every movement.

  Kirk glanced to the guards at the door. “I apologize for the security, but until we can corroborate your story, I hope you’ll appreciate the need for caution.”

  “Given the circumstances,” Mestral said, “anything less would be imprudent and illogical. Rest assured, Captain, that despite the years I have spent living among humans and after acquiring several of your people’s habits, I have not yet learned to take offense even when none is intended.”

  The chuckle Kirk almost released was interrupted by the door opening to admit Spock, who settled himself in the seat closest to the computer interface terminal at the head of the table. Kirk watched as the science officer, who had been carrying a pair of computer data cards, inserted one of the cards into the terminal’s reader slot.

  “I have run a check against Vulcan Science Academy computer records,” Spock said, turning his chair to face the group, “and there was a Vulcan crewmember named Mestral assigned to a survey ship that conducted a reconnaissance mission of Earth during the twentieth century. That ship crash-landed in 1957 in a sparsely populated area of North America, which at the time was referred to as ‘Pennsylvania.’ According to Academy records, two of the four crewmembers were later rescued, but Mestral was reported as having died along with the ship’s commander in the crash.”

  Mestral nodded as he listened to Spock’s report. “T’Mir agreed to file that report on my behalf. As I never again encountered anyone from my home planet, I assumed that her explanation was accepted without incident, and the matter closed.”

  “Other Vulcan ships did visit Earth in the years following your landing,” Spock said, “though a review of survey records filed by those vessels’ commanders reveals no further mention of your name.” Turning to Kirk, he added, “Captain, it’s worth noting that I did not offer any information from my review to Mestral prior to this meeting, though he correctly named the female Vulcan who was rescued from Earth in 1958.”

  “The other surviving member of our crew was named Stron,” Mestral offered.

  Kirk asked, “What made you decide to stay on Earth?”

  For the first time, Mestral reached for the nearby glass of water and took a sip before answering. “During the three months that transpired between our crash and the rescue ship arriving at Earth to retrieve us and what remained of our vessel, I had become . . . accustomed to living among humans.” His expression seemed to soften. “I had always been intrigued by your planet and its people, Captain. Our study of humans to that point led us to believe that your species was on the verge of numerous societal and technological advancements. The development of nuclear energy in particular was something of interest and concern to us, as we did not yet know if such progress might herald a new age of discovery and exploration or the utter destruction of your world.”

  “A bit of both, actually,” Kirk said. “We know that Vulcans were observing Earth for decades before—” He stopped himself, his expression growing sheepish. “I’m sorry, Mestral, but I almost revealed information pertaining to events that for you haven’t yet taken place.”

  “I understand, Captain,” the Vulcan replied. Looking to Spock, he added, “It is good to see that relations between our two peoples appear to have grown and strengthened in the time you say has passed. As for time travel, in my century, researchers and other subject matter experts at the Vulcan Science Academy maintained that was impossible. My encounters with Gejalik and her fellow Certoss have shown me a very different perspective.”

  “The Academy was forced to reevaluate its stance in light of certain incidents and other occurrences that have taken place since your time,” Spock said. “Though not at all common, time travel has been achieved using various methods, none of which are easily duplicated.”

  Leaning forward, Kirk rested his elbows on the conference table. “What about this Gejalik and the other Certoss agents operating on Earth in your time?” he asked, realizing as he did so how strange the question sounded, directed as it was to Mestral. “How did they come to be there?”

  “Some form of temporal displacement technology on their homeworld, Captain,” the Vulcan replied, “though I never did ascertain much in the way of relevant data regarding any such mechanism.”

  Kirk asked, “How were they able to blend in with the human population? Vulcans, at least superficially, can pass for human well enough. That is, so long as no one takes a serious interest in you, but the Certoss? Did they use harne
sses like the one she was wearing to appear human?”

  Mestral nodded. “It essentially is a form of holographic projection system, allowing the wearer to present whatever outward appearance is desired, or even render themselves invisible. From what I have observed, the most common use for the device is to simulate the appearance of other living beings. It includes within its framework a universal translation device that enables the wearer to further blend in with another species, provided it has been programmed with the necessary languages.”

  Spock said, “Mestral, when you were captured, you said that the Certoss agents were working to effect humanity’s destruction. This behavior, along with the technology they appeared to employ, is very much at odds with what we know of the Certoss people.”

  His brow furrowing, Mestral shook his head. “I am unable to explain that discrepancy, Commander. I can offer only my testimony based on what I witnessed, and the actions I took to prevent them from achieving their goal. Once the Certoss agents realized we might well defeat them, they worked to summon assistance.”

  “The signal sent by the transmitter was aimed at the Certoss system, Captain,” Spock said. “It used our subspace array to dispatch its burst packet.”

  Mestral replied, “That was always a goal of the Certoss agents. Though they have proven quite resourceful at adapting to the limitations of technology available to them, those restrictions prevented any such realistic attempt at contacting their homeworld. At least, not until they discovered the presence of your ship in orbit.”

  “How were they able to accomplish this?” Spock asked.

  “As I said, Commander,” Mestral replied, “they were restricted; not powerless. They were able to construct a device that allowed them to scan Earth orbit for the presence of space vessels, perhaps with the goal of exploiting any ship or opportunity that made itself available. I was pursuing Gejalik when I discovered she had learned of this ship. I cannot be sure, but I believe her original plan was to come aboard prior to your departure, but when that proved impossible, she . . . devised another course of action. I caught up to her, but was unable to apprehend her before we both were transported here.”

  Kirk asked, “What about the equipment used to bring you here?”

  “I am unable to speak to its capabilities,” Mestral replied. “When I found Gejalik, she had infiltrated an office building in New York City that contained a collection of advanced computer and other equipment, very much out of place with respect to the human technology of the time.”

  “Mister Seven’s office,” Spock said.

  Mestral turned his attention to the first officer. “As I said before, I am not familiar with that individual, nor do I have any idea how any of the equipment operated, but I would have welcomed the opportunity to study it in detail.”

  “You mentioned others with whom you were working,” Spock said. “After your arrival, you presumably elected to keep your identity a secret, but later partnered with what you described as a ‘clandestine organization’ with the goal of preventing Earth’s destruction?”

  Mestral paused for another drink of water before saying, “I do not believe the organization with which I found myself began with that particular goal, but it became one of its paramount concerns as years passed.” Eyeing the two Enterprise officers, he added, “Perhaps it would be helpful if I recounted the entire story of my activities on your world.”

  Kirk grunted. “I imagine it’s quite the eye-opener.”

  “An apt description, as I understand the term, Captain,” Mestral said. “What you may well find even more startling to know is that the relevant events begin several years before my arrival on your planet.”

  BEGINNINGS

  THREE

  Wright Field, Dayton, Ohio

  September 23, 1947 (ACE)

  Another day, another office in the backyard of nowhere.

  Sitting in the steel chair with its cracked cushion behind a worn wooden desk that was lacking the bottom file drawer on its right side, Captain James Wainwright took a long drag on his cigarette and wondered who he might have angered. He watched the smoke trailing from his cigarette to the ceiling, noting the visible water damage staining a few of the tiles. The rest of the room was an unimpressive affair; the cinderblock walls were painted a light gray and featured an assortment of nails which once had held pictures or art or whatever else the office’s prior occupant had chosen for the workspace. A black phone, a dull metal ashtray, and nothing else adorned the desktop. Along the wall opposite Wainwright’s desk was a set of five metal cabinets, which to him looked as though they might have been rescued from disposal mere moments before his arrival. Three of the cabinets were black, the others gray like his chair and walls, and all of them scuffed, scratched, and dented. Morning sunlight filtered through dusty blinds that were hanging before the pair of single-pane windows, which were the most interesting feature of the office’s rear wall. Wainwright glanced through the windows, which faced west, and noted the looming line of storm clouds darkening the horizon beyond the other buildings and hangars within view.

  “There’s an omen,” he said to no one, switching the cigarette to his left hand before reaching for the mug of steaming coffee sitting on the desk. It was the only breakfast he had managed to acquire since being directed to this office by the hapless sergeant on duty in the building’s main lobby. It would have to do until such time as somebody told him why he was here, who had summoned him, and why everything surrounding his presence at Wright was, apparently, a big damned secret. He sighed as he drank his coffee, looking once more to his reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the wall to his right. His blond hair, which he kept closely trimmed because he felt it looked better with his balding dome, was looking a little long. He had not had time for a haircut; in accordance with the orders given to him the previous day, Wainwright had caught the first available flight from Roswell Air Force Base—Roswell Army Air Field until its renaming less than a week ago. A bumpy ride aboard a C-47 Skytrain transport from Roswell had seen to it that he arrived at Wright Field just in time to catch a fitful few hours’ sleep in the visiting officers’ quarters, with instructions waiting for him in his room to report to this particular nondescript office building at 0700 hours.

  Glancing first at his wristwatch and then the clock on the wall above the office door, Wainwright verified that it was, in fact, 0748 hours. Less than a minute later there was a knock on the door, and he rose to his feet as a man dressed in a dark suit entered the room. Wainwright recognized him at once.

  “Professor Carlson?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “What the hell are you doing here?” As Wainwright recalled, Jeffrey Carlson was in his late thirties, though he seemed to have aged several years since their last meeting following a mysterious event the military was striving to keep secret, but which already was being referred to in some public circles as “the Roswell Incident.” Carlson looked tired, with bags under his blue eyes, though the eyes themselves still harbored that spark of intelligence and awareness Wainwright remembered.

  “Good to see you, too, Captain,” Carlson said, smiling as he extended his hand.

  Wainwright nodded, taking the proffered hand. “I have to say, Professor, that you’re the last person I expected to see here, of all places.”

  “I know you’ve got a lot of questions,” the professor replied, “and I’m sorry about how you were sent out here. I trust the flight wasn’t too bad?”

  “So, you’ve got something to do with bringing me here?”

  Carlson smiled again. “I’m afraid so.” He gestured for Wainwright to retake his seat behind the desk before retrieving one of the straight-backed chairs from the table by the windows. “When I was briefed into my own assignment here, you were one of the first people I thought would make a good addition to the group.” Turning the chair so it faced away from Wainwright’s desk, he straddled it and laid his forearms along the top of its backrest. “We didn’t get to talk too much about w
hat happened at Roswell, did we? Then everything was classified top secret, and nobody was talking about it at all. Let me ask you something, Jim: What do you think the United States should be doing now that we know, without any doubts, that there are beings from other worlds with an apparent interest in Earth?”

  As far as Wainwright could remember, Carlson never had referred to him by anything other than his rank and last name. In truth, they had never had much interaction at all, until that fateful day back in early July when an honest-to-goodness spacecraft from another planet crash-landed near Roswell, New Mexico. The craft and its occupants, three odd beings who identified themselves as “Ferengi,” had at first attempted to negotiate opening some kind of new trade market here on Earth. The alien in charge, who called himself Quark, had offered to Wainwright’s superior, Lieutenant General Rex Denning, the chance for humanity to acquire all manner of advanced scientific and other technological knowledge. Denning, to his credit, had remained suspicious of the aliens from the beginning, skeptical of their intentions right up until the moment they escaped custody, retrieved their spacecraft, and disappeared back to the stars from whence they had come.

  Reclining in his chair, Wainwright fished the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered a smoke to Carlson before taking a fresh one for himself. “To be honest, Professor, I’m torn on the whole thing. On the one hand, I thought we had a chance to learn from the Ferengi. Remember what the one, Quark, was telling General Denning? Our own spaceships, machines that create food out of thin air, weapons? It all sounded too good to be true.” He paused, flipping open the stainless steel lighter he had pulled from his trouser pocket and lighting his cigarette before passing the lighter to Carlson. “How much of that was just lies to cover up their invasion plans? You remember what that other Ferengi, Nog, said, right? That we’re ‘ripe for conquest’? Well, if that’s the case, then I figure we need to be doing everything we can to make sure we’re ready when that invasion fleet of theirs decides to come for us.”