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

  That line of thought was interrupted by the whistle of the ship’s intercom followed by the voice of Lieutenant Nyota Uhura.

  “Yellow Alert. The ship is now on Yellow Alert. Captain Kirk and Mister Spock, please report to the bridge. Captain Kirk and Mister Spock to the bridge, please.”

  • • •

  Displayed upon the bridge’s oversized main viewer was the image of a spacecraft of unfamiliar design, moving at what Kirk guessed to be a very high rate of speed. Unlike most vessels with which he was familiar, he found the unidentified craft as much a work of art as it was a functional construct. Possessing no angles or straight lines, it featured long, gentle curves, as if the entire hull was created as a single piece rather than being assembled from components. It suggested grace as well as speed, something Kirk found appealing.

  It’s beautiful.

  “Report,” he commanded, refocusing his attention on more important matters.

  From where he sat at the bridge’s helm station, Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu looked over his shoulder. “Sensors detected its approach a few moments ago, sir, traveling at high warp on an intercept course. It’ll be within our weapons range in less than two minutes. Our shields are up and weapons are on standby, but they don’t appear to have any weapons at all.”

  “You’re sure?” Kirk asked, looking to where Chekov manned the science station in Mister Spock’s stead.

  The young ensign nodded. “Aye, sir. They have shields, but they’re not raised. I’ve been able to identify the ship configuration, Captain. It’s a Certoss vessel.”

  “Certoss?” Kirk repeated, frowning. “They’re a long way from home.”

  So far as he knew—which, admittedly, was not much—the Certoss people, though capable of interstellar travel, in general preferred not to stray too far from the worlds of their own star system. It was one of the few data points that had stood out to him during his recent review of the survey reports filed by the U.S.S. Endeavour’s captain following her initial contact with the race.

  There was, of course, a very valid reason for the ship to be here, sitting at this moment in his brig, but to arrive here and now?

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  “The vessel is about the size of a small scout craft,” Chekov said, “with a length roughly three times that of a standard Starfleet shuttlecraft, and about twice the width. Sensors are picking up nine life-forms aboard, all Certoss.”

  Kirk nodded at the report. “Thank you, Ensign.”

  Behind him, the turbolift doors parted and Spock emerged onto the bridge, pausing as he got his first look at the vessel displayed upon the viewscreen. His right eyebrow rose.

  “Fascinating.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Kirk said, before looking to where Uhura was sitting at the communications station. “Try hailing them again, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Uhura replied, reaching for the Feinberg receiver inserted into her left ear as her right hand moved across her console’s array of controls. “They’re not responding, but I can confirm that they are receiving our hails.”

  “Keep at it,” Kirk said, leaning forward in his chair. “And just to see what happens, advise them that we think we know why they’re here, and we’d like to discuss it with them. Maintain Yellow Alert for now, until we see what this is about. Spock, I don’t suppose our guest mentioned anything about this?”

  The Vulcan shook his head. “No, Captain, but we did activate her communications device. It’s possible that the Certoss vessel intercepted whatever message was sent, but I am at a loss to explain how they could have responded so quickly.”

  Kirk had been thinking along similar lines. From what he remembered, the Certoss system was nearly two weeks distant even at maximum warp. Given its people’s penchant for staying close to home, the odds of encountering a Certoss vessel were slim enough already. What was a Certoss vessel doing in this area of space in the first place?

  “Captain,” Uhura called out from the communications station, “we’re now receiving a response to our hails. They seem most eager to speak with us.”

  Smiling, Kirk nodded. “I thought that might get their attention. On-screen, Lieutenant.”

  The main viewscreen shifted from an image of the alien vessel to that of a Certoss. She wore a flowing, wine-colored gown highlighted by streaks of light blue, and a large oval pendant hung around her thin neck. Appearing older than Gejalik, this person stood before what Kirk at first thought might be a piece of abstract art. A closer look told him that it was some form of a wall-mounted control panel, a pattern of multicolored swirls not merely decorative but instead looking to be the layout of controls and monitoring devices. As with the ship itself, its internal components seemed constructed with aesthetic form as well as function in mind.

  I’ll bet Scotty’d have a field day poking around over there.

  “Greetings,” he said, rising from the command chair and making his way around Sulu to stand before the viewscreen. “I’m Captain James Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. Are you in need of assistance?”

  On the screen, the Certoss female replied, “Greetings, Captain Kirk. I am Minister Ocherab, of the Unified Envoy Vessel Balatir. I apologize for this rather unexpected meeting, but your sensing devices hopefully have determined that my ship carries no weapons, and that we intend no aggressive action toward you.”

  From the science station, Spock said, “Captain, the library computer verifies that a vessel matching that name and description is in service to the Certoss planetary government. In fact, since formal first contact by the U.S.S. Endeavour, it has been used to ferry Certoss representatives to meet with Federation diplomats.”

  “Stand down from Yellow Alert,” Kirk said, satisfied with the report before returning his attention to Ocherab. “Minister, may I ask what brings you this way, and why you were on a course to intercept us?” It may have been his imagination, but he thought he detected what might pass for uncertainty or even embarrassment on the Certoss leader’s face as she looked down for a moment.

  “Captain, I must confess that I do not understand all the aspects of my current mission, but the simple answer to your question is that my government directed my vessel to this region of space.” She appeared to falter, as though unsure of her own words, before continuing. “Our original instructions were to rendezvous with your vessel and to seek out a meeting with you, Captain. At that time, no specific time or location was given, and this information was only relayed to me upon our arrival in this sector. However, it is my original orders that raise the most questions.”

  Intrigued even though he was sure he understood at least part of Ocherab’s confusion, Kirk asked, “In what way, Minister?”

  As though deciding there was nothing to be gained by delaying any more, the Certoss straightened her posture as she gazed out from the viewscreen. “Captain, I know this will sound odd, but the reason we are here is because we were directed to this location, at this point in time, in order to pick up a passenger reportedly in your custody. This individual is of great interest to our science ministry, owing to the fact she dispatched a message to Certoss Ajahlan.” She paused, looking to someone or something offscreen before nodding. “As you measure it, her message was sent three centuries ago.”

  “Three centuries?” Kirk repeated, forcing his expression to remain neutral.

  It seemed the day was not yet done being odd.

  SIX

  Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Dayton, Ohio

  April 21, 1952

  Staring at the handwritten letter for the third time, his eyes tracing each character’s curves rendered in a style as familiar to him as his own hand, James Wainwright felt his teeth clenching as sadness welled up within him.

  I know your work is important to you, and you’re driven by your duty. It’s one of the many things I’ve always loved and admired about you, but I’m tired of being the second most important thing in your life. I know this wasn’t always true, and I don’t kno
w what’s changed, but I know that I just can’t tolerate it anymore.

  “Sir?” a voice called out, soft and tentative. “Are you all right?”

  Wainwright cleared his throat, looking across to where Airman First Class Allison Marshall sat behind her desk, staring at him over stacks of files, books, and other papers. The piles of paperwork, along with still more material crammed into desk drawers, filing cabinets, and even the adjacent office, had all but come to define her existence—and his. She was dressed in the female variant of the Air Force enlisted member’s service uniform, with a dark blue skirt and jacket over a light blue dress shirt, and a dark blue neck tab rather than the tie worn by her male counterparts. Her dark brown hair was pulled back and secured in a small bun at the base of her neck.

  Drawing a deep breath, he shook his head. “It’s . . . nothing. Just some personal business.”

  “It’s Deborah, isn’t it, sir?” Marshall asked without batting an eye.

  You don’t talk to me, about anything. Is it because you can’t, or you just don’t want to?

  In most other circumstances, Marshall’s question would have been inappropriate, given their professional working relationship and Wainwright’s position as her superior officer. Still, the nature of their duty assignment and the conditions under which they often were forced to operate—long hours, traveling, and maintaining secrecy from family and friends—had seen to it that they had become close friends and even confidants. Until Marshall was assigned as his clerical assistant early the previous year, Wainwright had not had anyone with whom he could discuss his work except for other case officers, and they all had their own assignments and security directives to follow. Though his wife, Deborah, at first was put off by the notion of her husband traveling across the country with another woman, she never once raised any questions or suspicions that anything untoward might be occurring between him and Marshall.

  Please know that I love you, Jim, and I always will.

  Wainwright nodded. “I suppose I knew it was coming.” He folded the letter and returned it to the matching envelope he had found the previous evening on the kitchen table. Deborah and their son, Michael, had not been there when he came home after yet another trip to some other city for still another in a seemingly unending series of investigations. Earlier in the week, Deborah had broached the idea for her and Michael to go back to California to visit her parents for a while. Given Jim’s workload and the schedule he had been keeping in recent months—along with wishing to avoid an argument—he had raised no objections. Time apart would do them good, she had told him, which Wainwright had almost found humorous considering the long periods of time he was forced to be away from home, and Deborah’s letter had confirmed the California trip.

  The rest of her message, on the other hand, had hit him like a hammer.

  And it’s your own damned fault, he reminded himself.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, sir,” Marshall offered, “I don’t think you’re being very fair to yourself.”

  Wainwright slid the envelope into his top desk drawer. “Military life’s hard on families, Marshall, and that’s before the military adds on a lot of extra baggage to carry around.” His wife, both before and after Michael’s birth, had endured her share of service-induced separations, beginning with the war. She had married him in a quiet, rushed ceremony just two nights before he shipped out for England in early 1944, and he had communicated with her only via letters for nearly a year afterward. Deborah had weathered his time away in superb fashion, occupying her days working in a factory near her family’s home in Sacramento. They enjoyed a delayed, extended honeymoon after his return before he settled into his postwar duties. In the fall of 1946, Michael entered their lives, and Wainwright now brought along his family to new assignments. Life continued in routine, even boring fashion as he worked at the base in Roswell, but everything changed on that fateful day in 1947.

  “Oh, I can imagine, sir,” Marshall said, averting her gaze as she returned to moving various papers and files around her desk. “I can only seem to keep a boyfriend as long as I stay here, but the minute I’m sent somewhere? Kiss him good-bye.”

  Despite his mood, Wainwright smiled at her comment. At twenty-six, Allison Marshall was smart and unafraid to speak her mind, a trait he admired. Though military discipline prevented her from straying too far from traditional courtesies and demeanor, she had no problem voicing her opinions to him if she felt she needed to be heard. Their working relationship was such that he long ago had encouraged her to dispense with protocol when they were alone.

  “Well, it’s their loss, then,” Wainwright said. Clearing his throat, he tried—with only marginal success—to put the letter out of his mind. Though he knew saying as much reinforced everything Deborah had been trying to tell him, there really were more pressing matters demanding his attention just now. “Do you have the report on the Kansas City sighting? Captain Ruppelt’s been asking about it.”

  Marshall held up a file folder. “Finishing it up now, sir. I’m waiting on the photos we took to come back from the lab.”

  “Good.” The photographs he and Marshall had collected were nothing spectacular; just supporting documentation of the people who had reported seeing an “unidentified flying object” or “UFO,” as the Air Force now called such unknown craft, as well as the area where the alleged sighting had taken place. As one of the senior members of the project here at Wright-Patterson, Wainwright was sent to Kansas City, Missouri, to investigate the report as filed by their liaison officer at Whiteman Air Force Base, the closest installation to the city. Marshall had gone with him. “Thanks for turning that around so quickly. I know we just got back last night, and it was a Sunday night to boot, but you know how Ruppelt can be.”

  “Not a problem, sir,” Marshall replied, ever the consummate professional so far as their actual work was concerned. She paused, and Wainwright watched her eyes take in the stacks of paperwork cluttering her desk. “I’m not saying a vacation to San Diego or Miami wouldn’t go unappreciated, though.”

  For the first time that morning, Wainwright chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do, but I wouldn’t count on anything more than a weekend pass anytime soon. If anything, I think we’re going to be getting busier.”

  From its humble beginnings here five years earlier, the original Majestic 12 project had evolved far beyond the investigation of the original spacecraft landing at Roswell along with any possible aftereffects of that incident. Within months of the project’s inception, the Air Force launched another initiative, Project Sign, with a primary mission of investigating the increasing number of UFO sightings.

  As this mandate was separate from MJ-12 operations, Professor Carlson—still a central figure in the original group’s leadership committee—had requested of the new project’s commander, Captain Robert Sneider, that Wainwright be designated as a liaison officer between the two groups. For nearly a year, Wainwright and other Air Force officers investigated reports submitted by military personnel as well as civilians. Though no hard evidence had been collected during this time, details as relayed from individuals claiming to have seen strange aircraft bore enough similarities that senior government and military officials were becoming convinced that some form of extraterrestrial activity was taking place in the skies above America and, indeed, the entire world.

  Skeptics also put forth theories that some of these sightings might well be top-secret aircraft from the Soviet Union. Such notions had been bandied about even before the launch of Project Sign, and Wainwright had heard rumors that investigations such as those currently being conducted were taking place as much as a year before the Roswell Incident. Wainwright and other project officers had been able to debunk such theories, though their investigations did not always lead to evidence of alien activity. Doubts in the higher echelons of government and the military soon began to take their toll. Despite credible witnesses, compelling photographic evidence, and other collected findings, a lack of tang
ible, actionable proof had begun to chip away at the support Project Sign had enjoyed at its inception. A report submitted by Captain Sneider to the Air Force chief of staff, General Hoyt Vandenberg, containing a comprehensive assessment that many of the reported sightings could be attributed to extraterrestrial activity, was rejected. When the project became public, this invited more skepticism and even ridicule, resulting in Sign’s deactivation and subsequent replacement by a new initiative, Project Grudge.

  Straightening a stack of papers before putting them inside a brown file folder stamped “TOP SECRET,” Marshall placed the completed file in a cardboard box containing several more folders of identical design.

  “While I’m waiting on the photos from the Kansas City trip, I thought I might catch up on some filing, sir. We’ve got several older case logs here that need to go into storage next door.”

  “Probably a good idea,” Wainwright said, eyeing the other file boxes and folders littering the office. Captain Ruppelt had been keeping him and Marshall busy during these past few months, leaving little time for the mundane yet necessary paperwork that accompanied each investigation. “Double check with the master list, and make sure we keep anything from an active file here, even if it’s just for something small. Until we get used to the new system, I don’t want anything to get lost.”

  Marshall nodded as she picked up the file box and headed for the door. “Yes, sir. It’s nice to have people actually being interested in what we’re doing, for a change.”