Star Trek: The Original Series: From History's Shadow Page 9

  Shrugging, McCoy replied, “Well, I am quite unbelievable.”

  As Kirk retrieved what he hoped was a fresher, better-tasting cup of coffee from the food slot, the briefing room’s doors opened to admit Spock. The first officer was followed by Ensign Minecci, who led a security detail escorting Mestral and Gejalik.

  “Captain,” Spock said in greeting as Minecci directed his charges to chairs at the table. Neither Mestral nor Gejalik wore restraints, and whereas the Certoss still was dressed in the blue coveralls she had been given, her Vulcan companion had been provided with a red variant of the work uniform. Once the pair was seated, Minecci and his team moved to stand a discreet distance behind them, out of easy reach but close enough to intervene should circumstances require such action.

  Nodding at the new arrivals as he resumed his place at the table, Kirk said, “I’d like to think that the need for security is temporary, but that’s really up to you.”

  “Understood, Captain,” Mestral replied.

  To his right, separated from him by an empty chair, Gejalik added, “You have nothing to fear from me, Captain. I have no desire to cause any further disruptions for your ship or its crew.”

  “I appreciate that,” Kirk said. His gut, along with the observations Spock had shared, already had convinced him that Gejalik posed no real threat, appearing resigned to her current situation. “As Mister Spock has no doubt made you aware, we’ve been met by a vessel supposedly dispatched from Certoss Ajahlan for the express purpose of locating my ship.” He already had ordered Lieutenant Uhura to follow up on that score in the hopes of validating the peculiar claim, and he had done his best to placate Minister Ocherab while at the same time withholding the more outlandish aspects of the situation. “That vessel is currently sitting off our starboard bow, and its commander is waiting patiently while we try to figure out just what, exactly, is going on. You can imagine she has a number of questions of her own. According to her, Certoss Ajahlan received a message nearly three hundred years ago, presumably sent by you.”

  The Certoss agent nodded. “That is correct, Captain.”

  Kirk already had given careful consideration to his line of questioning prior to their guests’ arrival. Things were complicated enough with Certoss Ajahlan having received the mysterious message three centuries ago, with a follow-up provided in the present. If Spock was correct about what he had told Kirk of his interview with Gejalik, there would seem to be additional temporal considerations, given that the agent currently in his custody appeared to be from a path through history not traveled by her home planet. Had the time stream changed for her, or for the rest of her people, and what did that mean for everyone and everything else?

  I’m going to need more coffee.

  Resting his elbows on the table, he asked, “Mestral, you said earlier that you were working with military officers to track Gejalik and her companions. Do you know what happened to them?”

  “My human colleagues were pursuing an investigative lead that required us to separate,” the Vulcan replied. “As for the other Certoss operatives, it is my understanding that one was killed in 1952, prior to my arrival on Earth. Another actually visited me soon after my companions were rescued and returned to our homeworld. There was a confrontation, after which he disappeared. When I began working with agents of the American military, we attempted to track the movements of Gejalik and her remaining companions. Our investigations took us in different directions. I traveled to New Jersey and New York, whereas my human partners went to Florida.”

  McCoy, sitting with his arms folded across his chest as he observed the proceedings, released a small grunt. “And I guess we all know what happened after that.”

  “We operated with extreme stealth, Captain, living in disguise for months at a time and with no contact amongst ourselves,” Gejalik replied. “It was the only way to safely infiltrate secure installations or private firms and acquire the information, materials, and access we required to carry out our mission. During one of his own operations, Jaecz became aware of what he at first believed to be evidence of agents from another advanced race, working in secret on Earth. He discovered them through their own technology, which was far more advanced than anything humans could have developed on their own by that point in time. According to him and the notes he kept, it took him a span of years to successfully penetrate the layers of security surrounding these other agents so that he could covertly gather intelligence. I only just discovered before arriving here that while they were humans, they were not from Earth.”

  “Gary Seven.” The name escaped Kirk’s lips before he even realized he was speaking it aloud. Some of the puzzle pieces now were beginning to fall into place.

  “You obviously have had previous contact with this person, Captain,” Mestral said.

  “That’s one way to put it,” Kirk replied. Before he could say anything else, the briefing room’s relatively calm atmosphere was shattered as the ship shuddered around them. Kirk reached for the table to prevent being thrown from his chair as the bulkheads and deck groaned under the strain of what felt like something striking the hull. The ship’s alert klaxon began wailing as the alarm indicator above the door flashed deep crimson, its pulsing in sync to the piercing emergency signal.

  “Red Alert!” shouted Lieutenant Sulu’s voice over the ship’s comm system. “This is not a drill! Repeat: This is not a drill!”

  Kirk keyed the intercom. “Kirk here. What is it, Lieutenant?”

  The three-sided viewer situated at the center of the table activated, and Sulu’s image appeared on all three screens. Kirk could see the agitation on the helm officer’s expression, despite the younger man’s best efforts to mind his bearing.

  “Sir, some kind of energy beam has locked onto us. Origin point unknown, but it’s definitely not the Certoss ship.”

  “All hands to battle stations,” Kirk ordered. “Deflector shields to full strength. Stand by all weapons.”

  “Shields and weapons are ready, sir, but we have no target. Whatever’s generating the beam, it’s nowhere in our sensor range. It looks to be a very powerful scanning beam, and its intensity is continuing to increase.”

  The hiss of the briefing room’s doors sliding open made Kirk look up, and his eyes widened as he saw not the gray bulkheads of the corridor beyond the entrance, but instead a bright, roiling cloud of blue-black plasma, coalescing as if from the air itself. A high-pitched whine flooded the room, but the cloud seemed to contain itself within the frame of the doorway as it grew larger and brighter.

  “What the devil . . . ?” McCoy exclaimed, his voice hoarse as he rose from his chair and backed away from the conference table.

  Gejalik and Mestral were standing now as well, and Kirk saw that the three security officers had drawn their phasers to cover their prisoners. Ensign Minecci was dividing his attention between them and what was happening at the door, his weapon moving back and forth.

  “Captain,” Mestral said, holding out a hand. “Wait. We have seen this before.”

  “It’s a transporter beam!” shouted the voice of Montgomery Scott from the tabletop viewer, and Kirk glanced over to see that the chief engineer’s anxious face had replaced Sulu on the screen.

  More puzzle pieces?

  “Scotty,” Kirk snapped. “Is it the same one we . . . ?” The rest of his question caught in his throat as a figure appeared from within the blue fog. It was a human female, dressed in dark gray pants and a matching jacket over a white blouse. Her bright blond hair was long enough to fall just past her shoulders. Though he had last seen her only a week ago, there was a noticeable difference in the way she now carried herself. She was still quite young, but there was a confidence in her blue eyes that only was just beginning to assert itself on that earlier occasion. As she stepped into the room, the blue cloud behind her faded, leaving only the corridor outside the doorway.

  “Hello, Captain,” said Roberta Lincoln. “Long time, no see.” Then, as though considering her statemen
t, she smiled. “Well, for me, anyway.”

  “Miss Lincoln,” Kirk said, studying her face and trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “Something told me you and Mister Seven would be showing up here eventually.”

  Lincoln nodded. “I would’ve come sooner, Captain, but as it happens, I only just became aware of this situation.”

  Listening to her speak, Kirk noted that her voice and movements carried with them a maturity he did not recall from their previous encounter. Her demeanor even seemed reinforced by her wardrobe. Gone were the bright, flamboyant colors and form-fitting attire he remembered, replaced with the far more reserved and professional ensemble she now wore.

  Eyeing Mestral and Gejalik with interest, Lincoln said, “One thing I’ve recently learned is that Certoss field operatives are pretty good at covering their tracks.”

  “So, you know these people?” Kirk asked, gesturing toward his invited guests.

  “I do now,” Lincoln replied, stepping farther into the room. “As I’m sure you’ve already figured out, we have a lot to talk about.”

  Kirk sighed. “I can only imagine.”

  Behind him, McCoy grunted. “I guess you’ll be writing another report.”

  TEN

  Los Angeles, California

  January 14, 1955

  Ignoring the growing ache in his hands, Cal Sutherland urged his swollen fingers to continue punching at the typewriter keys in rapid-fire fashion. After struggling with the angle he had wanted for this article, he had found his rhythm and the words now were coming fast. His fingers moved almost at a blur, working to keep pace with the thoughts coursing from his brain down into his hands. The ceaseless ticking of the keys impacting the paper was interrupted by the regular—and very frequent—sound of the typewriter’s bell announcing that he had reached the page’s right margin. As his left hand moved for the carriage return lever to push the machine’s platen back so that it realigned the page with its left margin, Sutherland’s right hand retrieved the cigarette stub from his mouth. Without looking, he reached for the ashtray on his desk, intending to snuff out the depleted cigarette, when he realized he was simply pushing it down into the mound of smoked butts that had accumulated there.

  “Damn,” Sutherland said, picking up the ashtray and dumping its contents into the wastebasket on the floor behind him. Then, he lifted the basket and brushed into it the dozen or so butts that had fallen from the ashtray to litter the papers on his desk. How had he not managed to start a fire in here? And where the hell was Glenda? Then, glancing through the open shades of his office’s dirty window, he saw how low the sun had dropped toward the horizon.

  What time was it, anyway?

  He looked to the clock over his office door and saw that it was nearly six o’clock. Glenda usually left for the day around five. Even though it was a Friday night with deadlines looming—there likely were a few other people working in other offices, or down the hall in the bullpen—most of the secretaries would already be gone unless their bosses needed something urgent.

  Coffee, for example, Sutherland thought as he examined the inside of the mug he did not remember draining. Grunting, he set the cup back down on the desk and picked up the cigarette pack, only to see that it, too, was empty. Or some smokes. Given the lateness of the hour, he considered the bottle of Scotch in his desk’s bottom drawer, but decided for the moment to resist imbibing. Once the article was finished, he would celebrate in proper fashion.

  A knock on his door made him look up, and through the door’s frosted glass window he saw a burly figure waiting outside. “Yeah?” he called out, and the door opened to admit the robust form of Tom Larkin, his friend and colleague. He was wearing his suit jacket and hat, telling Sutherland that the other man was on his way out of the building.

  “I’m hungry,” Larkin announced. “You?”

  Sutherland nodded. “Yeah, now that you mention it.” So engrossed was he in the new article that he had skipped lunch. That happened a lot these days, particularly around deadline time. He knew he was running late with the article, and his layout editor had called him four times that afternoon to remind him.

  Larkin hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going down to Mabel’s to grab a quick bite. They got meat loaf and pork chops on special tonight. Interested?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Sutherland replied. Mabel’s, a corner diner a few blocks down the street, was a favored lunch and dinner hangout for several of the people in the office. The coffee was always hot, and the waitresses always did commendable jobs filling out their uniforms. “I need a break, anyway.” Flexing his tired fingers, he leaned back in his chair and blew out an exasperated sigh. Then his gaze fell upon the page still in his typewriter and he smiled.

  “What’s that about?” Larkin asked. “You finally done with that piece?”

  “Almost, yeah,” Sutherland replied. Just a few more paragraphs to close it out and the new article would be finished, and with a little polish it would be the centerpiece of his magazine’s latest issue.

  Stepping into the office, Larkin said, “When are you going to quit writing about flying saucers and get back to where the real action is?”

  “This is the real action,” Sutherland retorted, pointing at the typewriter. “Just wait until you read this baby.” As editor in chief and the lone staff writer for Watch the Skies, one of six magazines written and published from the offices of Schlitz Periodicals, Sutherland strove to bring the magazine’s small yet loyal and growing readership actual, hard evidence proving the existence of beings from other worlds and the incredible craft in which they had traveled to Earth from some far-flung planet. “Sooner or later, more and more people are going to pay attention to all these pictures, and reports, and denials by the government. You’ll see.”

  His current project, writing about sightings of unexplained lights in the desert skies near Las Vegas, had taken him weeks to assemble. The interviews he had conducted, and even the road trip he had taken in order to take pictures of the witnesses as well as the area where the sightings had occurred, should really make the piece sing, he decided.

  Larkin chuckled. “You really do believe that stuff, don’t you?”

  Unlike Sutherland, the other man had long ago settled into his role as writer and photographer for one of the other Schlitz titles, Tinseltown Tattler, a Hollywood tabloid rag that had the distinction of having given Cal Sutherland his first writing job after his time in Korea.

  “You’ve seen the same pictures I have,” Sutherland said, “and read the same reports and witness statements. Are you telling me you still don’t believe any of it?” Rising from his chair, he crossed to the coat tree in the back corner of his office. He pulled on his suit jacket before retrieving his favorite brown fedora from the tree’s top. He moved to straighten his tie, but then decided to leave it loose and his shirt collar unbuttoned. Mabel had seen him dressed in much sloppier fashion over the years, after all.

  She’s also seen you dressed in a lot less, he reminded himself, fond memories eliciting a small, knowing smile.

  “How many times have we had this discussion?” Larkin asked, punctuating his question with a belch. “Nope, I really don’t think little green Martians are coming to suck out our brains.” Digging a finger in his left ear, he added, “Besides, after five years chasing stories and idiots around this town, I can’t figure out what any aliens would want with us.”

  Watching his friend examine whatever it was he had extracted from his ear, Sutherland said, “Yeah, me neither.”

  No matter their motivations for being here, he had become convinced that such beings were here or, at least, had been here and might well be coming again. Bringing that truth to the public was not an easy task, what with every movie studio in Hollywood doing their level best to outdo each other and push the latest alien invasion and monster film into theaters. Martians bent on subjugating humans—the women, at least—seemed to be everywhere thanks to movies, comic books, and magazines sold on
every corner and with stories written by anybody who could put their fingers to a typewriter.

  Larkin wiped his finger on his trouser leg. “So, why keep doing this? Not for nothing, but downstairs was a lot more fun before you left.”

  “I got tired of peeking through windows and rummaging around trash cans and sleeping in alleys or in the bushes, hoping for one decent picture,” Sutherland replied, noting his now steadily grumbling stomach as he moved for the door and opened it.

  Chuckling, Larkin flashed him a wide grin. “Okay, I’ll admit the pot busts are getting old, but some of those crazy parties?” He whistled. “I never get tired of those. You should see some of the pictures I’ve been getting. Too many to use! That’s okay, though, because I’ve got me a little side business thing going, selling my extra stuff to a couple of those girlie rags. You know, like . . .”

  Sutherland held up a hand. “I really don’t want to know. And don’t let Garner catch you doing that,” he said, referring to Larkin’s editor on the Tinseltown Tattler, an irritable, unpleasant man named Harold Garner. “He’ll toss your sorry butt down the garbage chute.” Sutherland had known Garner when both were working as staff writers on the Tattler and even then he had been an insufferable bastard. It only stood to reason that he would be promoted when the magazine’s former editor, Chuck Elliot, retired the previous year.

  “That’s okay,” Larkin replied, shrugging. “I think he knows already, but he also knows he can’t pay me what one of those other places would if I went to work over there full time. I’m still his best writer, so he cuts me a lot of slack.”

  “Just watch your back,” Sutherland said, waiting for Larkin to follow him into the hallway before closing and locking his office door. “Garner’s probably just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to drop the hammer on you.”