Star Trek The Original Series From History's Shadow (11 page)

It was here, she knew, that their greatest opportunity to further their own goals was to be found.

Releasing another tired sigh, Adlar reclined on the bed. His hands clasped atop his chest, he stared up at the room’s low ceiling. When he said nothing for several moments, Gejalik moved from the window to stand next to him.

“Are you unwell?” she asked.

Adlar’s gaze did not move from the ceiling. “I am thinking of Etlun.”

“I understand,” Gejalik said, also feeling the loss of their friend and comrade. Though a lifetime of service had taught her the harsh realities of death and sacrifice, she could not help feeling as though the world around her and Adlar had just become larger and more foreboding. Anxiety, itself an uncommon sensation, gripped her. “Do you wish to be left to your solitude?”

Though it took him a moment to answer, when Adlar did reply his voice was low and quiet as he extended one hand to her. “No.”

It was with great relief that Gejalik moved to lie next to him, feeling his warmth against hers and the comfort and security—real or imagined—their closeness offered.

NINE

U.S.S. Enterprise

Earth Year 2268

The coffee was terrible.

Frowning, Kirk examined the dark brown liquid in his cup, eyeing it with suspicion and contempt. “I think I need to have a word with Mister Scott,” he said, placing the cup on the briefing room table and pushing it out of reach.

“Trouble, Jim?” McCoy asked from where he sat across the table from Kirk. A telltale hint of amusement played at the corners of the doctor’s mouth.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve been poisoned with stuff that tasted better.” Kirk glanced to the bank of food slots installed in the briefing room’s rear bulkhead, not recalling any notes about the food processors in the daily status and maintenance reports he reviewed at the beginning of his duty shift. Sighing, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You know, it’d be nice if the food processors were the most difficult thing we had to deal with today.”

“And when do we ever have that kind of luck?” McCoy asked, making a point to pick up his own cup of coffee and drink from it. “Besides, this isn’t that bad. Maybe you’ve just had too much today.”

Kirk nodded. “I won’t argue that, but it’s the only thing that makes writing those reports bearable.”

Since the abrupt arrival of the
Enterprise
’s pair of unexpected guests along with the Certoss vessel, he had spent a good deal of time composing his official statements for Starfleet Command, all while Spock, McCoy, and Scott endeavored to provide him with information to supplement his official detailing of the odd events as they had transpired.

“I can’t wait to hear what they say about this report,” McCoy said, taking another sip of his coffee. “It’s always fun to see their reactions whenever we run into something like this.”

Kirk chuckled. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to describe some of the things we’ve encountered? Not just the details of the events themselves, but also what I was thinking and feeling at the time. When I go back and look at some of those reports, even I have a hard time believing some of those things really happened.”

There were occasions where the details of previous missions still sounded ridiculous, and he worried that others, while reading his reports and log entries back at headquarters or even in some Academy class decades from now, would consider certain accounts to be far-fetched if not outright fabrications. Therefore, he time and again found himself struggling to compose his official logs and reports in a manner he hoped would convey with absolute conviction and with all seriousness that the events as recounted did indeed happen.

McCoy offered him one of his sly, sideways grins. “Look at it this way, Jim: If commanding a starship doesn’t work out, you’ve got plenty of material to write a book or three.” He paused, and the smile widened. “Though, you may have to work on the whole believability thing.”

“You’re right,” Kirk said, returning the grin before
retrieving his coffee cup and rising from his chair. As he crossed the room toward the row of food slots, he glanced over his shoulder. “Nobody would believe any self-respecting captain of a starship would ever put up with a chief medical officer like you.”

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 statement, 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.