Star Trek The Original Series From History's Shadow (41 page)

It’d be nice not having to worry about the whole “changing our history” bit, too
. Indeed, it was not lost on Kirk that today was the same day in Earth history to which the
Enterprise
had accidentally been hurled through time, where they had met Captain John Christopher and very nearly erased their own future. They had been very lucky to have left behind the twentieth century without inflicting any major changes to the timeline. The longer he and Spock continued to traipse around in Earth’s past while attempting to help Lincoln straighten out the entire Certoss affair, the more Kirk’s concern grew over any possible impacts their presence here might have on history. Neither man needed any reminding of the danger they posed. The slightest action could have unforeseen yet wide-ranging effects on the future, and his anxiety would not ease until they were finished here and returned back to their own time.

“Captain,” Spock said, pointing to one of the banks of
control indicators and switches. One of the alert lights was blinking a bright yellow. “According to my scans, this is linked to a series of motion detectors positioned around the building.”

Kirk frowned. “An intruder alert system?”

“It would seem so.” Spock adjusted one of his tricorder’s controls. “Its activation has affected a few of the other components and processes. There is now a form of dampening field in operation around the building, though at present I am uncertain as to its purpose.” He paused, then looked to Kirk. “I’ve also detected the initiation of what I believe to be a countdown protocol.”

A knot of unease formed in Kirk’s gut. “Countdown?”

Before Spock could respond, movement above them caught Kirk’s attention and his instincts told him to move. Lunging for cover, he threw himself over the console as a burst of energy struck the wooden floorboards where he had been standing. Kirk rolled through the dive and came up on one knee, aiming his phaser at where he thought the shooter should be, and saw a dark figure, bald with copper skin and dressed in a black bodysuit, sprinting along a catwalk spanning the length of the loft along its far wall: Adlar.

“Spock! Up there!” Though he leveled his phaser at their retreating opponent, Kirk held his fire.

“Captain,” Spock called out, emerging from where he had taken cover near a pair of tape drive units, “we must evacuate this building. I’ve tracked the countdown timer and it’s connected to a series of explosives distributed throughout the loft. The Certoss obviously anticipated being discovered or captured.”

It’s always something,
Kirk groused. “How much time do we have?”

“Two minutes, forty seconds.”

“Adlar!” Kirk shouted. “You don’t have to do this! We’re not here to hurt you!”

He did not see to where the Certoss had run. Where did the catwalk lead? “Spock, how many exits are there out of here?”

“Five,” the Vulcan replied, moving from the tape drives, “though none of them are reachable without descending to the main floor.”

He has to get past us
.

Kirk eyed a set of spiral stairs leading up to the catwalk and ran for them, but he only managed two steps before a shadow moved above him and another energy blast screamed past his left shoulder. Without thinking he raised his phaser and fired, the compact weapon’s blue beam streaking into the loft’s rafters. The sounds of scampering footsteps echoed from the catwalk at the same time Spock aimed his own phaser and fired at something Kirk could not see.

“Two minutes, twenty seconds,” the Vulcan called out as he moved across the open floor toward Kirk.

Trying to peer into the loft’s depths, Kirk shouted, “Adlar! We’re here to help you! We have Gejalik, and she’s safe!”

“Liar!” a voice boomed from the shadows. Kirk saw the Certoss move once more into position to shoot, and he and Spock ducked as another energy bolt came at them and chewed into the floorboards. Kirk flinched as small bits of debris peppered his back and stung his neck.

“Damn it,” he hissed, his frustration mounting. “We don’t have time for this.” To Adlar, he called out, “It doesn’t have to be this way! I know you were only carrying out your orders, but they don’t mean anything anymore! The temporal war is over, and our two planets are allies. We can take you to
Gejalik, and both of you can return home.” At the far end of the loft, he saw the Certoss running across a section of catwalk that crossed the room’s width, and without thinking he charged up the stairs in pursuit. Adlar saw him and fired his own weapon, forcing Kirk to crouch for cover on the wrought iron stairs as the energy bolt sailed over his head.

Another shot aimed in his direction passed under his arm, and Kirk flung himself up the remaining stairs and onto the catwalk. Adlar was thirty meters ahead of him and dashing down the walkway, and Kirk realized that if he made it to the stairs at the far end he would be able to get back to the main floor and out the loft’s front door. Raising his phaser, Kirk aimed at the Certoss agent’s retreating back and fired just as Adlar reached the stairs and began descending. The phaser beam struck a glancing blow across his left shoulder, the partial hit insufficient to incapacitate him but enough to send him stumbling down the stairs to the landing at their halfway point. Still conscious, he already was moving to regain his feet.

“Adlar, wait!” Kirk shouted, running the length of the catwalk. “Please listen to me!” He reached the stairs in seconds only to see the Certoss poised on one knee and raising his weapon, and Kirk realized he had nowhere to hide.

“You won’t take me alive, human.”

Another phaser beam struck him in the chest.

Grunting more in surprise than pain, Adlar slumped against the wooden railing before collapsing once more to the landing. Footsteps on the stairs preceded Spock moving into view, his phaser trained on the unconscious Certoss.

“Nice timing,” Kirk said, descending the stairs toward Adlar.

The Vulcan pocketed his phaser before reaching to pull
the insensate alien to his feet. “Captain, may I remind you that we must depart these premises with all due haste?”

“I know.” Kirk reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve the servo Roberta Lincoln had provided him, setting the device to send out the emergency recall signal which would summon the Beta 5 and provide the means for transporting them back to her and Gary Seven’s office in New York. The unit only emitted a short, abrupt buzz. Frowning, Kirk repeated the attempt and received the same result. “It’s not working.”

Shifting Adlar in order to lift him and rest him on his shoulder, Spock said, “The dampening field. It must be hampering our communications.”

Why can’t these things ever be easy?

“Let’s get the hell out of here.” Kirk did not even bother asking how much time remained until the activation of whatever protocol their presence had triggered, figuring the answer would be evident all too soon. With Spock carrying Adlar and leading the way, they ran from the loft and down the stairs to the street entrance. Ticking off seconds in his head, Kirk reached thirty-seven before they burst through the doors and into the alley from which they had entered the building.

“This way,” he said, pulling on Spock’s arm and directing him up the alley. The buildings here were constructed in close proximity, and he did not want to be caught between them when the explosives went off. How much damage would the charges cause? Enough to destroy the equipment cache and anything else stored there, but what else? The entire building? Kirk hoped the Certoss agents had exercised more prudence.

They reached the mouth of the alley at the rear of the buildings when Kirk heard the telltale, muffled thumps of the
first detonations. He pushed Spock against the neighboring building’s brick wall as he heard glass, brick, and other debris rain down into the alley behind them.

“That was a little too close.” Glancing around the corner, he saw smoke and the first signs of fire in the second-floor windows as other, smaller explosions echoed from inside the structure. From what he could tell, the building itself did not look to be in danger of immediate collapse, but fire damage might well exacerbate that situation if left unchecked. He heard a shrill ringing from that direction. An alarm of some sort, warning others of the fire danger? Kirk was grateful that there seemed to be no innocent bystanders caught up in the chaos, though that did not discount the possibility of witnesses in any of the adjacent buildings.

“Captain, we should depart.” Spock still carried the unconscious Adlar over his shoulder and showed no signs of exertion. “Emergency responders will be coming in short order.”

Nodding, Kirk produced his servo. “Amen to that.” He released a sigh, realizing for the first time just how very long this day had been, at least from his and Spock’s viewpoint. Darting from New York to Ohio to Florida and finally here to New Jersey, crossing not only space but time as well? When had this whole mess begun in the
Enterprise
cargo bay? Nearly twenty-four hours ago?

And three hundred years
.

Looking around to ensure they were not being observed, he activated the device and this time it emitted the expected short, melodic tone before a cloud of blue-black fog appeared at the mouth of the alley. “I just hope Miss Lincoln has an easier time with her part of this crazy plan.”

THIRTY-SIX

Offutt Air Force Base, Near Omaha, Nebraska

July 10, 1969

A knock on his office door made James Wainwright look up from the manila folder and the photographs lying atop his desk. Straightening the pictures and returning them to the folder, he called out, “Come in.”

The door opened, and a staff sergeant, dressed in the uniform and accoutrements of the base military police, poked his head into the room. “Mister Wainwright? He’s awake, sir.”

Finally
. Wainwright had not counted on the pilot succumbing to illness after returning from his mission. Was it possible his encounter was the cause of whatever had befallen him? That would be yet another question he would have to ask. “Is he okay?”

“A little disoriented,” replied the sergeant, “and he says he has a headache. I’ve already sent for a medic, and they’re bringing him some water.”

Wainwright rose from his desk, reaching for the suit jacket slung across the back of his chair. He dismissed the guard as he pulled on the jacket, noting that it felt snug across his shoulders, and pushed against the muzzle of the .45 pistol in its holster under his left arm. Had the suit shrunk?

Keep telling yourself that
. Though still fit for a man nearing his fifty-second birthday, Wainwright knew that his
deskbound lifestyle was beginning to take its toll on him. His thrice-weekly visits to pound the bag at the base gymnasium were only keeping the “middle age spread” at bay. He knew that he needed to increase the frequency and duration of those workouts, but even boxing was losing its ability to provide any respite from his work, which had become little more than an elaborate means of counting off the days until . . .

Until what, exactly?

The previous summer’s incident at McKinley Rocket Base had been enough to trigger a drastic curtailing of Blue Book’s profile. Though Wainwright and Allison Marshall had been detailed to MJ-12 and acting on their orders, they remained visible members of the project and therefore were not immune to consequences for real or perceived failure. Marshall had opted to transfer from the project, returning to the active service ranks and accepting a new assignment at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida. She and Wainwright had been planning marriage prior to her new orders, though Wain-wright had suggested waiting until his own retirement was official. The paperwork already was winding its way through the system with little to no resistance from his superiors, who seemed thankful that he had chosen to leave without raising too much fuss. For his part, Wainwright was ready to close this long, odd chapter of his life, but pride prevented him from accepting his fate and waiting for the clock to run out.

And that means doing this one last thing.

For a year, Wainwright had suffered in silence as Offutt’s Blue Book liaison officer, filing and following up on investigations conducted by other officers assigned to an organization that was in constant flux, with ever-reduced personnel, resources, and funding. Project Blue Book had become all but a cruel punch line for those who possessed no clue as to
the reality that Wainwright, Marshall, and others had faced all these years. With his days numbered, Wainwright knew that his one final chance at convincing his superiors to listen might well rest in the hands of one man: Captain John Christopher.

Retrieving the folder and its photographs from his desk, Wainwright made his way from his office to the elevator that would take him to see his guest. He inserted his key into the lock controlling access to the elevator before riding the car to the building’s lowermost level. The doors opened to reveal a long, narrow hallway painted in the same shade of depressing flat gray that was synonymous with the military establishment—a color he had come to loathe, as it seemed a perfect symbol of the plain and uninspired mindset that had gripped his superiors in recent years.

Another key unlocked the door at the end of the hallway, and Wainwright pulled it open to reveal a bare, cinderblock room. A cot served as the room’s sole furnishing, with a single bulb suspended within a protective wire cage to provide illumination. For the first time, Wainwright realized the room looked perhaps too much like a prison cell, and regretted the choice to have his guest placed here.

None of that matters. Get on with it.

As for the room’s sole occupant, he stood, still dressed in the orange flight suit he had been wearing after leaving the flight line. In his mid-thirties, according to his file, the pilot had black hair and blue, piercing eyes that bored into Wainwright as he closed the door behind him.

“Where the hell am I?” asked Captain John Christopher, wasting no time.