Star Trek The Original Series From History's Shadow (43 page)

Looking first to Adlar, who nodded, Gejalik replied, “
Thank you, Captain. We look forward to seeing it for ourselves. Like Minister Ocherab, we too are in your debt
.”

“Safe travels,” Kirk said. “
Enterprise
out.” The image on the screen shifted to show the
Balatir
arcing away before it disappeared into subspace.

“Another day, another crisis averted,” said McCoy from where he stood in front of the transporter console.

“I quit counting.” Kirk looked to where Roberta Lincoln stood with Mestral on the transporter pad, with Spock standing near the steps leading to the raised platform. Mestral once more was dressed in the 1960s-era clothes he had been wearing upon his and Gejalik’s arrival aboard the
Enterprise
.

“They’re not the only ones in your debt,” Lincoln said, smiling. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for
everything you did to help me. I’m sorry I even had to ask, but sometimes a girl on her own needs help from people she can trust.”

“You and me both, sister,” McCoy said, grunting in agreement.

Kirk asked, “So, everything’s where it’s supposed to be? The Certoss are still a peaceful people, and the Tandarans are satisfied that will remain the case. Earth was never destroyed by an advanced alien race from the future, and neither did it head out to destroy other worlds once it gained the technology to do so.”

“Not bad for a day’s work, if you ask me,” McCoy said.

There still were some issues to smooth over, Kirk knew. The encounter with the Tandarans and their attack on a Federation vessel would keep the diplomatic cadres of both governments working overtime for the next few weeks, but Kirk already planned to submit a report he hoped would offer mitigating explanations on the Tandarans’ behalf. It was not hard to understand the situation they believed they were facing, incredible as that scenario might seem.

Great,
Kirk mused.
More paperwork
.

“What about Wainwright?” he asked.

Lincoln replied, “I’ll keep an eye on him, but I doubt he’ll be any trouble. I’d just as soon leave him in peace. He’s certainly earned that much.”

McCoy asked, “Can you tell us what happened with Project Blue Book and Majestic 12?”

“Blue Book was ended in 1969,” Lincoln replied. “Officially, anyway. There were still a few activities that carried into the 1970s, but the United States government never acknowledged that. Some records were declassified and made available to the public as years passed, but it continued to
generate controversy and conspiracy theories because of what
wasn’t
released.”

“Such beliefs persisted well into the twenty-first century,” Spock said, “with many people remaining convinced that the government was keeping information about extraterrestrials from the public.”

Lincoln shrugged. “They were right, of course. As for Majestic 12, since it was always Blue Book’s classified cousin, not much is known about them or their activities. UFO fanatics believed the organization continued in some capacity for decades. I tried to do some digging on this, myself, but they covered their tracks very, very well.”

Spock said, “There is almost no documentation about them in the data banks. Either such files were deliberately destroyed by the group to maintain its secrecy, or they simply didn’t survive through that period during the twenty-first century when so many records were lost.”

“Probably not the worst thing that could happen.” Lincoln shrugged. “For my money, the public was better off not knowing how close they came to being destroyed on however many occasions, not just by their own governments but because of interference from outside forces.” When she paused, Kirk saw that she seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then, she sighed. “Sometimes I think I’d have been better off not knowing, but what are you going to do? When I think about how I got involved in all of this, it really was my own fault, you know?” That seemed to raise her spirits, and she even laughed a bit. Turning to Mestral, she bobbed her eyebrows. “All right, let’s get this show on the road.”

“I am grateful to you for allowing me to return to Earth, Miss Lincoln.” He nodded to Kirk. “And to you, Captain.”

“Earth?” McCoy asked, frowning. “Not Vulcan?”

Mestral replied, “It is my desire to continue my observations of Earth and humanity, Doctor. The time period I left was something of a turning point in your history, and I wish to be on hand to see what happens next.”

“What if you’re discovered?” McCoy asked. “Won’t that affect our history, too?”

Lincoln said, “We’ll be keeping tabs on Mister Mestral as well, Doctor. Besides, how do you know his being on Earth doesn’t prove beneficial to our history in some way?” She said nothing else, leaving the cryptic question to hang in the air as she retrieved her servo from a pocket. She keyed the device, and a blue-black fog appeared at the rear of the transporter chamber.

“Thank you for your help, Roberta,” Kirk said. “And to you, Mestral.”

Spock offered a traditional Vulcan salute. “Peace and long life, Mestral.”

Returning the gesture, Mestral replied, “Live long and prosper, Spock, and to you and your crew, Captain Kirk. It pleases me to know that our two peoples become friends and allies. I’ve always believed that it would be our differences—as much as our similarities—that would bring us together.”

“That’s one way to put it,” McCoy said, grinning at Spock, who responded only by lifting his right eyebrow.

Lincoln led Mestral onto the transporter platform before turning back to Kirk and the others. “It was good seeing you again, Captain.”

“Same here, Miss Lincoln,” Kirk said. “Feel free to drop in the next time you’re in the neighborhood.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” After a final wave, she turned and, followed by Mestral, disappeared into the blue fog before the cloud itself dissolved into nothingness. Only the echo of
its energy field remained for a few lingering seconds before it also faded.

“Please tell me I’m not the only one who could use a drink after all this?” McCoy asked. “Not that it really matters, but I really hate drinking alone.”

“I may have time for one,” Kirk said, “but the big question is whether I want it before or after I write my reports for Starfleet Command.”

“Before,” McCoy answered, crossing his arms. “And after, the more I think about it. Maybe even during.”

“I’m probably asking for too much,” Kirk said, “but I really hope our next mission isn’t quite so . . .
odd
.”

His expression unreadable as always, Spock replied, “Past history would suggest that is highly unlikely.”

Kirk grinned. “Point taken.”

ONE LAST THING

THIRTY-EIGHT

Yountville, California

November 6, 1996

“Dad? Is it okay if I turn it down a little?”

Turning from the television, Michael Wainwright could not help smiling as he looked over to see his father once again dozing in his favorite recliner. That seemed to happen a lot these days, which Michael knew to expect. The doctors had told him that the elder Wainwright’s new prescriptions might make him prone to drowsiness, particularly toward the later part of the day and when coupled with his father’s propensity for being an early riser. That odd habit had resurrected itself after being absent for many years, but now James Wainwright awoke promptly at five thirty each morning, often without the aid of an alarm clock, and was dressed and sitting in his recliner by the time the nurse came around to dispense the day’s first rounds of medications. Michael remembered a similar morning routine from his early childhood, when his father would be up, groomed, and in his Air Force uniform reading the paper by the time he and his mother came down the stairs for breakfast.

His father had eschewed the practice during the early years of his retirement. It was not until he came to live here at the veterans home in Yountville, an hour’s drive from Michael’s home outside Sacramento, and after the onset of
Alzheimer’s disease, that the occasional yet increasing reversion to past habits and memories began to assert itself. The doctors had cautioned Michael that such behavior was normal, and that he should be prepared for references or statements that on their face might make no sense, while still holding meaning for his father. It was not uncommon to hear him call out a name Michael did not recognize, or to make reference to something he had done during the war or some other period of his long military career. Most of the references were cryptic, and later forgotten when his father managed for a while to escape the delusions. It was this aspect of his condition that was the most frustrating, as there were days when he displayed total clarity, with no demonstrable signs of the disease that—although still diagnosed as being in an early stage—was waging slow, inexorable war upon his mind. He and Michael could be having a normal conversation one afternoon, but his father would have no memory of the meeting on Michael’s visit the next day. So far, there had been only one occasion that the elder Wainwright failed to recognize his son, an event that had so shaken Michael that he sat in his car for an hour, crying in the home’s parking lot.

Pushing aside that unpleasant thought, Michael rose from the couch and reached across his father for the remote control sitting on the recliner’s far armrest. He used the unit to reduce the television’s volume so that he could only just hear the voice of the late evening news anchor talking over the sound of his father’s soft snoring. As Michael suspected, the change in the room’s background noise was sufficient to rouse his father, who grunted and twitched before jerking his head upright. His eyes were red-rimmed and heavy, and he looked around the room in a daze for several seconds.

“Mikey?”

“Hey, Dad.” One month after his fiftieth birthday, and his father had reverted to calling him “Mikey” as he had years and years earlier. “You okay? If you’re tired, I can help you get ready for bed.”

Shaking his head, Wainwright replied, “Nah, that’s okay. The night nurse always helps me, and she’s better-looking than you are.”

Michael chuckled at that, heartened to hear a hint of his father’s old sense of humor. He seemed to be feeling better after his brief nap. “Are you hungry? Want something to eat or drink? I was thinking I’d run to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee for the road. I need to be heading back.” With the drive back to Sacramento, he would not make it to bed until after midnight, and he had to be at work at seven the next morning for a conference call with his company’s New York office.

Again, his father declined. “Allison always brings me coffee.”

“Allison?” Michael asked, forcing himself not to react any further to the reference. “Don’t you mean Stephanie?”

Instead of answering, Wainwright paused, casting his gaze toward the television before looking around the room. After a moment, he said, “Yeah, Stephanie.” He sighed. “Allison. I miss her.”

“I know, Dad,” Michael said, his voice low. “I know.”

His father and Allison Marshall had been friends and professional partners during their joint time in the Air Force, becoming lovers at some point after his and Mom’s divorce. Allison had remained at his side even during the brief period Wainwright spent in a military hospital while suffering from a form of post-traumatic stress. The condition had been brought about as a consequence of something that had happened during his time in the service, much of which, so far as Michael knew, remained classified. Upon his release from
the hospital in 1972 and the final severing of his government ties, he and Allison had married and moved to California in order to be near Michael and his wife, Emily, and their three daughters, where he proceeded to work on being nothing more than a perfect, doting grandfather. It was not until Michael’s youngest child, Michelle, had graduated high school that Allison became ill, passing away less than a year later after a brief, harsh battle with cancer. Two years after that, Wainwright began exhibiting early Alzheimer’s symptoms. Everything had happened so fast, it seemed, though Michael was thankful for the years his father had been able to enjoy following the long period of his life that remained cloaked in secrecy.

Stifling a yawn, Michael rose from the couch and stretched the muscles in his back. “Okay, Dad, I should get going. Emily doesn’t like it when I’m driving late.” Though his wife understood his desire to spend time with his father, she often expressed worry that he would fall asleep during the drive home after one of his regular weeknight visits. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything before . . .”

Wainwright’s attention was fixated on the television. He even had lowered his recliner’s footrest and now was leaning forward in the chair as though trying to get closer to the screen, his eyes widening as he stared at the image it displayed. Turning to see what had so riveted his father, Michael caught just a few seconds of what looked to be an airplane flying low—
very
low—over a nighttime city skyline. A red banner stretching across the bottom of the screen highlighted the caption “AMATEUR VIDEO.”

“Turn it up,” Wainwright said, pointing at the television. “
Turn it up
.”

Michael fumbled for the remote control and aimed it at
the TV to increase its volume as a different news anchor, one he didn’t recognize, appeared on the screen before a reduced version of the footage that had just aired, now playing on a repeating loop as the man spoke into the camera.

“. . .
an hour ago by a man using his camcorder to tape a backyard barbecue. The massive unidentifiable object does not appear to be a meteorite, weather balloon, or satellite, and one aviation expert we’ve spoken to has stated that it’s definitely not any kind of U.S. aircraft currently in use. We’re awaiting investigation by local authorities, and we’ll keep you updated as news develops on this incredible story
.”

“Wow,” Michael said, impressed with what he had just seen. “I’ve never seen anything like that before. What about you?” When his father did not respond, Michael turned and saw that Wainwright no longer was looking at the television but rather seemed to be staring into space.