Hearts and Minds

by Dayton Ward

  Reaching up to wipe her cheek, she looked at her fingers and scowled. “McAllister’s blood. He lost a lot of it, but the medical computer was able to synthesize enough plasma to stabilize him. It was pretty close, though. If you hadn’t found him when you did . . .” She let the sentence fade. Clearing her throat after a moment, she said, “I’ve done all I can for him here, but the internal damage is still pretty extensive. Even if we weren’t out here in the middle of nowhere, we can’t really take him anywhere without attracting attention.”

  “What do you propose?” asked Mestral, his question accented by the crackle of a burning ember from the fireplace.

  Koroma shook off another yawn. “At this point, I think the best plan is to send him home. For-real home, I mean.” She gestured toward the ceiling, though Mestral was able to infer her true meaning.

  “The Aegis homeworld.” It occurred to him that he had never heard the mysterious planet even referred to by a proper name. He had inquired about that on rare occasions, going all the way back to his first shared experiences with Gary Seven and Roberta Lincoln in the late 1960s. Although he always was polite during such discussions, the enigmatic Mister Seven had chosen to leave unanswered questions of that sort, right up to the point he left Earth.

  Mister Seven. I wonder where you might be, and if you are doing well.

  It had been thirty-five years since Gary Seven decided to leave Earth. At the time, he had been approaching the high end of a human’s typical life span, though he at least continued to benefit from generations of genetic enhancement. It was likely that he would far outlive any twenty-first-century contemporaries here on Earth, but growing older still came with costs. To that end, Seven had elected in 1996 to depart for a lower-gravity planet that was more forgiving of his aging body. He had left his friend and protégée, Roberta Lincoln, here to “mind the store,” as he put it, and the human woman—who did not enjoy the advantages of selective breeding and genetic engineering—had continued the Aegis mission on Earth for many more years before she too had retired. Mestral had witnessed these transitions, up to and including the latest transfer five years ago to Natalie Koroma and Jonathan McAllister.

  Indeed, Mestral’s first encounter with the Aegis had come more than a decade after his own arrival on Earth. Formerly a member of a Vulcan survey crew sent to study Earth at a point well before it reached the ability to carry out interstellar travel, he and his companions had crashed in the mountains of Pennsylvania in the fall of 1957. They had spent months living and working in secret while attempting to blend in with the local humans until a rescue ship arrived from Vulcan. Fascinated by humans and their largely untapped potential, Mestral had opted to stay on Earth so that he might witness their continued progress and the feats he suspected they one day would accomplish. After he had convinced his surviving companions of his sincere desire to stay on Earth and bear witness to these historic milestones, they had agreed to report him as having died during their ship’s crash. In the decades since that incident, Mestral had done his best to keep a low profile, hiding his true identity and origins. Only through random chance—at least, in his estimation—had he come across evidence of advanced beings living and working on Earth, and his life was forever changed by such knowledge.

  Two of those advanced beings, Koroma and McAllister, were products of the Aegis’s long-term training program. Each was a descendant of humans taken from Earth thousands of years ago and, like Gary Seven, prepared over the course of generations for their assignment on Earth. Here, they continued the mission begun by their predecessor agents, working to assist human civilization in navigating a path that would one day see it evolve into a society ready to join an interstellar community.

  As for the unidentified parties who comprised the Aegis, they and their own planet would continue to remain unsolved mysteries. Even if Seven or any of the other agents had deigned to share its name, it was all but useless without access to detailed star charts, and Mestral doubted the world was listed among the Vulcan stellar cartographic information he had taken from the computer banks of his crashed vessel. His other source for comprehensive data had been the Beta 7 and its predecessors, and the advanced computer was certainly unwilling or forbidden to help him in this regard.

  “It’s the best option for Jonathan in the long run,” said Koroma. “They can completely heal his injuries and have him back to us in no time. Maybe by then we’ll have some more intel about this ship.” Stepping away from the fireplace, she called out, “Computer on.”

  In response to her instructions, a portion of the stone wall on the room’s opposite side lowered into the floor, revealing an advanced computer console consisting of a trio of touch-sensitive interfaces and a quartet of display screens. A large black panel dominated the wall console’s upper left corner, displaying a seemingly random pattern of multicolored lines and dots scrolling back and forth across its surface.

  “Computer on,” replied the Beta 7 in its characteristic feminine voice. In keeping with its sophisticated artificial intelligence software, the computer’s tones and speech pattern sounded almost human, though Mestral was still able to detect a hint of mechanized and automated delivery even in the short response. He had been affiliated with Koroma and her predecessors long enough to have seen the computer’s previous iterations, and each version was more advanced than its older counterparts. Part of that progress was to give the machines an even greater range of human-sounding speech and delivery in their spoken interactions with the agents they supported.

  Holding her hand over her mouth to cover a third yawn, Koroma said, “Report on scan readings provided by Agent 6889. Have you identified the alien ship?”

  “Affirmative, Agent 5746,” replied the computer using Koroma’s own official Aegis designation. “Vessel is a long-range scout craft. Place of origin: Sralanya, fourth planet of the Vorlyntal star system. Inhabited by a sentient species, the Eizand. Technologically advanced. Ship is equipped with rudimentary interstellar propulsion, and interior scans indicate crew hibernation support systems for long-duration travel. Bio-scan readings of ship occupants indicate Eizand physiology. Crew of three. Two dead, one alive.”

  Accompanying the Beta 7’s report was a page of text on one of the console’s screens, including what Mestral recognized as coordinates, though like the solar system and planet they represented, the displayed figures were not at all familiar to him.

  “I do not believe my people have ever encountered this world or species,” he said. “At least, we had not prior to my departure from Vulcan.”

  Koroma shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell with me either.” She tapped the Beta 7’s control console. “But our bosses seem to know who they are. Computer, what do we know about that area of space?”

  “The Vorlyntal star system is located within an unexplored region, between territories currently claimed by the Klingon and Romulan Empires. The system is not aligned with any of the major interstellar powers.”

  Frowning, Koroma looked away from the monitor to regard Mestral. “That’s an awfully long way to travel to come here. It would take years, even at low warp speeds, which is why the ship looks to have been equipped with hibernation systems, and we still don’t have a reason. Why would they come all this way?”

  “Logical choices would include searching for resources,” replied Mestral, “or perhaps a planet of similar environmental makeup as their own world in order to establish a colony. They may even be seeking allies; someone to assist them against an enemy.”

  “If that’s the case, then they certainly came to the wrong planet. We’re barely able to wander around our own solar system, let alone travel to someone else’s.”

  Mestral was well aware of all of this, having borne witness to the dawn of Earth’s “Space Age.” Following the 1960s efforts by the United States and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to land astronauts on Earth’s moon, and after the Space Shuttle missions spanning thirty years as well as the continued semipermanent
presence of humans in space stations orbiting the planet, crewed spaceflight to other worlds in the Sol system had been very limited. The first bold steps in that direction had occurred rather recently, in stark contrast to the predictions offered by futurists, fiction writers, and films and television programs that since the early years of the previous century had depicted humanity pushing outward into the cosmos at some point in the “not too distant future.”

  It had been little more than a decade since the first such missions to the system’s other planets had begun, with the Ares program concentrating on Earth’s nearest neighbor, Mars, while the U.S.S. Lewis & Clark had completed the first manned mission to Saturn and back in the early 2020s. The third Ares mission was scheduled to be completed in the coming months, with a fourth and fifth mission already in the planning stages for launch within the next three years. Despite these accomplishments, and others that would follow, Earth and humankind were still decades away from being able to launch a truly interstellar exploration initiative. They were confined to their own solar system, and a threat to no one beyond its boundaries.

  Stepping closer to the console, Koroma swiped her hand across one of the touch-sensitive interfaces. “Jonathan wasn’t able to complete a scan of the ship’s computer, so unless we can access it remotely or get back to it, we’re out of luck.”

  Mestral had participated in training for missions of this sort, though the truth was neither Koroma nor McAllister had encountered an alien spacecraft since beginning their assignment. Still, it was not possible to conclude that ships of extraterrestrial original had visited this planet without being detected by the Beta 7 or its predecessor computer. Further, Mestral knew that there were any number of organizations and other groups scattered around the world that were eager to possess such vessels and the technology they might contain.

  Including McAllister’s servo.

  She had not found the device among her colleague’s clothing and other items retrieved from his pockets. Was the advanced tool simply lost in the Georgia forest, or in the hands of the American military or one of the government’s numerous intelligence agencies? Her attempts to locate it via the Beta 7 were unsuccessful, either because the servo was damaged, disassembled, or somehow shielded against attempts at communication or tracking. The computer would continue its attempts to locate the device, but Koroma figured it was a lost cause.

  Setting aside that thought, she returned her attention to the Eizand craft. “Computer, attempt a link to the ship’s onboard systems and access to its data storage facilities.”

  “Stand by.”

  He expected the computer to take at least a moment or two to complete any connection to the alien spacecraft. Instead, Mestral was surprised when the Beta 7 came back with a response in short order.

  “Unable to establish link. The craft has been moved from its previous location.”

  Koroma exchanged glances with Mestral, though she added a roll of her eyes. “Yeah, that was predictable. So scan for it. They couldn’t have gone too far with it this fast.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “Could they? How long was I with Jonathan?”

  “Four hours, seventeen minutes, thirty-six seconds,” replied Mestral. It was nearly nine o’clock in the morning, local time, but still the middle of the night on the east coast of the United States. Could the American military unit sent to investigate the downed spacecraft have moved the ship to a secure location in such a short amount of time? That seemed unlikely. “Is it possible the vessel has been destroyed?”

  Frowning, Koroma replied, “That’d be out of character. We know the American government’s been working to find and warehouse any alien technology they can find. Seems odd that they’d pass up a golden opportunity like this. Computer, are you reading any signs of a detonation or other means of destroying the Eizand ship?”

  “Negative, Agent 5746.”

  “Okay,” said Koroma, “so it’s not where it was, and we can’t find it. That means someone from one of those dark corners of the American military or government has a new trick up their sleeve.”

  Mestral nodded. “Then perhaps it is fortunate we have allies in a few of those corners as well.”

  6

  Fort Benning, Georgia

  March 17, 2031

  As the elevator continued its descent, Kirsten Heffron quit counting floors once her ears popped.

  Unlike those found in just about any other structure requiring such conveyances, the interior of the elevator car was barren of anything that might be useful to a passenger. The control panel to the right of the door lacked a key pad or buttons, but instead featured only a slot for an encoded key card. No other features were necessary, as this elevator existed for a single reason: ferrying riders from the control station on the surface to the underground facility directly below that unassuming structure. There were no other stops, and the car’s movements were controlled by computer interfaces at both ends of the shaft. The key card slot along with its counterpart in the operations room of the topside control center was an access control measure, which seemed superfluous to Heffron. If an unauthorized person attempted to use the elevator, guards in the control station would either detain or neutralize them as the situation warranted.

  Thankfully, Heffron’s key card worked.

  She felt the car’s descent slowing and drew a deep breath, making sure her first action upon the doors opening would not be to utter a loud, echoing yawn. She had been roused from sleep hours earlier when the alien spacecraft had first been detected; it was a rude interruption to restless sleep to cap off a long work day, and she was beginning to feel the effects of prolonged activity.

  You, slowing down? The hell you say.

  The elevator arrived at its destination and the doors parted, revealing a concrete corridor. Standing at the threshold was a man dressed in an army major’s Class-A uniform. Like her, he also looked a bit worse for wear, which she could understand, as that was the eternal burden of anyone cursed to be her aide.

  “Good morning, Director,” offered Major Donovan Kincaid, in his normal businesslike manner. A graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point, Kincaid carried himself with the usual air of self-assurance and bearing one expected from a graduate of that renowned institution. As usual and despite the dark circles beneath his eyes, the man’s uniform was the epitome of the required army standard, down to a pair of shoes that were polished like obsidian glass. How was he able to do that, at all hours of the day or night?

  Oh, be quiet. You were like that once.

  “It’s still early, Donny. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” She offered a smile to accentuate the small joke. Stepping from the elevator, she acknowledged with a nod the pair of army noncommissioned officers flanking the entrance, each decked out in tactical gear and armed with M4A3 carbine rifles. “Please tell me coffee has found its way down here to the center of the Earth.”

  Kincaid’s expression warmed the slightest bit. “On the way, Director. Black, I presume?”

  “And strong enough to cause heart flutter. I’m guessing it’s going to be one of those days.” She started walking the length of the corridor, and Kincaid fell into step on her left side. “Anything new?”

  “No, Director,” replied her aide, his tone once more all business. “The EBE hasn’t said a thing since the recovery team brought it in.”

  Heffron grunted, expecting that. “What about the team who found the ship? The Marines? Are they all right?”

  “Doc says he expects them to make a full recovery. All six of them were found unconscious near the ship, and have no memory of what happened. The team leader, Gunnery Sergeant Erika Figueroa, says the last thing she remembers is reaching the spacecraft, and then waking up after being found by the support team we sent in after them. Her people all have similar stories. Something or someone put them down, but without any obvious intent to hurt them. We’ve seen this kind of thing before.”

  Yes, we have.

  Heffron could not h
elp a quick glance to see her aide’s expression of confusion. While her aide’s statement was correct, she suspected he was thinking along lines dissimilar to her own. Kincaid was almost certainly wondering about the technology used by these new specimens of EBE or “extraterrestrial biological entity,” in the rather turgid vernacular that so characterized nearly any government organization. On the other hand, she was considering whether the Marines being disabled might be in any way connected to the mysterious “agents” she had encountered on rare occasions. Operating in much the same manner as covert operatives working under her own command, these unknown agents had seen fit to insert themselves into various activities conducted by her people over the years. Their identities, sponsor, and true motives remained unknown, but based on their words and deeds, they appeared to be benevolent and even concerned with helping not just the United States but the entire world.

  Heffron had first become aware of such individuals thirty-five years ago, while still a young active-duty Marine Corps officer assigned to a clandestine group working from within a classified sublevel deep beneath the Pentagon. Back then she was the aide, working for the group’s commanding officer, General Daniel Wheeler. That unit—the one she now oversaw—had since its inception continued the work begun by the shadow organization to which she answered, Majestic 12. Begun in the late 1940s following the crash of an alien spacecraft near Roswell, New Mexico, MJ-12 and a small number of tenant and offshoot units had operated under a simple mandate: protect the United States and the entire world from possible extraterrestrial invasion. Several of the smaller subordinate groups had come and gone over the years, while Majestic itself had remained hidden among the shadows, its existence known to only a small handful of outsiders. Now, at age sixty-three, Heffron commanded one such “subsidiary,” answering to a director within MJ-12 who in turn received his orders directly from the president of the United States.