by Dayton Ward
“Understood, Captain.”
Without another word or furtive glances directed to any of the other bridge officers, Taurik turned and made his way to the starboard turbolift, disappearing into the car as the doors closed behind him. Picard waited until he was gone before turning back to the viewscreen, which once more displayed an image of the planet Sralanya. His anger—some if not most of it unjustified and directed at the wrong person, he knew—had already begun to ebb. He drew a deep, calming breath and felt his emotions coming back under his control.
Damn it.
Only after another moment did he sense Worf moving to stand beside him.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Captain?” The unspoken addendum to that question may as well have been broadcast over the ship’s intercom.
Waiting until he had taken and exhaled another calming breath, Picard replied, “No, Commander. I will deal with that matter at a more appropriate time, but for now we have other priorities.”
He tried, and failed, to push Taurik and his annoyance with Admiral Akaar from his mind. Instead, they lingered, bleeding into his other thoughts as he considered what he was about to do. Perhaps the Vulcan would be useful during the upcoming meeting with Hilonu, but there were still too many unknowns regarding him, Akaar, and whatever it was about this world that had not yet been revealed.
On the screen, the planet and its secrets beckoned.
8
Classified Location
March 21, 2031
Though it had no windows, the room was comfortable enough. It had an actual bed with a decent mattress and warm blankets, and the floor was carpeted. There was a dining table and chairs, and a sofa and recliner were positioned before an entertainment system. A case of bookshelves on one wall afforded her a decent selection of books and recent periodicals. She even had her own private bathroom. In many ways, her accommodation, the sort normally reserved for high-value individuals placed in protective custody, was better than a good number of the roadside hotels and motels she had used over the years.
It was still a prison.
Sitting at the table, Kirsten Heffron sipped the coffee that, along with her breakfast, had been made to her precise specifications, as the room possessed no kitchen facilities. In a fit of immaturity and rebellion as she entered her fourth full day of captivity, she had requested in excruciating detail how she wanted her meal prepared, including the ten ingredients she had specified for her omelet as well as the temperature of the steak that was to accompany it. She asked for grits instead of oatmeal, grapefruit juice rather than orange, as well as the bread she wanted for her toast—along with whipped butter.
Every parameter of her breakfast order was fulfilled to the letter, and Heffron figured all she had accomplished was to elevate the misery of at least one poor kid with no stripes and the bad luck to be assigned to this site’s mess hall. Her original plan was to not even bother eating the meal, but Heffron could not help succumbing to its pleasant aroma. She doubted her hosts would lace her food with any illicit substances. They had it in their power to subdue her at any time.
Besides, the damned steak was delicious.
The sound of the door unlocking caused Heffron to shift in her seat, and she saw the door swinging outward. She caught a fleeting glimpse of an air force sergeant in tactical dress, complete with rifle, standing on the opposite side of the corridor before another figure blocked her view. Her jaw tightened as she recognized Major Donovan Kincaid entering her room. The man had dispensed with his army officer’s uniform and now wore a tailored if unremarkable charcoal-gray business suit with matching silk tie over a white dress shirt. Heffron could not help noticing that his shoes were still well polished.
“Major Kincaid,” she said, raising her coffee mug in greeting.
Smiling, the man replied, “I’m afraid that was a cover identity, Director. My real name is Gerald Markham. I’m with Majestic’s operations division.”
That made sense, Heffron conceded. Even within MJ-12’s very tightly maintained security envelope, the operations division was a maze of compartmented secrets all its own. To the best of her knowledge, she had never before met anyone affiliated with that section of the clandestine organization.
Probably the whole point.
“Did you forget I was in here?” she asked. When Kincaid—Markham—moved to take a seat at the table, she waited until he was situated before adding, “Make yourself at home.”
Markham chose to ignore the remark. “I hope you’re being treated well.”
“It’s not the Waldorf, but I’ve stayed in worse. When’s checkout again?”
That prompted a small smile as Markham leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs. Resting his left forearm on the table, he began a slow, rhythmic tapping with his forefinger on its polished surface. He said nothing for several moments, but instead only stared at her in silence. It was an old trick, one Heffron had used during more than one interrogation or other conversation where she wanted to make the other party nervous or uncertain.
“Is this going to take a while?” she asked. “There’s a movie I want to watch.” She knew she should have just said nothing and quietly returned his stare. From experience, she knew that once the subject of the interrogation began talking, it was a short road from there to getting them to confess to anything and everything. It bothered her that she had given to Markham anything he might later try to use against her, but the simple truth was that she was already bored of their conversation, brief as it had been, and wanted to kick things into a higher gear.
Let’s get on with this, already.
For his part, Markham seemed to agree. “Before this goes very far, Director, I want you to know that I do like and respect you, despite my duties requiring me to deceive you. Further, you’re very well respected within our organization. I hope you know and believe that.”
Heffron waved to indicate the room around them. “So, this is the deluxe treatment for high rollers, then? I would’ve thought my rewards points would get me something a little fancier. Oh, and by the way? Don’t think I didn’t notice the lack of minibar. Where are we, anyway? I don’t recall seeing that little tidbit on the brochure.”
From the moment she awakened from her drug-induced slumber and found herself in her new accommodations, she guessed she had been remanded to a secure yet unofficial holding facility. Otherwise known as “black sites,” numerous such installations of varying sizes and functions were operated around the world by the governments of the United States and other major powers. A few were located within the borders of U.S. territory, while many more were situated outside those boundaries, both literally and figuratively. There was nothing about this room, which so far was all she had seen of this particular complex, to identify her location. Being sent to such a facility usually meant that the one being incarcerated for all intents and purposes ceased to exist. Heffron had visited a few such prisons and authorized the transfer of detainees—human and otherwise—to them on more than one occasion. She knew how this process worked.
You are in one very deep, dark hole, Director.
Again, Markham smiled at the comments. “I’ve always liked your sense of humor, even when it was misplaced or otherwise inappropriate. I can’t tell you how many times I was forced to hold back laughing when you said something that got under the skin of a superior. You never showed any fear or even the slightest concern for retribution. I admire that.”
“You could’ve just sent me an email,” she replied. “You know, instead of going to all this trouble.”
“Unfortunately, we’ve arrived at something of a problem.” Markham sat up straight in his chair, adjusting himself so that he now faced her directly. His other arm came to rest atop the dining table, and he clasped his hands in front of him. “Simply put, there are those within the organization who are concerned that you’ve been in contact with individuals not of this world.”
Heffron eyed him. “I believe the term used when you took me
into custody was ‘colluding.’ Did I misremember that? I sometimes forget the details when I’m accused of treason.”
His tone now taking on an edge, Markham replied, “No one’s leveled any formal accusations, Director. Not yet.”
Ignoring the veiled threat, Heffron took a deliberate sip of her coffee. “You’ve had me here for four days. Is there a backlog of suspected traitors and other threats to national security that you’re still processing?”
“We’ve been busy,” snapped Markham, and Heffron forced herself not to show any reaction to the minor lapse in bearing. It was enough that she was finding a way to irritate him. That might be useful at some point.
Instead, she said, “The alien and his spacecraft. I trust they’re well?”
“The alien has been remanded to another site, where he’s undergoing a battery of tests and questioning.” As though anticipating her next response, Markham held up a hand. “Don’t worry, he’s being treated in humane fashion, at least for now, in keeping with your established preferences for coddling those who threaten our way of life.”
Heffron set down her coffee cup. “So, you’ve concluded he’s a threat?”
“By himself?” Markham shook his head. “No. From what we’ve been able to learn, he’s just a cog in a much larger machine, who doesn’t even believe what he’s been sent to do is wrong.”
Despite her attempts to appear aloof, Heffron could not help asking, “And what might that be?”
The finger tapping began again as Markham paused, as though considering the merits and detriments of sharing information with her. Heffron knew that he likely was wondering if she might ever see the outside of this facility.
It’s not a bad question, you know.
Markham said, “According to the answers he gave during a more comprehensive period of questioning than when you last saw him, his name is Brinalri, and he represents a race who call themselves the Eizand. As previously reported, our engineers working with the ship and its navigational charts have verified that he and his companions came from a planet called Sralanya, in the Vorlyntal star system. It’s a rather unimaginable distance from here, but their ship was equipped with a form of faster-than-light propulsion that we quite honestly don’t understand, along with systems that enabled the crew to sleep during what was still a lengthy journey.”
“So, what brings them here?” asked Heffron. Her mind was already racing ahead to one of the usual possibilities, attempting to marry one to Markham’s previous remarks about the alien, Brinalri. “Wait, let me guess. They like our planet.”
“They like our planet very much, apparently. In fact, they like it so much that they want to relocate their entire civilization here. According to Brinalri, their own planet is dying, although we’re still talking centuries before it can no longer sustain life, but they’re apparently not waiting around for the situation to become dire. The Eizand dispatched a number of ships similar to the one that visited us, to search for suitable planets that might act as a second home for their people, and Earth is apparently on their list of ideal candidates. The fact that someone’s already living here doesn’t seem to raise much concern.”
Heffron considered the implications of that statement. “You think they’d invade Earth, wipe us out, and move in?” It was an interesting, if frightening, proposition, but one that did not bear the weight of intense scrutiny. “This isn’t a movie, Markham. There’s a whole universe out there, and we both know there are other planets that support life. How can Earth be the only planet capable of sustaining these people? It seems ridiculous.”
“It has something to do with the particular combination of atmospheric and other environmental factors,” replied Markham, “along with the variety of natural resources, on Earth as well as the other planets of our solar system. Apparently, we’re a rather appealing sort of top-shelf interstellar buffet or something.”
“That doesn’t explain what they plan to do if they decide Earth is the right planet for them.” Heffron leaned forward. “Are we talking about an invasion?”
Drawing a deep breath, Markham replied, “We don’t know. Brinalri doesn’t seem to know, at least from the answers he gave us, and there’s nothing in his ship’s computer to indicate anything, one way or another. In fact, according to the latest reports from our engineering teams, they didn’t even have a chance to dispatch any sort of message back to their own planet before they crashed here. There’s been no communication back home. So far as we can tell, we don’t believe Brinalri’s people even know where he is.”
“Does anybody besides me think we may be jumping to conclusions, here, Mister Markham?” Before the Majestic agent could respond, Heffron held up her hand. “Look, I get the need for caution, and maybe even a little paranoia. I’ve spent the bulk of my adult life in a job that preaches that sort of thing, remember? But there’s a time for that, and a time for restraint. This alien doesn’t pose a threat right now, so we should be taking the time to understand as much of his technology as possible. Maybe find a way to communicate with his home planet. Who knows? This could be an opportunity to extend a hand in friendship.”
“Have you always been this naive?” asked Markham. “Or has your mind been corrupted through years of dealing with others not of this planet?”
For the first time, Heffron allowed herself a small smile. “So, we’ve circled back around to that?” She shrugged. “Fine. Ask your questions, Mister Markham.”
The agent leaned forward, staring at her. “Who are you working for?”
“The same people you do.”
“Where are your loyalties?”
“My country. This planet. I also like my cat, except when he’s throwing up on my carpet instead of the tile that’s two feet away.”
Reaching into his jacket, Markham pulled out what Heffron recognized as a silver fountain pen. Hers, she guessed. The servo, given to her years ago by Roberta Lincoln.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s just the shell. The innards are still safe in one of our research labs. A fascinating device, really. The level of microminiaturization is extraordinary. If we can ever figure out how it works, it’ll be another technological leap like the others we’ve enjoyed thanks to these periodic visits from other worlds. Interestingly, one of its components activated, just a few days ago. Indeed, it occurred the very night we recovered the Eizand craft. The engineers tell me it was the pen’s communications device, as though its owners were trying to contact you. I find that a rather interesting coincidence, all things considered.”
It occurred to Heffron that since Markham had dropped his Donovan Kincaid facade, his speech and word selection had become much more articulate, more so than while playing his assumed identity. He comported himself just like the other senior-level Majestic 12 personnel she had encountered over the years. Why had she not noticed that before? Was it part of their training, or was MJ-12 just in the habit of recruiting annoying people into their ranks?
Markham held up the pen. “Who does this belong to? Who gave it to you?”
Having had a few days to contemplate her answers to such questions, Heffron had decided that the truth would be the wisest course. She at first worried that anything she shared might endanger the people who had entrusted her with the servo, but after further thought concluded they may well have anticipated such an eventuality. After decades spent living and working in secret, they would have contingency plans for discovery that would include the risk of exposure either through direct contact or via someone with whom they had a relationship.
“The people who gave that to me are part of a private organization that has a vested interest in seeing us avoid various pitfalls, both ones we’ve already navigated and ones that might present problems in the future. I guess you could say they’re activists, of a sort.”
As she expected, Markham was unable to suppress a fleeting expression of surprise in response to her forthright answer. He blinked a couple of times and even swallowed as though dealing with a
lump in his throat.
“That’s rather . . . candid,” he said. “Who are they?”
“They’d prefer their identities be kept secret. To be honest, I don’t even know the real names of everyone involved or where they are.” She had some information, but very little in the way of specifics. Knowing how this conversation was going to play out over the next few minutes—and mindful that in this case truth really was stranger than fiction—Heffron was choosing to parse her answers in the hopes of not overwhelming her host, or causing him to veer too far away from believing her. In addition to not really needing to worry about the agents who had seen fit to include her in their small circle of trusted friends, Heffron held no desire for any interviews with Markham to deteriorate to something unpleasant.
Shifting in his seat, Markham was trying to present himself as someone who already had the answers to the questions he was posing. Heffron knew better, but said nothing. It was obvious he was trying to determine whether she was being cooperative, or playing some kind of game with him.
“I know how this works,” she said. “We both know you’re being polite right now, and that we have methods you can use to get me to answer any question you ask. Setting aside the fact that I don’t appreciate being played, what with your whole ‘Major Kincaid’ bit, I appreciate that you’ve opted to keep things civil to this point. That’s why I’m attempting to work with you here. The people who gave me that pen have representatives here, on Earth. Human representatives. Not aliens in disguise or people brainwashed for some nefarious purpose. Humans, who honestly want to see us not destroy ourselves through our own stupidity. I’ve dealt with them enough to know they’re on the level. They’ve even helped us a few times, behind the scenes. I’m betting they’ve done a lot more I don’t even know about.”
“How long have they been here?” asked Markham. His attempts at appearing detached had failed. Despite his efforts, he was fascinated by what she was telling him.
