by Dayton Ward
After more than seventy years, it was inevitable that the space agency would come across proof that humans were not alone in the cosmos, or even alone while sending spacecraft into Earth orbit or to the solar system’s other planets. On the occasions when astronauts, or a satellite or other unmanned survey probe, had captured evidence of extraterrestrial activity, the person serving as NASA director was informed about aspects of Majestic 12’s mission that were relevant to the given situation, at which time they were forever linked to the covert organization and forbidden from publicly mentioning or discussing it in any manner. So far, there had been no reason to bring Amy Sisson in for such a briefing, but Markham knew that might change.
Pressing a button on the small keypad set into the top of his desk muted the television on the screen, and Markham asked, “Where are we on our look into this?”
Burden, as though sensing that the tenor of their private meeting had changed, placed her glass on the desk and straightened in her chair. “We still don’t know what it was that hit the Ares IV command module, but according to our own satellite data, it certainly didn’t act like any sort of natural phenomenon.” She held up a hand. “That is, anything we’ve seen before. NASA’s Mars satellites show what looks to be a huge ball of energy coming out of nowhere and closing on the ship’s position, and then the ship just disappears. According to Lieutenant Kelly’s description, it was more than a thousand meters in diameter. Even if he’d had any sort of real warning, there was no way he would’ve been able to maneuver Ares IV out of the way in time.”
Pondering this while studying the remnants of Scotch in his glass, Markham said, “That’s what NASA’s satellites tell us. What about ours?” As part of Majestic 12’s overall mission of attempting to keep tabs on everything happening on or above the Earth, a series of top-secret launches over the decades had seen to it that the covert agency now had its own network of satellites orbiting not only Earth but also the Moon and now Mars—for communications as well as other purposes, only a few of which took advantage of reverse-engineered components from captured extraterrestrial spacecraft. If NASA opted to revitalize manned missions to Jupiter or even back to Saturn in the coming years, MJ-12 would likely place additional equipment at or near those planets as well. Such a network had been in the planning stages following the U.S.S. Lewis & Clark’s journey to Saturn and the odd circumstances surrounding that mission back in 2020 that had involved contact with a mysterious probe of alien origin. That NASA, in the form of the official who had preceded Amy Sisson as the agency’s director, had chosen to concentrate short-term exploration goals on Mars rather than the outer planets had shelved any Majestic plans for Saturn.
Thank God. It’s a hell of long way out there, for one thing.
Having retrieved a data tablet from her briefcase, Burden had returned to her seat and was swiping at the device’s screen. “Our satellite coverage is much more comprehensive than anything NASA or any of the other civilian space agencies have up there, so we’ve got imagery they’ll never see. This thing, whatever it was, moved in a straight line, Gerry. That suggests something artificial; something guided . . . by something else.”
“That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” Reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose, Markham sighed. “I don’t suppose this thing’s behavior is consistent with anything we’ve seen before?”
Burden replied, “Its energy readings were off the scale. Definitely not like anything that’s shown itself around here.” She frowned. “To be honest, given its energy output, I’m thinking it probably is some kind of natural phenomenon. I just can’t see any kind of ship putting out that kind of power without being a whole lot bigger. At least, not if you compare it to the sorts of ships we’ve seen.”
“But you can’t rule it out.”
Shaking her head, Burden narrowed her eyes. “No, I can’t rule it out.” She turned to look back at the television, where Director Sisson was still answering press questions. “It’s going to take months to even begin to answer all the questions. Like you said, Mars is a damned long way away for this kind of thing.”
“We’ve been collecting bits and pieces of alien technology for decades, and yet we’ve never been able to figure out the systems that allowed them to travel here in the first place. I mean, can you imagine what we could accomplish if we could get to Mars in five minutes instead of five months?”
“If we do figure it out,” replied Burden, “are you applying to NASA?”
“Damned right. It has to be more fun than this.” After a moment, he offered a small, humorless smile. “You’d think after all these years, I’d be used to having conversations like this, but there are still times when I stop and think to myself, ‘Your job is the weirdest thing ever.’ Do you ever feel like that?”
Burden smirked. “Every morning when the alarm goes off.”
His smile fading, Markham said, “All right, now for the big money question: Do you think there’s any chance this could be related to our friends the Eizand?”
Once more, the assistant director frowned. “Again, I can’t rule it out. There’s nothing to tie this to anything we’ve seen from the Eizand, but there’s also nothing that explicitly rules it out, either. The simple truth is that we just don’t have enough information to make that kind of determination. Not yet, but we’re definitely trying to cover all the angles.” She shook her head. “It’d be nice to run this past Brinalri.”
Markham almost flinched at the sound of the name. The Eizand specimen had died after an escape attempt during an interrogation seven months earlier, the first time the alien had attempted such a bold move during his captivity. His death, like the rest of his existence, was a closely guarded secret even within Majestic 12’s sphere of influence. The body had been dissected by forensic examiners, with samples of bone and organs sent to different MJ-12 labs around the country for continued study.
How much more could we have learned from him. What a waste.
“We’re out of luck on that score,” said Markham, trying to push aside the irksome thoughts. “I’m going to want a report for Majestic and the White House within forty-eight hours.” As though anticipating her protest, Markham raised a hand. “Doesn’t have to be the whole book; just whatever chapters you have by then. I’ve been getting heat from the president and upstairs about this since Kelly disappeared.”
The senior level of Majestic 12’s leadership cadre, known casually as “upstairs,” was uncertain that the Ares IV accident might be related to the Eizand. Looking for anything they could use to justify ramping up various proposals that were in the planning stages, they now were turning their attention to Gerald Markham and the rest of the group known simply as Initiative 2031. The latest in a series of compartmented organizations dating back to the founding of Majestic 12 in 1947, I-31 was the successor to such programs as Project Blue Book from the 1950s and ’60s, or its 1980s counterpart, Project Cygnus. This new iteration had been put into motion following last year’s capture of the Eizand spacecraft, after MJ-12 scientists and engineers discovered during their inspection of the craft that its crew had transmitted a distress signal prior to making planetfall. The original ship was still being studied and disassembled in a secret subterranean facility beneath Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota, with the top priorities being understanding and possibly reverse-engineering the Eizand faster-than-light propulsion technology. Progress on that front had been limited, but the engineers spearheading that effort had reported advancement so far as interfacing with the craft’s onboard computer systems. The entire endeavor, Markham was told, could take years to complete.
Meanwhile, that Eizand crew had friends, who will probably come looking for them, if they haven’t already.
Not looking up from her tablet as she swiped at its screen, Burden asked, “What about NASA? They don’t even know what they’re looking for, but they might get lucky.” She held up the tablet. “There’s still the rescue mission, after all.”
Thinking of
astronauts Rose Kumagawa and Andrei Novakovich, currently stranded on Mars and awaiting rescue by the Theseus spacecraft and perhaps at the mercy of whatever unexplained force had taken John Kelly and the Ares IV command module, Markham sighed. “There’s that. Obviously, we’ll have to keep a close eye on their investigation. We can’t have them stumbling onto something and releasing it to the press or the web before we have a chance to sanitize it.”
As a transparent government agency, NASA was duty-bound to release any information, including photographs or video, of anything uncovered during the course of its investigation. Majestic 12—and I-31 by extension—were free of such mandates.
“Anything else I should be doing?” asked Burden as she rose from her seat.
Markham slumped back in his chair. Suddenly, he felt tired. “Yes. Pray whatever hit Ares IV is some kind of natural phenomenon, because if it really is the Eizand or somebody else, then we may have a very big problem.”
For a moment, he wondered if the people he had been trying to find—the mysterious “agents” about whom former Majestic director Kirsten Heffron had told him so much and yet so frustratingly little—might know anything about this incident. It was a possibility he could not rule out, and it had been some time since he had last spoken with Heffron, who remained in MJ-12 custody. Perhaps it was time to initiate a new line of questioning with her. Markham was certain she could have no knowledge of the Ares IV incident, though perhaps there was some morsel of information about her “friends” that she had managed to keep to herself despite Majestic’s best efforts.
We’ll have to see about that.
12
Classified Location
November 5, 2032
Switching off the television monitor, Kirsten Heffron tossed the unit’s remote control onto the dining table, listening to the plastic device clatter as it dropped onto the hard surface. The NASA press conference had concluded, and Director Amy Sisson left the podium despite the barrage of questions still being tossed her way. Heffron did not blame the other woman, as the questions now being offered were repeats or restatements of queries the director had already answered. It took a person of considerable patience to tolerate that sort of nonsense, and it was obvious from her composed demeanor that Sisson was well suited for such babysitting.
Better her than me.
She turned from the monitor, surveying the rest of the pair of rooms that served as her living quarters. A definite improvement from the underground metal room to which she had been consigned during the initial weeks of her incarceration, her current accommodations were comfortable if not lavish. If she positioned herself at just the right angle while gazing through the window forming the rear wall of her “cottage,” Heffron could pretend there were no guards standing watch at various points atop nearby buildings and along the walking paths connecting the different structures. Moving to the window, she ignored the two sentries within her field of vision and focused instead on the gardener tending to a row of hedges outside the cottage across from hers. For a brief moment, here and there, Heffron could almost forget this wasn’t a real apartment complex or neighborhood, but instead the prison where she likely would spend the rest of her life.
“Be it ever so humble,” she said aloud.
“There’s no place like home?” replied a voice behind her.
Spinning on her heel, Heffron turned to see Doctor William Davison standing in the now-open front doorway leading from her cottage. A tall, bald, gaunt man, whose skin looked as though it might burst into flames upon exposure to sunlight, he wore his usual white lab coat over a black button-down shirt and khaki trousers. The shirt was open at the collar, and Heffron could see the metal chain around his neck that she knew carried a magnetic key card. He wore narrow oval glasses with shaded lenses, giving him a somewhat sinister look that she was certain was by design.
“I really hate when you do that,” she said, making no effort to hide her disdain. “Would it kill you to knock first?” The doors to the cottages, which possessed no handles or hinges and were controlled by security keypads, slid aside with almost no sound. It was a feature she did not appreciate, though her captors tended not to abuse the power they wielded over her except on rare occasions.
I wonder what’s so special about today?
Davison smiled. “You don’t have anything to hide. Do you, Miss Heffron?”
“You tell me. You’re the ones with cameras and listening devices hiding in the walls, or you can just snoop around in here while you’ve got me off doing something else. If you’re going to bother me while I’m home, I’d at least like a chance to find something I could use to kill you before I open the door.”
“And that is why I don’t knock first.” Without waiting for an invitation, Davison stepped farther into the room and allowed the door to slide shut behind him. Noting Heffron’s robe and pajamas, he said, “Please get dressed. We have a busy day.”
“Sightseeing?” Heffron stuck her hands in her robe’s pockets. “You never take me anywhere, you know. I think our relationship might be going stale.”
Offering another smile, Davison even chuckled at her comment. “I must commend you, Miss Heffron. Your spirit and humor have remained undiminished throughout your stay with us. Considering everything we’ve put you through, it’s really quite remarkable.”
“Were you expecting me to feel guilty or something? All you did was pump me full of drugs and make me answer an endless barrage of questions. Everything I told you was against my will. My conscience is clear.”
“Of course, which is why we’ve attempted to make you as comfortable as possible.” Davison clasped his hands behind his back. “Surely this community is far preferable to the black site in which you were previously interred?”
Loath as she was to do so, Heffron had to agree with the man. The still-unknown location that was her involuntary home during the first weeks of her imprisonment at the hands of Gerald Markham and Majestic 12 had been little more than a subterranean bunker. Situated deep enough beneath the earth that the entire facility—including any luckless individuals it harbored—could likely be sealed off, buried, and forgotten if it or its contents ever became inconvenient to Markham or anyone else connected to MJ-12. She had heard rumors to that effect regarding other, similar sites, but they along with so many other tales about Majestic’s various activities remained unsubstantiated.
In contrast, this “community” was more appealing, at least one some level. She had no idea of her current location, but the mild climate throughout the year as well as the indigenous flora hinted at somewhere tropical, perhaps the Caribbean or South Pacific. Heffron knew that MJ-12 had facilities in both of those regions and elsewhere around the world, dating back to the organization’s operations during the Cold War, in particular the 1960s and 1970s during the height of the conflict in Vietnam. Further, the governments of the United States and other prominent world powers had operated places like this for decades, first as refuges for covert agents and other individuals whose lives were at risk after careers spent making enemies around the globe. Later, someone had decided that if high-stakes assets needed to be incarcerated for “reasons of national security,” it made better sense to treat such individuals with care and dignity, if for no other reason than as a measure of respect for past service. Heffron had heard of these installations, but had never seen or visited one until becoming a guest.
Wherever they were, Markham and her other masters were certain she could not escape, leaving her in the custody and care of “resident behavioral specialists” like William Davison and others here. The interrogations had concluded some months earlier—eight or nine, if Heffron remembered correctly—and since then she had been left largely alone save for infrequent, erratic visits from Markham. In the meantime, she was free to move about this community and partake of its numerous amenities. There were rules of conduct for “residents,” such as the directive to remain within the community’s perimeter, which was easy thanks to the electri
fied fence that surrounded the property. She was allowed to interact with the other residents, though with surveillance a constant concern, most of her fellow inmates tended to avoid discussing things like why they were here or anything connected to their prior lives that may have contributed to their incarceration. As prisons went, Heffron knew there were worse places.
“All right,” she said, not moving from where she still stood by the window. “What’s on the schedule for today?”
Moving around the cottage’s main room, Davison examined the paltry collection of items she had used to decorate her quarters. There were no pictures or anything of a personal nature that had belonged to her prior to her arrival here, but she had taken advantage of the community’s library and commissary to find a few books and other items to add some color and flavor to the place. Having nothing of any sentimental value was a good thing, Heffron knew. If she had to leave or was taken from this place, there would be nothing to carry, nothing to concern her, and nothing she would miss. When or if she left this place, she wanted to leave it all, and if that meant torching the entire community to the ground, that would be a nice bonus.
Davison seemed to understand her feelings.
“It’s moving day,” he said, turning from a wedge-shaped bookshelf that occupied the room’s far corner. “You only need to get dressed. Your personal effects, such as they are, will be transported to your new home.”
After they have a chance to pick through everything.
Her masters would never pass up an opportunity to rummage through her meager belongings in search of contraband or even something she may have fashioned into a weapon. Such inspections were as frequent as they were random, never giving any resident a chance to muster even the slightest hope that they may be getting away with anything their captors did not notice.
Eyeing the doctor with open skepticism, Heffron asked, “Where are we going?”
