by Dayton Ward
“Holy shit.”
The sergeant let his proffered hand drop to his side, and Markham was forced to push himself to his feet. Facing the barn, he was in time to see the building’s wooden shell crumbling to the ground, falling into a hole not unlike the one that was continuing to consume the house.
Removing his tactical radio from its clip on his equipment harness, Reu grunted something unintelligible. It was a small, humorless reaction, followed by, “That’s some security system.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Looking around the area, Markham tried to do a count of the soldiers who were visible. “Did everybody get out?”
The sergeant was holding his radio close to his ear. “I’m getting a count now.” After a moment, he nodded. “We’re all good. No casualties.” Then he cocked his head. “What are the odds that we’d all get out before it blew?”
Markham pondered the observation. “Good point.” Pivoting on his heel, he took in the scene of both structures, which had completed their collapse and now lay amid an expanding cloud of dust and smoke. A few telltale flames licked at some of the rubble, but the destruction appeared to be otherwise contained. “Between that and simply incapacitating our people when it would’ve been so easy to kill them, you have to wonder.”
He recalled from his conversations with Heffron that her mysterious friends did not seem to employ any sort of lethal means in the course of their various tasks. They did not carry weapons, at least not in the conventional sense, the sole exception being the pen-like servo devices. Could those kill? Maybe that was true of the models employed by Koroma and other agents, but it was not the case with the specimen taken from Heffron herself. Could one reason for the destruction of Koroma’s servo be to ensure its technology was not captured and exploited?
“We can still get a team in here,” said Reu. “Sift through the rubble. There might be something worth salvaging.”
“Go ahead and call them in. We’ll do it just to cover all the bases.” Markham shrugged. “Maybe we’ll even get lucky.”
He did not expect that anything of true value would be recovered during any excavation of the site. There would be bits and pieces of destroyed components, but the technology itself would have been rendered utterly, irretrievably inert as part of the agents’ evacuation plan.
It’s what I would’ve done.
Shifting his M4 rifle so that it hung suspended by its sling from his shoulder, Reu asked, “What’s our next move, sir?”
“Heffron and whoever else was here,” said Markham, gesturing toward the ruins of the barn and the teleportation technology it had once contained. “They got away. We just need to figure out where they ended up.”
Reu frowned. “Any ideas where they might be?”
Shaking his head, Markham released a long, slow sigh. “Based on what we know of their capabilities? Anywhere on the planet.”
Or, maybe they went even farther than that?
18
Los Angeles, California
November 20, 2032
Her eyes opened, and Kirsten Heffron jolted to a sitting position. Within seconds, she regretted that abrupt action as pain shot through her left shoulder, making her flinch and sending her crashing back to the couch she now realized she was occupying.
“Natalie? Mestral?”
She winced at the words as they left her parched throat. Coughing, she closed her eyes, as even that simple action sent another wave of pain through her wounded shoulder. Allowing her body to adjust to sudden wakefulness and the other protests it was issuing her, Heffron remained silent and prone on the couch, looking up at a mobile display of the solar system. A few dozen foam spheres were suspended by white twine from the ceiling, each painted to approximate the sun along with all of the planets and at least some of the larger moons. Hanging between the orbs representing Earth and its moon was a small, spindly construct that Heffron recognized as the International Space Station.
Where the hell am I?
“Miss Heffron.”
Looking away from the display, Heffron turned her head to see Mestral crossing the room, which was an office of some kind. A flat-screen television hung on the far wall, and two battered, gunmetal-gray desks of the sort that were ubiquitous in government office buildings were pushed against the wall across from her couch. Laptop computers, each set into a docking station with its own smaller flat-screen monitor, were active, and both desks were littered with books, maps, charts, and assorted papers along with pencils, colored markers, and other administrative debris. Whatever wall space was not blocked by filing cabinets and books was adorned with posters of planets and star maps, newspaper clippings and pages taken from magazines, notes and various scraps of paper, and what Heffron realized were mock travel posters to the Moon, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. Creased and dog-eared posters tacked to a bulletin board celebrated the films 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Day the Earth Stood Still, and Apollo 13.
A clock on the wall told her that it was 12:45. She recalled that it had been just after 6:30 in the morning when the farmhouse was attacked. Had she lost consciousness due to her injury? That was likely, she decided, but how long had she been out of it? There were no windows in the office, so Heffron had no idea whether that meant early afternoon or the middle of the night.
At least I’m not dead. I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.
“How are you feeling?” asked the Vulcan as he stepped closer. Now standing before the couch, he knelt beside her and reached toward her before pausing. “May I examine your wound?”
Heffron nodded, and it was only when Mestral again reached toward her that she realized her sweatshirt was gone, and that she now wore a heavy flannel robe. With a gentle touch, Mestral moved aside part of the robe’s collar in order to inspect where she had been shot, and Heffron saw that the skin there, though reddened and slightly swollen, showed no outward signs of the bullet’s entry into her body.
“Are you in any pain?” he asked.
“It only hurts when I move, or breathe, or think about it.” To her surprise, she felt no pain when Mestral’s fingers touched her skin where the wound had been. “Actually, it’s not that bad at all. What did you do?”
“A medical kit was among the emergency supplies staged at this location.” He did not look away, but instead continued to examine her shoulder. “The kit contained a tissue regeneration unit, which is quite useful for injuries of this type. I was able to begin treatment shortly after our arrival, so your blood loss was minimal. However, I have administered a medication that will accelerate blood cell creation in order to restore what was lost. There may be some residual muscular discomfort for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, but you will otherwise make a full recovery.”
Smiling, Heffron rested her right hand on his arm. “Thanks, Doc.” She allowed him to help her to a sitting position, and was surprised that even the lingering pain from her shoulder was already weaker than it had been just moments ago. With a push from the couch’s armrest, she rose to her feet and took in their surroundings. “What is this place? It looks like the basement at the Pentagon.”
Having risen to his feet, Mestral replied, “We are at the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles, California. It is early morning here, as we are eight hours behind Arran. You were asleep for approximately one hour and fifty-four minutes, while I tended to your wound.”
“Los Angeles?” So, this had been the emergency escape destination programmed into the Beta 7 computer, but what was its significance? “Is this some kind of safe house?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Looking around the room, the Vulcan cocked his right eyebrow. “However, it has been some time since I last visited it, and I am uncertain as to how our arrival will be received.”
“I’m guessing you won’t be all that welcome.”
Both Heffron and Mestral turned at the sound of the voice to see a woman standing in the doorway leading from the office. Heffron guessed the new arrival to be about the same age as her, if the
wrinkles around the eyes and mouth and the gray streaks in her short black hair were any indication. She was dressed in khaki pants, a dark blue sweatshirt, and running shoes, and while she carried no purse or other bag, there was the silver fountain pen in her right hand that gave Heffron pause. It was pointed at her, but not without any real malice or intention. After a moment spent appraising them, the other woman slipped the pen into her pocket, her expression turning from uncertainty to one of disapproval.
“What the hell are you doing here, Mestral?” When she spoke, her voice sounded as though it belonged to a much younger woman, though there was also a faint, raspy quality, which communicated her age. “I mean, besides tripping the silent alarm and activating the Beta 7. What, you didn’t think I’d notice that kind of thing, even in the middle of the night?”
Clasping his hands behind his back, the Vulcan replied, “I apologize for the intrusion. We were forced to make a hasty exit from Arran after our presence there was discovered.” He gestured to Heffron. “May I introduce—”
“I know who she is,” snapped the other woman. “We’ve never met, but I know exactly who you are, Director.”
Surprised by this, Heffron eyed their visitor. “Okay, that’s nice, but who are you?”
The woman jammed her hands in her pants pockets. “I’m surprised you’ve never heard of me. I’m Rain Robinson, and I was really hoping I was done with all of this crap forever.”
• • •
Sitting at one of the desks, her hands warming as they cradled a ceramic mug of what might well be the best coffee she had ever tasted, Heffron regarded Rain Robinson. The other woman remained silent as Mestral continued to work with the Beta 7 computer console tucked behind the basement office’s brick walls. She drank from her own cup, her gaze drifting to Heffron every so often before returning to the littered desktop before her. It was obvious that she was lost in thought, perhaps recalling whatever unpleasant memories that had been spurred by this sudden intrusion into her realm and her life.
“I’m sorry about this,” offered Heffron, hoping to break the awkward silence. “None of the other agents ever mentioned you before.”
“That’s because I was never an agent,” replied Robinson, keeping her attention on her coffee. “I didn’t stick with it all that long, and when I left, I asked that Roberta and Mestral and the others just forget about me.”
Heffron thought that unusual. “But you have . . . equipment here. One of their computers, and one of those . . . vaults.”
“My one concession for old times’ sake. I didn’t leave on the best of terms, but that didn’t mean I hated everything about the job.” She nodded toward Mestral. “He’s still my friend, and so was Roberta. I allowed them to install all of that stuff, so they’d have a safe house if they ever needed a place to hide.”
“Turns out we needed it,” said Heffron.
Robinson rested her mug atop the desk, spinning it slowly with her fingertips. “It was bound to happen, sooner or later.” She looked up from her cup. “Being found, I mean. I’m honestly surprised it took them this long.” Her eyes narrowed. “Them. You. Whatever.”
“I’m not like them,” replied Heffron, irritated by the remark. “I was always grateful for the insight and help you provided. Your colleagues, I mean.” She paused, recalling that last horrific moment before the transport vault swept her and Mestral from the barn on Arran. “I’m sorry about Agent Koroma.”
That, at least, appeared to have some effect, as Robinson’s expression changed to one of sadness. “Me too. She was a good friend. They were all good friends.” The grief clouding her features seemed to darken. “Well, most of them, anyway.”
Before Heffron could react to that, she saw Mestral approaching them from the Beta 7. The Vulcan’s expression, as always, was unreadable.
“I have dispatched a message off-world, alerting Agent Koroma’s . . . superiors . . . of the current situation and requesting instructions. I have also confirmed that the farmhouse and barn were destroyed per the evacuation protocol. All traces of Aegis technology have been sanitized, including Agent Koroma’s servo. There should be very little for Majestic 12 to salvage, let alone exploit.”
Robinson snorted. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Those people have been at their game almost as long as we’ve been at ours, and without the benefit of a supposedly benevolent superior alien race helping them out. They’ve had more than eighty years to capture, study, and exploit whatever alien technology manages to find its way here, and from what I can see, they’ve gotten pretty good at it.”
“That was our mission,” said Heffron. “We were mandated to figure out a way of defending ourselves against alien attack.” Leaning back in the desk chair, she shook her head. “Lord knows that for everything we managed to do, we’re still nowhere near being able to fend off something like that, if and when somebody decides to drop that kind of hammer on us.”
“We’re not that important.” Pushing herself from her own chair, Robinson grabbed her mug and crossed the office to where a coffee pot sat atop a small table. “No, really. We’re just one small, insignificant, out-of-the-way planet in one corner of the galaxy. Do you have any idea how many other worlds are out there, with resources and technology that make ours look like we’re a bunch of cavemen wandering around clubbing each other with sticks?”
“Then why do so many alien races seem so interested in us?” asked Heffron. “Why have they been visiting us for at least a century, and probably longer?”
Documented cases of extraterrestrial sightings and encounters went back to the 1800s, but most records before the turn of the twentieth century were unreliable, at best. She had never seen anything to confirm such activity prior to the 1900s. Despite decades of work on the part of Majestic 12 and its various offshoot organizations and groups, there was no concrete evidence to support the notion that ancient structures like the pyramids in Egypt or South America or other strange constructs and markers scattered around the world were linked to alien influence. The possibility was still there, and perhaps one day conclusive proof would be found. In the meantime, people like Heffron would have to go on seeking answers. All those who toiled in secret to answer the questions about humankind’s status in the universe or just to prevent their home planet from alien invasion would also continue searching for the truth. Even those civilians who harbored questions or fears about such things would look for whatever information presented itself, and when that failed they would invent their own.
Because we have a ridiculous need to feel significant in the universe. How’s that working out for us?
Robinson poured coffee into her mug. “I said we were unimportant. That doesn’t mean we’re not interesting or amusing or occasionally useful in some way. Or, maybe we’re just convenient, depending on specific circumstances.” She sipped from her cup before moving back to the desk. “And yes, there have been times where Earth or humans have played some role in larger events, even without our knowledge, or we were perceived as a potential future threat.” With her mug, she gestured to Mestral. “His people were studying us back in the 1950s. Were we a threat to anybody back then?”
“No,” replied the Vulcan. “However, humanity’s development of nuclear weapons and demonstrated willingness to employ them on members of its own species, when coupled with the pursuit of interplanetary space travel, made it prudent in the eyes of my people to observe your continuing advancement.”
“I think that’s the nicest possible way anyone could ever describe someone as a threat to interstellar peace.” Robinson lowered herself back in her chair. “But Vulcan’s one of few exceptions, right? I mean, sure, there’s been the occasional visit by someone who thought our planet might make a nice new home, but how often was that really the case?”
Heffron replied, “At least once, that I know of from direct experience. I’m sure there were others.”
Nodding, Robinson raised her mug. “Point conceded, but only because I’ve seen that sort of thi
ng once or twice myself.” She gestured to Mestral. “But from what you told me, we’re pretty out of the way for that sort of thing to really grab somebody.” Then she held up her hand, partnering it with a wan smile. “However, we know that’s not always going to be the case, don’t we?”
“Doctor Robinson,” said Mestral, and Heffron caught the faint yet unmistakable hint of warning in his voice.
Rolling her eyes, the other woman swiveled her chair so that she could rest her feet on the desk. Heffron saw a flattened wad of dirty pink gum jammed into the tread of her left shoe. Leaning back in her chair, Robinson held her coffee mug in both hands and affected a smug smile.
“Come on, Mestral. The lady here knows what I mean. Isn’t that right, Director?” When Heffron did not respond, Robinson continued, “After all, the whole reason for the Aegis being here is because we childish little humans aren’t able to figure out our own problems for ourselves, and so we need a guiding hand every once in a while. That is, except when our mentors decide it’s really in our best interests to get our asses kicked from time to time.”
Mestral stepped closer. “Doctor, I do not believe this is the best time for this sort of conversation.”
For the first time, Robinson’s tone hardened. “Hey, you’re the ones who showed up in my observatory in the middle of the night, dragging me back into everything I’d put behind me thirty years ago. You want to bunk here, you’ll pay the price of admission, and that means getting to listen to me bitch about some things.”
Thirty years, thought Heffron. Feeling her brow furrow, she considered the significance of that number. Our asses kicked? What happened thirty years ago, that—
“Holy shit,” she said, startled to her the words coming from her own mouth. “Nine Eleven?”
