by Greg Cox
“And yet,” Carlson continued, rapping his knuckles against the steel-like plastic ( or plastic-like steel), “I'd bet my scandalously inadequate pension that this is the same sort of stuff that Quark's gear was made out of.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully as he regarded the objects in question. “The only thing that puzzles me, though, is that the design of these mechanisms strikes me as somehow less sophisticated than the apparatus we observed in '47. It's like their technology has regressed by a generation or so over the course of the last four decades, which is contrary to what you'd expect.”
Shannon gently lifted the pistol-like device from the counter, her hand fitting comfortably around the grip. It was surprisingly lightweight. “Well, you know what they say: they just don't make them like they used to. Maybe that applies to extraterrestrial hardware as well.” An even more far-out explanation occurred to her. “Or, who knows, maybe there's some sort of bizarre time-travel paradox at work here? Back to the Future and all that.”
She was joking, naturally, but Carlson appeared to give the idea serious consideration. “You know, Shannon, that might well be the case.” He watched her handle the alleged alien artifact. “Careful,” he warned her, “the Navy spycatchers felt confident that the device you're holding is some kind of weapon, although so far no one's been able to make it work.” His tone implied that maybe, where the U. S. military was concerned, this wasn't such a bad thing. “Before his accident, Chekov himself is supposed to have suggested that his weapon had been damaged by radiation from the Enterprise 's nuclear reactor.” His gaze turned inward as he mulled over the possible implications of this claim. “You know, now that I think of it, Quark also had strong feelings about atomic energy. Maybe—”
A series of racking coughs interrupted his fervid speculations. Shannon winced at the harsh, wet sounds coming from her mentor's muchabused lungs, and she watched in pain and sympathy as the explosive convulsions caused the old man's body to double over. Returning the “pistol” to the counter, she hurried over to help Carlson, snatching the cigarette from his palsied fingers with one deft motion, then guiding him over to a nearby stool where he could sit down.
It took a few moments, but the coughing jag eventually passed, and Carlson was able to catch his breath. “Sorry about that,” he apologized meekly. “I guess I've been working too hard.”
For the first time since returning to the lab, Shannon noticed that Carlson's face looked gaunter and more drawn than usual. The heavy black rims of his bifocals only partially concealed the purple shadows beneath his aged eyes. “Let me guess, you've been going strong for hours now, haven't you?”
Carlson shrugged dismissively. The flip side of his enormous enthusiasm for his work, Shannon knew, was that he often pushed himself too hard. “More or less,” he admitted, “but can you blame me? This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Brand-new evidence of extraterrestrial intelligence! I couldn't take a break now if I wanted to.”
He looked excited and worn-out at the same time. Shannon decided it was time to take a hard line; she cared too much for the sweet old scientist to let him trash his health like this. “Look, if you won't go home and get a good night's sleep, which is what you really need, then you should at least nap for a couple hours in your office. That's what I set up that cot for in the first place.”
“If I wanted a nurse, I could have just stayed home with my wife,” Carlson grumbled. He reached for his cigarette, but Shannon determinedly ground the noxious cancer stick into the bowl of a convenient ceramic crucible. “Dammit, I've been waiting forty years for another look at Ferengi technology.”
“Then a few more hours won't make any difference,” Shannon insisted. Adamant, she helped her exhausted boss back onto his feet and led him out of the lab toward his office a short walk away, in an adjoining block of compartments assigned to their project. Carlson muttered darkly the whole time, but reluctantly bowed to the inevitable. Deep down inside, the young woman suspected, her ingenious mentor knew she was right.
After making sure that Carlson had indeed stretched out on the portable cot that Shannon had installed in his office months ago, Shannon turned off all the lamps in his room, then slipped quietly out of the book-lined compartment. She lingered in the hall outside the door for several minutes, to make sure that Carlson was indeed taking it easy, and not sneaking up to work at his computer. Then her own curiosity won out, and she tiptoed back toward the main lab to take a closer look at the mysterious curios that had so intrigued her boss.
A tinted glass door sealed the lab off from the office area. Shannon was sure she remembered switching off the lights when she left the lab, but now she was surprised to see an eerie blue glow coming from the other side of the door. A wisp of sapphire mist seeped into the hall from beneath the door. What the hell? she thought. She sniffed the air, momentarily afraid that a discarded cigarette had accidentally started a fire in the lab, but she couldn't smell anything burning. Whatever that odorless blue vapor was, it wasn't smoke.
Instantly on guard, she crept closer to the closed lab entrance. Peering through the translucent glass, she glimpsed the silhouette of a humanoid figure moving across the lab. An intruder—at Area 51? That hardly seemed possible, unless maybe Chekov himself had somehow dropped by to reclaim his property. Who knew how Ferengi came and went? Could it be that a genuine space alien was only a few yards away?
On impulse, Shannon threw open the door and switched on the lights, surprising the intruder. The high-intensity white lights exposed a thoroughly human-looking woman caught in the act of searching the supply drawers beneath the metal counter. Tanned and blond, the woman looked to be in her late thirties, and wore a baggy, dark green sweater and black spandex leggings. A stylish woven tote bag hung over her shoulder, and there was nothing alien at all about her wideeyed expression of surprise and chagrin; she looked as sheepishly guilty as an underage teen caught sneaking into an R-rated movie.
That's no Ferengi, Shannon guessed intuitively, and no “Pavel” either, not unless the aliens can change sex as well as shape.
The stranger's hand still rested on the handle of a partially opened drawer, while her other hand gripped the black, rectangular “radio” captured from Chekov. The remaining artifact, the one that resembled a handgun, still rested on the polished steel counter, just beyond the intruder's reach.
Thinking quickly, Shannon rushed forward and snatched up the suspected weapon. “Don't move!” she warned the older woman, aiming what she hoped was the business end of the “pistol” at the stranger. Boy, am I going to feel stupid, she thought, if I've got this thing pointed the wrong way!
“Hold on! Let's not get carried away!” the other woman whispered urgently, without a trace of anything resembling a Russian accent. Her own arm jerked up suddenly, pointing the “radio” at Shannon. “You stay where you are, too!”
The young engineer wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that the mystery woman looked and acted so convincingly human. “That's no weapon,” Shannon challenged the nameless intruder, nodding her head at the boxy, black instrument in the other woman's hand.
“Oh yeah?” Blushing embarrassment gave way to bravado as the honey-haired intruder held her ground, keeping her weapon aloft. Aquamarine eyes narrowed as the blonde squinted at Shannon like a gunslinger in an old Clint Eastwood movie. “Are you absolutely sure about that?”
Not exactly, Shannon thought, swallowing hard. The actual functions of both devices remained unknown. For all she knew, she was threatening a death ray with a pencil sharpener. But if that's the case, she thought hopefully, then why hasn't Blondie already zapped me?
“Who are you?” she demanded nervously. How had the intruder gotten past all the guards and security cameras anyway? Had the blonde done something to Sergeant Muckerheide, or was the friendly soldier still standing guard outside the lab, blissfully unaware of the Mexican standoff unfolding inside? Shannon was tempted to call out for assistance, but feared that the other woman would fir
e her weapon (?) if Shannon even tried to summon reinforcements. Besides, she recalled, Muck couldn't even enter the lab if he heard her screaming for her life; he didn't have the clearance to get past the locked door. How's that for irony? she thought acerbically.
“Sssh!” the stranger cautioned Shannon, holding a finger before her lips. She wiggled her “radio” at Shannon for emphasis. “My name doesn't matter. The important thing is”—she let go of the drawer and pointed at Shannon's unproven firearm—“that doesn't belong to you.”
“I don't see your initials on it,” Shannon retorted, “whatever they might be.” Her gaze darted around the tidy, well-equipped laboratory as she frantically considered her options. She could always shout for Doc Carlson, of course, but the last thing she wanted to do was place her boss in jeopardy as well. Instead, her eyes zeroed in on a white plastic phone mounted on the wall several feet away, next to a blackboard covered with arcane calculations and diagrams. If I can just get a chance to call for help, she thought, beginning to edge in that direction. “Besides, finders keepers.”
But the radio-wielding blonde saw where Shannon was heading and moved to block her. “Look, you're a scientist, right?” the stranger asked hopefully. “So presumably you're a smart person. You must realize that civilization isn't ready for this kind of technology yet. You'd be jumping centuries ahead of humanity's current state of development; there's no way our psychology or social institutions could possibly keep up.” The anonymous intruder certainly sounded earnest enough; imploring blue-green eyes reached out to Shannon without even a hint of guile or duplicity. “Just think what it would do to the balance of power if the Pentagon figured out how these sci-fi doohickeys work!”
“But this doesn't have to be about bigger and better weapons,” Shannon insisted passionately. She and the doc had always been united in their commitment to do more than simply heighten the arms race. “That's what treaties and diplomacy are for. What about the peaceful applications of scientific progress? Like medical research, alternative energy sources, the space program . . . ?” The heartbreaking image of Challenger exploding in midair flashed once more before her mind's eye, causing her voice to catch in her throat. “If we can build better, more advanced spaceships, using just this sort of futuristic technology, then maybe no more astronauts will have to die like Christa McAuliffe and the others!”
The blond woman smiled sadly. “I understand what you're saying,” she sympathized, “and I like the way think. But you'll just have to trust me on this one, Red. Letting you people hold on to these gadgets is a worse idea than New Coke.”
Without warning, she pressed a button on the “radio,” which promptly emitted an electronic hum. Shannon flinched, in anticipation of being stunned or disintegrated, but the blond woman merely glanced down at device's digital display and grinned triumphantly. “Sorry to break this to you, sister, but it looks to me like your ray gun is out of juice.”
She blithely placed her own “weapon” in the handbag dangling from her shoulder, then lunged toward Shannon. The younger woman desperately squeezed something that felt like a trigger, but, just as the blonde had predicted, nothing happened. Her attacker confidently grabbed on to Shannon's arm, and, with some sort of practiced martial-arts move, put pressure on the startled lab worker's wrist, forcing her to let go of the pistol. “There!” the blonde said cheerfully, stepping back with her prize, which she tucked efficiently into the pocket of her sweater. “Now we're getting somewhere.”
Feeling the situation rapidly slipping out of her control, Shannon hesitated, uncertain whether to run for the phone or to try to physically wrestle the stolen artifacts away from the other woman. I knew I should've have taken that self-defense course at the gym!
“Whoa there, Red,” the blonde warned her, as if reading her mind. She removed a silver fountain pen from one of the fuzzy chartreuse leg warmers around her shins and pointed its tip at Shannon. “Believe it or not, I'm not bluffing this time. This little pen-thingie really is a weapon, sort of, so don't even think of going Rambo on me.”
Glancing over her shoulder at a supply closet at the opposite side of the lab, she began backing away from Shannon. I don't understand, Shannon thought, unable to keep up with this bewildering chain of events. Where does she think she can go? There's no way out of here except past all the guards! Somehow, though, she knew that the nameless blonde was completely capable of slipping out of Area 51 as mysteriously as she had arrived, taking the two captured artifacts with her.
“Wait!” Shannon called out, more anxious than ever to plumb the secrets of the alien devices. “What if we promised to share the knowledge with the entire world, including our enemies? That way we could all benefit!”
The blonde paused, regarding Shannon with an intrigued expression. “I appreciate the sentiment,” she said, shaking her head slowly, “but the world just can't risk that right now. Things are too delicate, geopolitically speaking.” She looked Shannon over speculatively, as if appraising the young engineer according to some unspecified criteria. “But maybe we should talk again sometime. What's your name anyway?”
“Shannon,” she answered uncertainly, hoping fervently that she wasn't signing up for her very own alien abduction, just like that missing marine biologist. “Shannon O'Donnell.”
The blonde smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Shannon.” From across the lab, she pointed her pen directly at the younger woman. “Don't worry, this won't hurt a bit.”
Panic flared for an instant inside Shannon's pounding heart. Then the silver pen hummed loudly and all her worries went away.
At least for an hour or so.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
RED SQUARE
MOSCOW
UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS
OCTOBER 10, 1986
RISING HIGH ABOVE THE KREMLIN'S RED BRICK WALLS, THE CLOCK tower chimed a revolutionary anthem as the clock struck seven. Colonel Anastasia Komananov of the KGB, Third Chief Directorate, quickened her step as she crossed Red Square toward the forbidding walled fortress that now served as the headquarters of the Soviet Union. Her double-breasted, steel-gray greatcoat was buttoned securely against the bitter cold of the evening. Gold stars, signifying her rank, glittered upon the collar of the heavy wool coat, and a slim black attaché case was chained securely to her wrist.
The wintry chill, extreme for October, had already driven both townspeople and tourists indoors, so that the square was largely deserted tonight. Komananov strode briskly across the wide expanse of white cobblestones, making swift progress toward her ultimate destination. Just ahead, on the far side of the square, the domed rotunda of the Russian Senate could be glimpsed above and beyond the crenelated red battlements of the Kremlin walls. Urgent business, vital to the continued existence of the Soviet Union, awaited Komananov within the Presidium building, next to the Senate, but first she had another stop to make.
A pyramid of stacked, cubiform blocks, Lenin's Tomb squatted in the shadow of the Kremlin, its red granite facade matching the stern walls looming behind it. Rows of neatly trimmed pine trees flanked the entrance to the mausoleum, which was also protected by an honor guard of uniformed soldiers, bearing AK-74 assault rifles. Above the doorway, large Cyrillic letters spelled out the surname of the Father of the Revolution.
By day, a long line of visitors, composed of both sincere pilgrims and curious sight-seers, usually stretched outside the Tomb, waiting for their turn to pay their respects to the deceased Soviet premier. Now, after closing time, only the stern-faced guards remained, standing stiffly at attention as Komananov approached. The colonel nodded curtly as the soldiers saluted her smartly and, without a word, let her pass. She did not need to express her intentions out loud; it was her habit, well known to the guards posted here, to meditate within the Tomb after the tourists had all departed. Although she was running slightly behind schedule this evening, having left KGB Headquarters, in nearby Lubyanka Square, several minutes later than she had intended, she judged it i
mportant that, tonight of all nights, she not deviate in the slightest manner from her accustomed routine, lest her actions attract unwanted attention.
I must do nothing suspicious, she cautioned herself silently, maintaining a solemn, inscrutable expression on her austerely attractive features. A pair of matching pearl earrings added a feminine touch to her otherwise intimidating aspect and apparel. Not tonight, nor in the days to come. Eyes the color of cloudless blue Siberian skies betrayed not a hint of the worries troubling her mind. The operation must succeed, she vowed. The future of the Revolution depends on it.
If all went as planned tonight, she would go down in history as one of the saviors of the Soviet Union, which was, if nothing else, certainly preferable to her other, more dubious claim to fame; to Anastasia Komananov's lasting embarrassment, she had already been immortalized in a trashy British spy novel written by a western agent of her acquaintance, who had retired from the field to pursue a more “literary” career. Fortune willing, her true accomplishments would soon eclipse those of her fictional counterpart—or so she fervently hoped.
Removing her fur-lined gray ushanka hat, she passed beneath the imposing granite portal into the dimly lit interior of the Tomb. Her footsteps echoed within the sepulchral atmosphere of the crypt as she walked down a couple of short, empty hallways until she came to the final resting place of the man who transformed Russia from a backward monarchy to a modern Communist state. Encased in glass, the mortal remains of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin lay in state upon an ornate bier of filigreed iron and crushed purple velvet, looking remarkably preserved for someone who had died over six decades ago. His balding pate rested upon a plush velvet pillow, while his skin, although a trifle waxy, retained the ruddy glow and hue of life. He looked as though he were merely sleeping, a serene expression upon his distinguished features, his arms resting comfortably at his side. Expert lighting cast a golden radiance over the scene, accenting the lifelike quality of the recumbent figure, who wore a conservative dark blue suit. Iron spears, their heads carefully crafted into the hammer and sickle emblems of the Soviet State, flanked the bier, symbolically standing watch over the great Bolshevik leader. Anastasia Komananov felt a surge of patriotism, and renewed resolve, as she contemplated the inspiring tableau before her.
