Elusive Salvation (Star Trek: The Original Series)

by Dayton Ward

  A Vulcan, Mestral had been living among humans for more than a decade after his own survey craft with a small crew had crash-landed in rural Pennsylvania in the fall of 1957. When a rescue ship arrived at Earth in search of him and his companions, Mestral had elected to remain behind, seeing his time on Earth as an unparalleled opportunity to observe a civilization on the cusp of major technological and sociological advancements. After he had convinced the two Vulcans who had survived with him of his desire to stay, they reported to their rescuers that he had died in the crash.

  Mestral had maintained a low profile since then, concealing his true nature from those humans with whom he interacted, though he had revealed his identity to a pair of human military officers who at the time were investigating the presence of alien activity on Earth, which in turn eventually brought him to the attention of Seven and Roberta.

  And of course, Mestral and the Certoss ended up involving Kirk. How does that man keep finding this sort of trouble?

  “That was your own fault,” Roberta said, replying to her own thought. “You’re the one who got him to help you, remember?” She had traveled to the twenty-third century and found that Mestral, along with one of the Certoss, had transported through time to the Enterprise, using the transporter equipment hidden inside Seven’s office. With Kirk’s help along with that of his first officer, Spock, Roberta had managed to find the Certoss agent’s companion, who for decades had been working toward that whole destruction of Earth and humanity thing.

  “It’s all just one big ball of crazy, isn’t it?”

  “Insufficient query,” said the Beta 5. “Please restate your request.”

  “Never mind.” Roberta tossed a dismissive wave toward the computer. “Have you found Mestral?”

  “Negative. The servo given to him by Supervisor 194 is not responding to my signal.”

  Frowning, Roberta stepped closer to the workstation. “What? Can you locate it?” Seven had provided Mestral with a servo pen similar to the ones carried by him and Roberta. Though it lacked most of the functionality built into the tools at their disposal, the servo still allowed him to communicate with them as well as make use of the transporter system or Blue Smoke Express, as Roberta had taken to calling it.

  “I am unable to locate the servo,” reported the computer. “Mestral’s current location is unknown.”

  “Wait. You’re saying he disappeared?”

  Where the hell had he gone?

  Twelve

  Marine Corps Air Station—El Palomar, California

  May 21, 1971

  Everything, as always, was gray.

  The cinderblock walls forming the windowless room were painted gray. Scratched and scuffed, the metal table at the room’s center, and to which his hands were cuffed, was a lighter shade of gray. The chair in which he sat, along with its counterpart on the table’s opposite side, displayed equal neglect and featured paint that approximated the table’s hue. A single bulb hung from the center of the ceiling, providing the sole source of illumination, though its success was marginal when considering the amount of the room that still lay in shadow. It was a deliberate effect, he knew, a concerted effort on the part of his hosts to elicit an emotional response in those brought here, in particular an impression of isolation if not outright sensory deprivation.

  The tactic had not worked on him during any of his previous visits to this room, and Mestral doubted it would prove successful anytime soon.

  How long had he been here? In this room, twelve minutes and forty-seven seconds as humans measured the passage of time. In the facility where this austere, uninviting chamber was located? Despite the lack of visible timekeeping devices and any view of the outside world, Mestral knew that he had been here for eight months, two weeks, and three days. Though he had been moved from room to room, and often spent prolonged periods locked in what his guards called “solitary confinement,” he had been able to keep track of the days as they added up to weeks and then months. Those intervals of enforced solitude had been interspersed with periods of prolonged questioning. Some of those conversations had been enlightening, even fascinating, as he spoke with a small number of military officers and the occasional civilian scientist, each of them at once eager and at first apprehensive about the answers he would provide for their many questions. The fear seemed to have ebbed over time, and now Mestral found he actually looked forward to the sessions. On the other hand, the intervals at which they occurred had become predictable, taking place once every seven days and at approximately the same time of day on each occasion.

  Mestral heard the footsteps a full thirty-six seconds before a key was inserted into the lock on the other side of the heavy gray door. Metal turned against metal, and the door swung outward to reveal a human male wearing the blue uniform of an officer in the United States Air Force. The single star on each shoulder indicated his rank as that of a brigadier general, making him the most senior military official he had yet met. A collection of multicolored ribbons over his left breast pocket signified a lengthy and distinguished career, and the black name tag over his other pocket was labeled OLSON. Mestral recognized the name, though until this moment he had not had occasion to mention this to anyone.

  A guard outside the room closed the door behind the man as he stepped into the room, and Mestral heard the door’s lock turn back into place. The new arrival, holding a black portfolio, stood silent for a moment, brown eyes staring at Mestral. The man’s blond hair was receding and had gone gray at the temples, and lines creased his forehead and around his eyes.

  “Good morning, Mestral. My name is General Stephen Olson,” the man said after a few more seconds. “I represent a group with which you’re familiar, Majestic 12.”

  Mestral reacted to the statement with the raising of his left eyebrow. Though he had suspected the organization’s involvement in his capture and incarceration, and he had mentioned his knowledge of the top-secret program during several of his past discussions with other military officers, today was the first time anyone had admitted to any association with it.

  “I am familiar with Majestic 12, General, just as I am familiar with you, though at the time you were a colonel.”

  Nodding in approval, Olson moved to the empty chair across from Mestral and sat. He laid the portfolio on the table but did not open it.

  “You’re also familiar with Project Blue Book,” he said, the fingers of his right hand resting atop the portfolio. “Not just familiar, but very conversant in its activities, at least until the project was deactivated.”

  “That is correct.” Mestral returned Olson’s stern gaze, though his own expression remained composed. All of this had been covered during previous conversations, the details of which he was certain the general knew.

  “You worked extensively with two of Blue Book’s case officers, James Wainwright and Allison Marshall.” As he spoke, Olson began tapping his fingers on the portfolio.

  “General, I believe I have demonstrated cooperation and honesty in all of my previous interviews, and I find it difficult to believe that you are not aware of my responses to such questions during those conversations. However, to answer your question, I did know Mister Wainwright and Miss Marshall, and I did assist them on some of the cases they investigated for your military.”

  He had come to know Wainwright and Marshall after learning about the existence of Certoss agents on Earth. He had brought this information to the officers, who were part of a group tasked with investigating reports of extraterrestrial activity on Earth and whether such activity posed a threat to the planet. The project had been active for many years, beginning in the late 1940s, after an alien vessel landed in the southwestern United States, and continuing through the previous decade. Despite its outreach to the public in its quest to learn the truth about alien activity, Wainwright told him that Blue Book had in effect become something of a disinformation campaign before its ig
nominious end. It was the human’s belief that the project was little more than a distraction for the citizenry while Majestic 12 carried on with the real work of investigating and analyzing such reports, along with any actual extraterrestrials they might discover.

  However, that had not always been the case. At its inception, Blue Book and the projects from which it had evolved had attempted a serious examination of such sightings and other reports. Indeed, Wainwright and Marshall had been dispatched to Pennsylvania in 1957 to investigate sightings of an unidentified craft: his own. Mestral later learned that their efforts to understand the truth of the crash were thwarted by the actions of human agents working for alien benefactors—the Aegis—with an interest in seeing Earth survive what they knew would be chaotic times in the years ahead. Though Mestral had shared his relationship with Wainwright and Marshall, the questions put to him had been phrased in such a manner that he was able to navigate them while still maintaining the secrecy of the Aegis agents and their successors, who continued to work “behind the scenes” for Earth’s benefit.

  Olson nodded. “Yes, you’ve been very cooperative. I, for one, appreciate it, but I’ve wondered why you’ve been so accommodating.”

  “There is nothing to be gained by deception.” Within the first days of his capture, Mestral had come to realize that lying to his hosts—even without the cultural prohibitions that normally required him to abstain from such actions—would be a fruitless gesture. His initial decision had been motivated in large part due to his treatment while in custody, which to this point had been civilized, all things considered.

  He had not endured physical mistreatment or abuse, and though a team of doctors had examined him at length, their most invasive procedures had been taking blood samples and subjecting him to a series of X-rays. The primitive means of examining a patient’s internal organs was as advanced as the humans’ current medical technology, and Mestral had found the exercise quaint as well as educational. His blood had been of particular interest to the doctors studying him, and there had been several discussions about his physiology as well as how it differed from humans.

  It had been his blood that had led to his capture. At least, that was story given to him by one of the military officers who had conducted his first interrogation. He had cut himself in the kitchen of his apartment while working there as a construction engineer in San Diego, and his accident had been observed by a neighbor. Though he was never given the details, Mestral suspected that person had contacted authorities, and the military had then become aware of the incident.

  As part of the overall treatment he had received, his dietary requests had been honored, and he even had been allowed the occasional respite from his cell, though never to an outside area. Still, that gesture had been enough to provide him with some information as to his location, with stone walls and tunnels leading him to believe he was being held in some form of underground facility. Mestral had not bothered to ask for confirmation of his suspicions, and his hosts had not deemed it necessary to offer such information.

  “As I’ve told others who’ve questioned me on this matter,” he continued, “my people prefer not to lie, except in the most extreme circumstances where lives may be at risk. Besides, you have nothing to fear from me, General. I intend no harm toward you or anyone else. Though my arrival here was to a degree accidental, my decision to remain here was motivated by a sincere desire to observe your people.”

  “Not to learn from us?”

  Mestral once more allowed an arched eyebrow. “Observation implies education, General. If you mean do I seek to discover some weakness or other vulnerability that might be exploited, then no. As I have previously stated, and as Mister Wainwright and Miss Marshall have doubtless testified, my intentions here are nothing but peaceful.”

  “They both spoke highly of you,” Olson replied, “as has Professor Carlson.”

  Jeffrey Carlson, the older human male whom Mestral knew to be one of the founding members of Majestic 12, had also been an overseer of Project Blue Book and Wainwright and Marshall. The name was one Mestral had not heard in all the time he had been here.

  “I trust the professor is well.”

  Olson said, “We’re keeping him busy, but yes, he’s doing fine.”

  During their first meeting, Mestral had been struck by Carlson’s welcoming nature and genuine desire for friendship. A compassionate, humble man, the professor had wanted to forge an understanding between humans and the extraterrestrials who had chosen to visit Earth. He believed there was much to be learned on both sides from such a meeting, and Mestral also knew that Carlson for some time had been involved in an effort to reverse engineer retrieved alien technology in the hopes of one day replicating it.

  “And Mister Wainwright?” No information as to the status of Wainwright or Marshall had been provided during previous interviews.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”

  Mestral nodded. “I understand. It is my hope that he also is well.”

  The general said nothing else for a moment, and Mestral at first thought this might be some new interrogation tactic Olson was employing. With his hand still resting atop the portfolio, the man seemed to want to ask something else, though perhaps he was conflicted about how to give voice to his thoughts. Was he wrestling with doubt, or fear?

  “I’ll level with you, Mestral,” Olson said. “There are several thousand scientists who would love to be sitting here talking to you. Of course, they don’t know about you and probably never will.” For the first time, he smiled. “We prefer to keep you to ourselves. There’s a reason you’ve been well treated, as opposed to being dissected or something. You see, there’s been much discussion about how you might be able to demonstrate your peaceful intentions toward us.”

  Leaning forward in his chair, Olson opened his portfolio. The first thing Mestral saw was what looked to be a technical diagram printed on a piece of white paper. Typed and handwritten notes surrounded the object at its center.

  “We have a team of people,” the general continued, “led by Professor Carlson, as a matter of fact, who are working to build something like this for us.” He lifted the paper and laid it at the center of the table, orienting it so that Mestral could read the notes. It was a spacecraft, though as far as he knew it was unlike anything currently in existence anywhere on the planet. Even the drawings he had seen in magazines about proposed future generations of space vessels looked nothing like what now lay before him. Instead, this resembled something he might see in a film or on the cover of a fiction book or magazine at the library.

  “Interesting,” he said. One set of letters, handwritten near what was labeled as the vessel’s rear section, caught his attention: FTL. He was just able to reach it before the chain connecting his handcuffs to the table went taut. “What does this term mean?”

  Olson leaned over the table to see. “Faster than light.”

  “Indeed. I was not aware that your space-travel capabilities had advanced to such a degree.”

  “It hasn’t. Not yet, anyway.” The general shrugged. “To be honest, we’re nowhere near anything like that. This is just somebody’s wishful thinking, but it could be more than that, with your help.”

  Mestral regarded the drawing for another moment. “You’re proposing that I assist you in realizing this concept.”

  “I won’t lie,” replied Olson, reaching out to tap the paper with one finger. “There are a bunch of people who are a lot smarter than I am who think there are several thousand different ways to better spend the money this’ll cost, but they have the luxury of living in ignorance. Now that we know—really know—that there are people like you out there, and they can travel faster than light to get here from wherever they live, it makes sense for us to have the same capability.”

  It took Mestral but a moment to infer the general’s unspoken meaning. “You mean for milita
ry use.”

  “Protecting the planet is the name of the game.” Olson retrieved the drawing and returned it to his portfolio. “Personally, I’d be happy if everybody else in the universe would just leave us alone, but we have to be ready to defend ourselves in the event somebody comes calling.” He shrugged. “And let’s face it: Without that sort of propulsion capability, we’re stuck in our own solar system. It takes months or years just to get to the other planets. Even if we just want to go out and have a look around, we need something like this.”

  He was right, of course. Mestral could concede that much, at least so far as the logistics and reality of space travel were concerned. However, the human race, at this point in its growth as a civilization, was very much a captive of ideological and sociopolitical chaos. They still waged war on one another for all manner of reasons ranging from resource control to religious and political differences and everything in between. Until they learned to live in peace amongst themselves and celebrate rather than fear their diversity, it was logical to assume they would carry their aggression to the stars. So long as that was a possibility, Mestral knew he could not assist them.

  Before he could say anything else, he was interrupted by the sound of the door unlocking. Olson’s expression told Mestral that he also was surprised by this, and he shifted in his seat to face the door just as it opened. Standing in the entryway was not the guard or another officer, but instead a blond woman wearing dark, nondescript civilian clothes.

  “Who the hell are you?” Olson snapped, rising from his chair.

  Without saying a word, Roberta Lincoln raised her right hand and aimed a slim, silver object at the general. Her servo made a small metallic sound and Olson’s body went rigid. He settled back into his chair, his body limp. Lincoln stepped forward, grasping his shoulders and lowering his head to the table.

  “Miss Lincoln,” Mestral said. “It is agreeable to see you again.”