Elusive Salvation (Star Trek: The Original Series)

by Dayton Ward

  This was what had made tracking Mestral’s whereabouts so difficult when Roberta and the Beta 5 had attempted to find him. After tracking down a report from the fall of 1970 in San Diego, Mestral’s last reported location, she and the computer surmised that the Vulcan had been taken into custody. Eliminating regular law-enforcement agencies was simple, as was ruling out conventional military forces, such as the navy or Marine Corps installations in San Diego or Camp Pendleton, the Marine base farther north. That was when Roberta had set the Beta 5 to scour through whatever classified communications and other reports it could find. A single report of a prisoner transfer from a secure facility tucked inside the El Palomar Marine Corps Air Station in California had been the first tangible clue, noteworthy because of its distinct lack of a name for the person being transferred. That was a tactic the military liked to employ when moving high-value prisoners around. The Beta 5 had also recognized one of the names on the order: Jeffrey Carlson from Majestic 12 and who currently was working on some rather interesting projects at a secret base in the Nevada desert. Not entirely sure whom she might find, Roberta had followed the computer’s lead to California and found Mestral.

  “They will exhaust every effort to find me,” said the Vulcan.

  Roberta shrugged. “Sure, but it’ll be an uphill climb for them.” While she had no doubt that MJ-12 was searching for him, she also knew that they would have to conduct their little hunt on their own. With her helping him, she was sure she could keep the Vulcan a few steps ahead of them, at least until something of greater import seized their attention.

  “Were you able to learn anything from Wainwright?” she asked.

  “His knowledge of the Iramahl is very limited,” replied Mestral. “So far as I was able to determine, Mister Wainwright had only the one encounter with them. Interestingly, I believe it was his first meeting with any extraterrestrial following the events in Roswell. Of course, his memory of this incident was suppressed.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” replied Roberta. A review of the Beta 5’s information on James Wainwright revealed that he had been visited by other members of the Aegis before that mysterious organization had sent Gary Seven to Earth. Even now, three years after learning the truth behind Seven and the Aegis, Roberta found it hard to imagine that humans had been taken from Earth thousands of years ago, and that they and their descendants had been trained and genetically enhanced over uncounted generations. It still amazed her that the aliens behind this effort had invested such a staggering amount of time and resources before deciding when the time was right to deploy their prodigies to Earth. The proof of that was Gary Seven, as well as those agents who had preceded him, each bearing the burden of their broad, all-encompassing mission that was—as Seven had described—to “prevent Earth from destroying itself before it can mature into a peaceful society.”

  Two such predecessors had tracked one of Wainwright’s investigations to Carbon Creek, a small mining town in Pennsylvania, in late 1957 where a mysterious object was seen to have crashed. As it happened, it was a Vulcan ship that had come down, and a member of its crew now stood in Gary Seven’s office.

  Pretty weird, the way we’re all connected like that.

  “We’ve had to step in more than once to keep someone like Wainwright from learning too much about the wrong thing at the wrong time.” There were times when Roberta had hated being forced to take such action, especially when they were people who might well be able to serve as allies in the mission she and Seven faced. However, her inscrutable employer was far more reluctant to bring “civilians” into the fold, preferring instead to maintain his and Roberta’s relative anonymity as they watched over Earth and its people.

  “It would appear the Iramahl or some other party shared your concerns,” Mestral said, moving around Seven’s desk and beginning to pace the length of the room. When he came to where the Beta 5 had swung out from its hidden wall alcove, he spent a moment studying its control panel and display screens. “The technique used to suppress his memories was crude, but effective. Rather than isolating and eliminating recollections of specific individuals or events, an entire period of time was compartmentalized and rendered inaccessible. It required great effort on my part even to locate those memories, let alone read them.”

  “Can they be restored?”

  Mestral shook his head. “Not through a mind-meld. To be more precise, doing so is beyond my capabilities. A Vulcan High Master might be able to do it, though such individuals are in rather short supply here.”

  “Seven might have access to technology that can do it,” Roberta said. She added it to the growing list of things she wanted to discuss with her employer upon his return from wherever the Aegis had seen fit to send him this time. With the amount of time the veteran agent was spending away from Earth, it was hard for her not to wonder if they could be preparing for some kind of global or even interstellar catastrophe that might be coming down the line.

  You’re just being paranoid.

  “What about these other aliens that are supposed to be hunting the Iramahl?” she asked. “The Ptaen?”

  “Mister Wainwright’s knowledge of them is even more limited,” Mestral replied, turning away from the Beta 5 and continuing his pacing. “His memories are very short and chaotic. There are only fleeting glimpses of them, but the images I was able to see match the descriptions you provided.”

  Roberta sighed. “We need more information.”

  “That is always helpful.” Having crossed the length of the office, Mestral stopped before the shelves that had split and slid apart, revealing the vault concealed behind them. Roberta watched him study the compartment’s interior, which of course only appeared to the casual observer as a simple vault. When he turned back to face her, his right eyebrow had risen.

  “There is one way we might be able to obtain that information.”

  It took Roberta a moment to comprehend what the Vulcan was suggesting, and she began waving her hands as though to scare the very idea from the room. “Oh, no. I know what you’re thinking, and there’s no way that’s going to happen. After that business with the Certoss, Seven read me the riot act.”

  Her employer had been livid upon learning of her use of the Aegis technology at her disposal to deal with the renegade Certoss agents. Having managed to insinuate themselves into the fledgling American space program, including a top-secret initiative to launch a nuclear weapons platform into orbit, the Certoss had moved to within a hairbreadth of succeeding in their plan. Roberta thwarted them, with an assist from Kirk and Spock.

  Though she had understood the risks posed by any sort of time travel, Seven had expressed supreme reluctance to use such tactics here on Earth, where the primary mission was protecting humanity from destroying itself. Inserting themselves into past events was a risk Seven was unwilling to take in all but the direst of circumstances.

  “I’m not allowed to time travel here on Earth unless it’s a super emergency. You know, like the world’s on fire and the flames are visible from Mars kind of emergency.”

  Mestral seemed to consider this response, before offering her an odd look. “It is interesting that before I met you and Mister Seven, I believed time travel to be impossible, in keeping with the findings of the Vulcan Science Directorate.”

  “Yeah, well, their opinion will be changing one of these days.” Rising from the chair, she crossed the office to the Beta 5. “In the meantime, we’re going to have to do this the hard way, with good old-fashioned detective work.” She laid a hand on the computer’s console. “Thankfully, we’ve got an ace.”

  Based on the information Mestral had been able to glean from his mind-meld with Wainwright, the one true lead they had for the continued presence of the Iramahl on Earth was still twenty years old. She had tasked the computer with cross-referencing maps and information on the area against its storehouse of U.S. government and military records obtai
ned over the course of many years by the Aegis agents who had preceded Gary Seven’s assignment to Earth. Among that vast collection of data were digital copies of reports submitted by case officers from Project Blue Book and its predecessors after investigating sightings and other eyewitness accounts pertaining to unidentified craft as well as extraterrestrial beings. It had taken the Beta 5 little time to find the rather unremarkable, even boring report James Wainwright had submitted in September 1951 detailing his interview with the Clarkes.

  “Besides,” Roberta continued, “it’s not really the Iramahl who are the concern. If what Kirk told me is true, then they’re simply trying to hide until their own people find them. It’s these other aliens, the Ptaen, who are the bigger problem.”

  “Yes,” Mestral replied, moving away from the vault. “If they have also been on Earth for an extended period, then like the Iramahl, they have done remarkably well concealing their presence.”

  Roberta crossed her arms. “They probably have more technology at their disposal too. If the Iramahl ship crashed here, then it was destroyed, or else so damaged that repairs were impossible. They would’ve salvaged whatever they could carry, but how much would that end up being, especially if their main concern at the time was simple survival?” She reached up to rub the bridge of her nose. “Seven’s so much better at this than I am.”

  Uncounted hours of study over the past three years and working under the guidance of both Seven and the Beta 5 had seen to it that Roberta received a crash course in all manner of topics with the potential to influence the mission she had so unwittingly joined on that fateful day in 1968. While that overdose of education had served to broaden her thinking so far as examining problems from a global and—occasionally—interstellar perspective, she was still learning the ropes here. Was there some key component to the present issue she was missing? Something she had overlooked? When she had briefed Seven on the odd message sent to her by Admiral Kirk and the preliminary steps she had taken to investigate the potential of finding the Iramahl refugees, her unlikely mentor had expressed his satisfaction with her work, encouraging her to follow the information wherever it led, and her gut wherever it took her. Despite his reserved, even aloof demeanor, Gary Seven had a way of quietly motivating her that did not seem condescending or overbearing, and he more than once had expressed his admiration at how she had thrown herself into her work. It was an issue of pride with her, wanting to show Seven and his masters that Earth was worth saving. To that end, Roberta often wondered if he muttered the occasional judgmental remark about the human race for her benefit, particularly when he made some observation about Earth “at this point in its development,” or expressing his frequent surprise that “her people” had managed to persevere through their own shortsightedness and even stupidity. Likewise, she found it interesting that Seven never seemed to include her in these observations and commentaries.

  He’s the worst teacher ever, except when he’s being the best teacher ever.

  Mestral, now standing next to her at the Beta 5, said, “I would suggest instructing your computer to begin searching government and military records for anything pertaining to unidentified craft that have been investigated and which cannot be ruled out as being either Iramahl or Ptaen in origin, with an emphasis on the latter. It is probable that examples of their technology are more prevalent, despite their efforts to conceal it.”

  “Way ahead of you, Mister Vulcan,” Roberta replied, tapping the computer console. “She’s already dug out the Project Sign case file for the sighting Wainwright was investigating in 1951. Remember, this was back when the air force was actively hunting for potential threats, along with technology they might be able to tear apart, re-create, and all that other stuff. There were other investigators working the case, and the main file contains interviews with descriptions of the craft that was seen, along with the usual assortment of blurry, useless photos and even a couple of sketches. It’s not the greatest source of information, but it’s a starting point.” There had to be other files somewhere, buried deep within the convoluted network of secret bases, warehouses, and whatever holes in the ground Majestic 12 had utilized for more than twenty years to safeguard its secrets. It was just a process of finding first which haystack in which to look, then extracting the needle that MJ-12 had put there as a feint to distract unwanted attention, and then figuring out which way the clandestine agency did not want curiosity seekers to look.

  “The thing is,” she said after a moment, “this could all just be a wild-goose chase. For all we know, the Ptaen found the Iramahl years ago.”

  Moving once more to the window, the Vulcan had resumed looking out at the surrounding city, hands behind his back. “For the moment, it’s logical to assume that the Iramahl are here. Even if they have died, they would seem to have eluded their Ptaen pursuers. The truth is simply waiting for us to find it.”

  “Yeah, well, the truth might be waiting awhile.” Roberta sighed. “This is probably going to take a pretty long time.”

  Mestral nodded. “As you’ve noted, Miss Lincoln, time seems to be an ally.”

  “For now, anyway.”

  Turning from the window, the Vulcan regarded her with that eyebrow of his, and Roberta mimicked his expression.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m hilarious.”

  Fifteen

  San Francisco, Earth

  Earth Year 2283

  No sooner did Kirk lower his tired body into the recliner in front of his fireplace than his desk communicator sounded.

  “Damn.”

  With a heavy sigh, Kirk pushed himself from the chair. For a moment, he considered leaving his glass of brandy behind, but then decided against it. Whoever was calling him at this hour would just have to bear the reality of having intruded on his solitude. Stepping away from the pair of recliners that represented his favorite place to relax after a long day, he crossed his living room to the desk terminal. He smacked the activation switch on the Starfleet-issued communications panel with more force than was necessary, wondering if he might break the thing.

  “Kirk here.”

  Much to his dismay, the terminal activated, its compact screen flaring to life and coalescing into the image of Admiral Nogura. The older man was staring out at Kirk with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

  “There you are. I thought you may have made your escape.”

  “I obviously didn’t kill enough guards.” To punctuate his reply, Kirk took a deliberate sip of his drink.

  Nogura seemed not to notice the jab. “My spies tell me you weren’t enjoying yourself at the reception.”

  “It was a bunch of diplomats and other stuffed shirts. I’ve never enjoyed those sorts of glad-handing affairs.” Kirk shrugged. “On the other hand, they’re far better suited than I am for taking care of our new friends.”

  “I won’t argue with you on that.”

  Kirk had been more than happy to follow Nogura’s suggestion and bring the Iramahl delegation back to Earth, where the full resources of the Diplomatic Corps and other Federation departments could be brought to bear. He knew from experience that making first contact with a new civilization was always tricky and that the situation became even more complicated when it was the other party prompting the initial meeting. Kirk considered himself a competent representative of Federation interests in his capacity as a Starfleet officer, but he much preferred to leave the intricacies of diplomacy to those individuals who possessed far greater expertise and talent for such things. Kirk did not like it when outsiders attempted to tell him how best to do his job, and he was reluctant to do the same to anyone else.

  “What happens now?” he asked.

  Leaning back in his black leather office chair, Nogura replied, “For the time being, we leave it to the diplomats. There’s a lot of ground to cover now that official first contact has been made. We’re preparing our own delegation to travel to the Iramahl homeworld to
continue these initial conversations on their turf. They may have come to us, but there are still Prime Directive considerations we need to address, particularly given the Iramahl’s still contentious relationship with the Ptaen. Even though they’ve declared their independence from this Consortium, that doesn’t mean the Ptaen are necessarily planning to go quietly into that good night. After all, they’re supposedly on something resembling decent terms with the Klingons.”

  “But we’re not just going to stand by and let the Klingons help the Ptaen subjugate the Iramahl all over again, are we?” Kirk knew the Federation would not be eager to wade into such a dispute. But would there really be a choice, if the Ptaen opted to force the issue? He did not see how any sort of diplomatic initiative between the Federation, the Iramahl, and the Consortium—and even the Klingons, if it came to that—could be avoided at that point.

  “We’re not there yet, Jim,” replied Nogura. “The Federation Council and the Diplomatic Corps are confident an understanding can be reached and foster discussions for a formalized agreement down the road. A large part of that will of course depend on how willing the Ptaen are to just call it a day.”

  “How likely is that?”

  Nogura shrugged. “Nobody knows at this point. A message has been sent to the Consortium, but it’ll be some time before we can expect a reply. Let’s all keep our fingers crossed. Enjoy your evening, Jim. You’ve earned it. Nogura out.”