Star Trek The Original Series From History's Shadow (20 page)

“They do possess sensor technology roughly equivalent to our own,” the Vulcan answered. “It is all but certain they have scanned us and have verified our current operational status.”

And yet, they’re being tight-lipped while bearing down on us
. There could be no mistaking its posturing, Kirk decided, with its weapons and defenses already active even at this distance. “Well, something’s got their hackles up,” he said. “What are the odds it has something to do with the Certoss ship?”

“It is as likely a possibility as any other,” Spock said. “However, I have consulted the library computer, and I find no record of any hostile action between the Tandarans and
the Certoss, which is understandable given the Certoss people’s pacifist nature. That said, there is the matter of our guests, and the unusual reasons for their being here.”

Already thinking along similar lines, Kirk sighed. “Right.” He shifted his position so he could see Lieutenant Uhura. “Open a channel, Lieutenant.”

At her station, the communications officer nodded, her fingers moving across her console. Like Spock, she also wore a Feinberg receiver in her left ear, and she reached up to touch the device as she worked. “Frequency open, sir.”

Turning back to the viewscreen, Kirk drew a deep breath before calling out, “Tandaran vessel, this is Captain James T. Kirk, commanding the Federation
Starship Enterprise
. You are in Federation space, approaching a Starfleet vessel and a civilian craft with your weapons active. What are your intentions?” When there was no immediate response to his greeting, he glanced over his shoulder to Chekov. “Plot a targeting vector, and make sure they know our targeting sensors are scanning them. Keep weapons on standby.”

The ensign replied, “Aye, sir.”

Looking over to where Spock stood at the railing, Kirk offered a small smile. “Assertive, I know, but I’m hoping it might stimulate conversation.”

Spock’s right eyebrow lifted. “Indeed.”

Behind him, Uhura called out, “Captain, they’ve received and acknowledged our hail, and they’re requesting to speak with you.”

“Well,” Kirk said, his smile widening. “How about that?” He schooled his features as he straightened his posture. “Onscreen.”

The image on the viewscreen shifted from the Tandaran ship to a humanoid male, dressed in a dark gray uniform
jacket worn over a black turtleneck. He was bald, and deep lines creased his face. His eyes, narrow and deep green, moved from side to side, and Kirk got the impression that he was taking in every detail of the
Enterprise
bridge.

“Greetings,” Kirk said, keeping his voice neutral. “I’m Captain Kirk. May we be of assistance?” The Tandaran’s eyes fixed on him.

“
I am Colonel Abrenn of the Tandaran Defense Directorate, in command of this vessel,
” he said, his tone one of confidence, even arrogance. “
I have been dispatched by my government to investigate a message sent from this area to Certoss Ajahlan. We see that a Certoss vessel is present at your current location. My orders are to determine whether a threat to Tandaran interests
exists.
”

Despite himself, Kirk could not help his expression of confusion in response to the Tandaran’s statements. “I assure you, Colonel, that my ship poses no threat, either to your vessel or your people. As for the Certoss, theirs is a peaceful planet, and your scanners should have told you that their ship carries no weapons.” Stepping forward, he crossed his arms. “On the other hand, your ship seems to be quite well armed.”

“
As does yours, Captain
.”

Kirk nodded. “Yes, it does, though we prefer to use our weapons only in a defensive capacity. I’d prefer not to use them today, if it’s all the same to you.”

“
I agree with your sentiment, Captain,
” Abrenn replied, “
but I’m afraid that will hinge on what happens next, and where you stand should a conflict arise
.”

“As I already said,” Kirk countered, “we have no hostile intentions toward you, and to be honest, I have no idea why you’re even posturing this way.” He took another step toward the viewscreen. “What I
do
know is that you’re in Federation
space, brandishing weapons and acting in a provocative manner, and now you’ve just threatened the safety of a Starfleet vessel. So, I’m done being polite. Explain your presence here, now, or I’ll consider your approach an aggressive action and respond accordingly.”

On the screen, Abrenn bristled. “
We are not here for you, Captain, but rather the Certoss ship. Our concerns are with the message it sent to its homeworld. If the content of the communique is accurate, then it and the Certoss people do pose a very real threat to our security
.”

Kirk already had opted not to correct the Tandaran as to the origin of the unusual Certoss message, deciding the presence of the Certoss operative aboard the
Enterprise
was not a detail Abrenn needed at this juncture. What bothered him more was the little alert going off in his head, warning him that the current situation, already replete with enough twists, turns, and mysteries, was about to get even more complicated by the addition of this new element.

“Colonel,” Kirk said, trying to choose his words with care, “the Certoss people are pacifists. Are you trying to say that there’s a reason to believe otherwise?”

“
More than you can possibly imagine, Captain
.”

Sighing, Kirk replied, “Oh, I doubt that, sir.” He turned from the viewscreen, looking to Spock. “I think it’s time we brought Miss Lincoln into this.” He wondered what his enigmatic visitor would think of this latest development. “Something tells me she’s going to find this
interesting
.”

SEVENTEEN

Carbon Creek, Pennsylvania

January 22, 1958

The sounds from the television in the front room filtered through the open door leading from his bedroom as Mestral worked. From the kitchen, the aroma of the soup warming on the stove was a pleasant mix of vegetables and seasonings he had purchased earlier in the day. There also was fresh bread baking in the oven, and by his calculations Mestral knew it would be ready in just under five minutes. With slow, methodical precision, he was in the process of determining the most efficient means of placing his possessions into his suitcase. It was a simple exercise, though one in which he found a degree of enjoyment; not for the task itself, but for what its completion signified.

Tomorrow, Mestral would be leaving the small town that had been his home for more than three months as time was measured here on Earth. The security and relative obscurity it offered had served its purpose, but for him to pursue his goal of learning more about this planet and the people inhabiting it, he needed to travel. He wanted to observe humans in all their myriad environments, living and working not only among the cities they had built and the technology they had created, but also within the society they had forged. Primitive as they might be, they possessed a potential unlike many
comparable species Mestral had observed on previous covert surveillance to other worlds. Their drive to push forward, to learn what was not yet known and accomplish what had not yet been achieved, was matched almost by their emotions, which based on their history were every bit as volatile as anything faced by ancient Vulcans before the Time of Awakening. If humanity could learn to harness its passions, its ability to evolve into an advanced society was all but unlimited. That Mestral was here, now, and a possible witness to such growth was an unparalleled opportunity for any xenosociologist.

And it begins tomorrow
.

The time he had spent living with his fellow Vulcans, T’Mir and Stron, and studying the humans around him had provided Mestral with a robust collection of anecdotal data, which he had recorded with painstaking care in his portable scanner as well as the handwritten notes he had produced. The scanner and three journals, now filled to capacity with his observations, opinions, and even suggestions on how best to continue monitoring this world and its promising denizens, already occupied precious space in his suitcase. If nothing else, they—along with those he would continue to write—would provide an historical record of his activities here; an explanation if not a justification for his decision to remain on Earth in order to conduct what he hoped would be a very long-term covert pre–first contact survey.

Perhaps, one day, Mestral even would get to share his findings with colleagues, or they might be read by someone at the Vulcan Science Academy. He had no way to know when—or even if—his people and those of Earth might come together to establish formal relations, something he hoped would come to pass. Until that day came, and regardless of whether he played any meaningful role in such an event, he
wanted to ensure that the time he would spend here, living in secret among the humans while at the same time endeavoring to better appreciate them and their potential, was not squandered. If his work one day provided a bridge of understanding between Earth and Vulcan, then Mestral would take great satisfaction from that accomplishment.

He had elected to remain behind, rather than going with T’Mir and Stron, after the trio learned that the distress message they had sent prior to crashing on Earth had been intercepted by a Tellarite freighter. That vessel in turn had contacted Vulcan and relayed the relevant information, resulting in the dispatching of a rescue ship. Faced with this new information, Mestral had asked his companions to do the unthinkable: lie to their rescuers and tell them he had been killed in their ship’s crash along with their captain. T’Mir and Stron had been reluctant to honor this request, but eventually agreed, and Mestral had hidden in the depths of the coal mine as the rescue ship removed or destroyed all remnants of his wrecked vessel before ferrying T’Mir and Stron back to Vulcan.

And what of Maggie?

It was a question Mestral had asked himself several times in the days that had passed since T’Mir and Stron were recovered by the Vulcan survey ship. The time he had spent in the company of the Earth woman, Maggie, and her young son, Jack, had been an enlightening experience, but he could not ask her to accompany him in his travels, and he knew that staying here in Carbon Creek only increased the likelihood of her or someone else learning his true identity and nature. Indeed, he found it intriguing that Maggie herself had not yet stumbled upon the truth. Their friendship had continued to grow since their first conversation in the tavern she owned,
the Pine Tree, to the point that Mestral could sense her desire to explore more intimate aspects of their relationship. Doing so was impossible, he knew, if he was to avoid revealing his alien heritage, and he had hastened his decision to leave town at the earliest opportunity.

Perhaps one day, I can tell Maggie the truth.

Music from the television in the front room told Mestral that the program was ending, a cue that also served to remind him that it was time to take his baking bread out of the oven. Placing the shirt he had been folding on the bed next to the suitcase, he turned and made his way from the bedroom. The pleasing odor of the bread was a welcome complement to the soup, which he also calculated as being near ready for consumption. He crossed the main room toward the kitchen to turn off the stove and move the soup pot from the hot burner.

Behind him, one of the wooden floorboards creaked, but before Mestral could turn, something slammed into the back of his skull.

•   •   •

Though not unmanageable, the pain still was quite evident.

Releasing an involuntary grunt as consciousness returned, Mestral opened his eyes only to confront a hazy, multicolored blur. A steady pulsing at the rear of his head reminded him of the impact it had sustained, but he also felt a dull ache along his left temple. When he tried to blink, he realized that his left eyelid felt as though something had stuck to it. He moved to touch his face and discovered he could not move his arms, though he was able to flex his fingers. Testing his legs told him that those extremities also had been bound to the chair in which he was sitting. As his vision cleared, he was able to make out the apartment’s familiar surroundings.
He was facing the kitchen, and the air was filled with the acrid stench of something burning. The baking pan from the oven lay atop one counter, upon which sat a scorched, oval-shaped mass.

The bread,
he thought.
A pity
.

“You’re awake,” a voice said from behind him, and Mestral jerked his head around, trying to see the speaker. “Excellent. For a time, I was worried I might have injured you too severely.”

Verifying that his arms were securely fastened to what he now understood to be one of the wooden dining chairs from the kitchen’s small dining table, Mestral again turned his head toward the voice. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I want to know who you are,” the intruder replied, after which Mestral heard slow footsteps across the apartment’s wooden floor, and he waited until a figure stepped into his field of view. Though his eyes still were blurry, he discerned that his captor was a human male—or, humanoid, at least. He was dressed in nondescript denim pants and a dark red shirt, over which he wore a brown leather jacket. An olive-drab satchel that Mestral recognized as being of a type used by military forces was slung across his body from his left shoulder. His dark hair was short, in a manner similar to styles Mestral had seen favored by human male military members. “Who you are, and why you’re here. I suspect the answers to those queries will occupy us for quite some time.”

His throat dry, Mestral tried to swallow but found the effort difficult. “I do not understand why you are interested in me.” Blinking again seemed to help his vision, as the apartment furnishings now were coming into better focus. He looked down to see that he had been tied to the chair with what looked to be sections of the cotton rope T’Mir
had used for stringing up clothes to dry behind the apartment. Though not possessing any real tensile strength, it still was enough to immobilize him. Given time, Mestral believed he could loosen the rope’s knots enough to free himself. “Do I know you?”