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 thing 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?”
Robinson sipped her coffee, her gaze shifting so that she appeared to be studying some point on the room’s far wall. “Give the lady a cigar.”
The attacks carried out on September 11, 2001, were the deadliest acts committed on American soil—until then, at least. Heffron, at that time a lieutenant colonel assigned to an unnamed organization attached to Majestic 12 at the Pentagon, was like many in her group trapped far belowground when American Airlines Flight 77, following its hijacking by five members of the al-Qaeda terrorist group, slammed into the building. Well protected far below the surface where the tragedy was unfolding, Heffron along with General Daniel Wheeler and the rest of his people had been forced to observe the rest of the day’s heart-wrenching events play out above their heads as well as in New York and Pennsylvania via televisions and computer monitors in her unit’s situation center. After nearly twenty-four hours spent in “the Trench,” as the room was known by those who worked there, Heffron and her people were able to piece together enough of the horrific puzzle to know who was responsible well before that information was made known to the rest of the world.
“My father was in the North Tower,” said Robinson, her voice cold and tense. “Managed to get most of his employees out of the building, then went back inside to look for stragglers. They never found him. Imagine how the world might have been in the years to come if those planes had been kept from hitting their targets. Maybe they didn’t need to be hijacked at all.” She shook her head. “Nope. Such overt action was apparently beyond the purview of my trusted friend and mentor, Roberta Lincoln, who didn’t even know about the attacks until it was too late. No need to know, as the saying goes.”
Listening to Rain Robinson give voice to something that continued to torment her even after all these years, Heffron wanted to offer some kind of sentiment or condolences, but words failed her. What must it be like, knowing you or the people you worked for possessed knowledge of future events, along with the means to affect the course of human history? How immense was the temptation to take active steps to shape that outcome? The responsibility to safeguard such information and abilities, along with the pressure to maintain a healthy perspective and not let that burden warp one’s judgment, must be all but overwhelming. It would take a special sort of person to wield such power; people like Gary Seven and Natalie Koroma, bred and trained for this very task. Then there were people like Roberta Lincoln and Rain Robinson, ordinary humans drawn into events beyond their comprehension, who had pledged themselves to the same arduous duty undertaken by Seven, Koroma, and others before them.
“Seven knew,” said Heffron, putting the pieces together. “Didn’t he?”
Draining whatever remained of her second cup of coffee, Robinson set the empty mug on the desk. “Of course he knew. He always knew, or at least he knew more than he let on, and certainly more than he told any of us. Even after he retired and left Roberta to run things, he’d still drop in every so often. You know, just to remind her—and me—who was really in charge. It wasn’t Roberta, and it sure as hell wasn’t me.”
“What did he do?” When Robinson did not answer her question, her expression once again taking on that faraway look, Heffron turned to Mestral, who despite his composed demeanor still appeared uncomfortable with the conversation.
“Yes,” he said. “Mister Seven knew of those events, and what it would mean for the people of this country and—ultimately—the rest of the planet. At least, he knew enough. Even he did not always possess complete knowledge of a particular event, let alone its ramifications. On many occasions, this reticence on the part of the Aegis to give him more information weighed on him, and there were times when he was not certain he was taking the correct action. This was especially true on that day.”
Heffron frowned. “He came back to Earth because of Nine Eleven?”
“In a manner of speaking. His mission was very small in scope, requiring him to prevent a single person from boarding one of the planes ultimately used in the attack. The Aegis tasked him with carrying out the assignment, rather than giving it to Miss Lincoln or Doctor Robinson. It was their contention that Mister Seven possessed the necessary detachment from the events to carry out the mission without . . . exceeding his mandate.”
“Exceeding his mandate.” When Robinson repeated the words, they were laced with contempt. “Rescue one person, who would go on to make significant contributions to human history. Shaun Christopher was worth saving, but Daniel Robinson wasn’t.”
The name was familiar. “Shaun Christopher, the astronaut?” Heffron recalled the man’s career, which concluded more than a decade earlier with his successful command of the first manned mission to Saturn. “Wow.” She looked to Robinson. “Doctor . . . Rain . . . I’m truly sorry.”
Robinson waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Not your fault. You weren’t the one with the book of secrets.”
She glanced to Mestral. “I don’t even blame Roberta, or you, Mestral. Neither of you had any idea, and that’s the only reason you’re still welcome here, but Seven?” She paused, blowing out a long breath that signaled she was wrestling to keep her emotions in check. “He knew. I don’t care what he told me. He had to know.”
“In my experience,” said Mestral, “Mister Seven was not given to lying, at least not to the people who worked with him.”
“Maybe not lying,” countered Robinson, “but he could definitely keep certain truths to himself. Even Roberta did that, sometimes, but never on that scale.” Her expression fell again. “At least, not that I know of.”
A tone from the Beta 7 caught their attention, and Heffron watched Mestral cross the office to the advanced computer’s console. Without saying anything, the Vulcan swept his hands across the station’s flat, smooth interface before tapping a series of illuminated keys. As he worked, the entire workstation seemed to die. The bars of multicolored light disappeared, the display monitors went dark, and even the console’s backlighting faded before the entire unit disappeared from view as the displaced section of brick wall returned to its proper position.
“Whoa,” said Robinson, rising from her chair. “What the hell just happened?”
Straightening his posture, Mestral replied, “I . . . am not certain. The alert we heard was due to a transmission being received from off-world, but it was not a message. I was only able to examine it for a moment, but it appeared to be a protocol for the Beta 7 to terminate all systems support for current operations here on Earth and then deactivate itself.”
“They ordered the computer to turn itself off?” asked Heffron. “Why?”
Mestral said, “I do not know. I attempted to countermand the directive, to no avail.” He looked to Robinson. “I am sorry, Doctor.”
“Figures.” The other woman’s expression was one of disdain. “Terminate all systems support? They’re pulling out and leaving us holding the bag. Bastards.”
Folding his arms, Mestral said, “It would seem a logical course of action. After the incident on Arran, our presence here is compromised. Majestic 12 knows about us, and they also know that we escaped. They will not stop looking for us, and it appears they were able to track us to our previous location. Whether they have obtained sufficient information about our technology and abilities to pose a threat remains to be seen.”
“Well, I was thinking bigger picture,” said Robinson. “I mean, the Aegis has been here in one form or another since the 1950s, right? In all that time, they’ve never done anything like this, and humans have put this planet through plenty over the years, but they’re leaving now? Something’s not making sense.”
Heffron could not believe her ears. “Seriously? They hung you out to dry? What the hell are we supposed to do now? Maybe something’s coming that they know they can’t stop, or feel that they shouldn’t even try.”
That’s pretty encouraging, isn’t it?
“The Aegis? Those saviors of humanity?” Robinson rolled her eyes. “Perish the thought.”
“For the time being,” replied Mestral, “it seems that maintaining a low profile is the most prudent course of action available to us.”
Sighing in exasperation, Robinson said, “It’s been a while since I had a roommate. It’s a good thing I like you two, or else I’d kick both your asses to the street.”