Fantastic Voyage: Microcosm (13 page)

Chapter 20

Mission clock: 3:34 remaining

Helpless, the
Mote
drifted, dead in microscopic space.

Devlin, who knew every system aboard his ship, scrambled to figure out how he could get the vessel functioning again. Their air would begin to get stuffy in half an hour, but he had far more immediate problems.

With brushing, scrubbing sounds on the outside of the hull, the two xenozoans continued their slow, ominous attack. The creatures pressed against the walls until the Mote's frame groaned.

“Come on, talk to me,” he called to the ship. “Snap out of it.”

Cynthia Tyler backed away from the side window. The sinuous xenozoan tendrils, made from reinforced protein chains, crackled with blue lighting. The glitter shed an eerie illumination in the dark confines of the pore. The tentacle drew back, like a slave-master's whip. “It's going to hit us again!”

Another surge slammed through the ship, sending a new skitter of sparks from the control panels. Oily smoke oozed from the rear engine compartment.

“Floating out of control, no maneuverability, no defenses.” Devlin felt sick at heart. He thought fast. “I'll have to reset all our frozen systems, do a full shutdown and bring us back online from the zero point.”

“A restart is good,” Freeth said. He stepped back from the microorganisms pushing hard against the window, seeking a way in. “If we can last that long.”

“Damn, and I was just about to fire.” Tomiko slumped in her seat and frowned at her dark weapons panel. Garrett Wilcox would have chided her for hesitating at the wrong moment. “Maybe I should just swim out there with a baseball bat.”

Devlin slammed shut an access panel against the smell of burnt circuits. “You might be better off using one of the sampling rods as a spear.”

The second xenozoan approached from above, flagellae extended. The cylindrical organelles inside its body mass pulsed with an energy buildup.

Freeth's brow furrowed as he furiously tried to think of an explanation. “All right, some larger animals on Earth use electric shock as a method to stun their prey, but I've never heard of anything on a microscopic scale. Those cylindrical organelles must be the mitochondria, the powerhouses of the cell, where ATP is generated.”

Tyler considered the idea with cautious skepticism. “Why would a microorganism develop such an attack system? What sort of extreme enemies does it normally have to face in its native environment? How can it be aware of mechanical devices on this size scale? It makes no sense.”

Devlin brushed past Freeth and Tyler on his way to the engine hatches in the rear. “I've got to get our main control banks restarted, or we're going to be somebody's lunch.”

The first xenozoan coiled its flagellae around the
Mote
and drew the ship closer. The cilia were like the moving palps of a spider, scrubbing and chewing, trying to break through the metal armor. They made sounds like bats' wings against the hull.

“An ameboid engulfs its prey within the protoplasm,” Tyler said. “Inside the walled-off vacuoles, enzymes slowly dissolve the raw material.”

The flowing blob of the microorganism blanketed the rear of the ship, clogging the impeller exhausts. “I'd say these things have similar intentions.” Tomiko looked completely frustrated.

With a thud, the second xenozoan struck from the side, limned with bluish light. Devlin looked up from his frantic work in the engine compartment. He thumped the starboard window. “Hey, get out of here.”

Unimpressed by the threat, the microorganism kept coming.

Both blobs stretched and oozed around the ship, competing to digest the miniaturized vessel. The microbes wrapped tentacles together, jolting each other with tiny sparks of electricity. The barriers of protoplasm fused into one larger organism, a combined xenozoan twice as powerful as the individual creatures. The flagellae tightened as the microbes worked to destroy the
Mote.

Cynthia Tyler's expression clouded with seriousness. “I hate to admit this, but Director Hunter was probably correct to insist on absolute containment procedures. If these alien microorganisms got loose in our environment, imagine the havoc they could wreak.”

“If their genetics are at all compatible with ours,” Freeth added. “That's not very likely.”

“Do you have to counter my every statement, Freeth?”

The combined microorganism shimmered, building to a bright pulse, and a third mitochondrial discharge blasted the
Mote.
The ship shuddered, caught within the protoplasmic embrace, and the crew rode through the turbulence.

Devlin stared at his non-functional engines, scorch marks, blown circuits. “Enough already!” Gritting his teeth, he flipped switches, testing power trains and linkages in the circuit housings. He bypassed dead panels, replaced what he could, worked around what he couldn't. “I need a few seconds of peace and quiet to get caught up here.”

Tomiko stared at the spherical yolks where braided genetic material hung within the nuclear membrane. “Okay, I'll write them a note and tape it to the window.” The structural elements of the
Mote
groaned as the xenozoans clustered tighter, seeking any chink in the ship's armor. Tomiko made a face at them.

Inside the cramped engine closet, Devlin bumped his head on a low impeller cowling. “Sorry, Tomiko. We don't even have a pink bunny to power our systems.”

Then, with sudden urgency, she struggled to unfasten her seat restraints. “Wait! We do have the anchor cables, and they don't use electricity. With the switch I can fire a spear right into the nucleus.” Tomiko rushed to the side hull, where spring-loaded grappling hooks were mounted to the outside of the ship.

Tyler let a slow smile grow on her hard face. “It'll be like bursting an egg yolk.”

Standing against the side hull, Tomiko swiveled the spring-loaded gun in its horseshoe mount, aiming the tube like a torpedo launcher. Then she depressed the release lever to fire the sharp anchor. With a burst of air, the projectile streaked through the protoplasm like a hungry shark cutting the water.

“Come on, come on,” she said under her breath.

The hooked tip pierced the first xenozoan's round nucleus, ripping through the membrane and into the packed chromatin-like material. Blue sparks skittered through the odd-shaped organelles, as if she'd unleashed a cellular powerhouse. The
Mote
shuddered as the microorganism reflexively recoiled without releasing its hold.

“Sometimes you've gotta break a few eggs.” Using the hand crank, Tomiko withdrew the anchor harpoon like a fisherman hauling in a marlin. She ripped the hook through the nuclear membrane, widening the tear even farther.

Chromatin spilled out in a shapeless mass from the ruptured nucleus, oozing into the surrounding protoplasm. Still clutching the
Mote,
the attacking fused microorganisms convulsed, rocking the vessel back and forth. The second xenozoan linked itself even more tightly with its companion, as if to pick up the slack in the digestion process.

“Shoot the other one!” Freeth said.

Tomiko looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “You don't need to tell me twice.” She went to the opposite wall where the second anchor cable waited. She swung the swivel gun and launched the second harpoon.

But missed the nucleus entirely.

Two mitochondria inside the unharmed xenozoan discharged a defensive power burst. Lightning crackled along the anchor cable, scorching the hull again. Tomiko leapt back from the horseshoe mount, afraid of being electrocuted.

When the sparks died down, she angrily reeled in the harpoon, rewinding the cable. Frustrated with herself, she managed to scrape the barbed edges along the nucleus; it was like scalpel blades slicing open a water balloon.

Blue arcs skittered through both of the injured xenozoans, sparkling lights that dispersed and faded into the protoplasm. The
Mote
groaned as the joined microbes writhed in their death throes.

Devlin slammed shut an access panel and pulsed the impeller engines. “Almost got it!” He flipped the switch, shut it off, then clicked over the breaker a second time. Turbines vibrated, sputtered to life… and died again. He took a deep breath and caressed the cowlings. Instead of a curse, he whispered encouragement to the ship. “You can do it.”

Tomiko finished cranking the second harpoon back into place and locked it down. She wiped sweat off her forehead.

Arnold Freeth gripped a railing at the side of the aft window. “The xenozoans are pulling away, withdrawing pseudopods.” The ship lurched as the organisms continued to squirm while they detached themselves.

“All right, Marc. I did my part,” Tomiko said. “Here's your peace and quiet.”

Devlin clanged his crescent wrench against a shielded transformer.

The UFO expert stared at the first ruptured nucleus, the nucleoplasm streaming out, which formed a blob streaked with colored lines of chromatin and separated into distinct portions. “Believe me, you may have prompted more of a reaction than you intended, Ms. Braddock. That looks to me like the prophase of cellular division, if I remember my biology classes.”

“Extremely unlikely,” Tyler said with a scowl, not even bothering to take a look for herself. “Given the amount of nuclear damage, I'd expect to see apoptosis, or programmed cell death that's set off when the DNA is damaged. These cells should never be able to recover.”

Freeth continued to observe as the broken nucleus took a dipolar shape, stretching into a dumbbell. “Normally, I wouldn't argue with your medical expertise, Dr. Tyler. But…
look.”

The chromosomes elongated like fingers, attaching to spindle lines, like two chunks of wax being pulled apart. Tyler finally shouldered Freeth aside to look at the dividing cells, then at the UFO expert, as if she couldn't decide which was more unbelievable. “Anaphase already. Astonishing—the xenozoan is fissioning. Note the separation of chromosomes along spindle lines.”

The single-celled creature pulled itself apart, reabsorbing the cilia and electric-whip flagellae into its main protoplasmic mass. The microorganism drew its pseudopods away from the
Mote,
focusing all its energy on dividing into two equal parts.

“Second organism's doing it, too,” Tomiko observed.

“After reproduction, the xenozoans will withdraw and recover,” Tyler said. “And then there'll be two more of them.”

“Major Devlin, we need to get out of here.” Freeth's voice was scratchy with an edge of panic.

The
Mote
lurched as the last clinging pseudopod let go of the hull. The second single-celled creature pulled away, pulsing like translucent clay.

“Now that we're free, we should be able to move.” Devlin tried another engine test, got no response, and muttered to himself. He struggled to think of something else to try. “We'll be on our way momentarily.”

“Now I can say I'm a mother,” Tomiko said, looking out the window. “I made four bouncing baby amoebas.”

“Save the cigars for later. We don't have any air to spare.” Devlin looked through the small window in the engine closet. The first microorganism had completely divided into two smaller bodies, which were drifting away. His forehead streaked with grease, he eased back out of the engine closet. “How much time do I have until they get hungry again, Doc?”

“I can only answer based on Earth microorganisms, but it won't be long. They'll recover soon and search for food to replenish the energy they just expended.”

“Roger that.” Devlin picked up his black toolkit and crawled back into the engine compartment. “One hard restart coming up. I'd rather not be here when they snap out of their post-coital bliss.”

Chapter 21

Mission clock: 3:26 remaining

When the two VIP visitors finally arrived, nearly two hours behind schedule, Deputy Foreign Minister Garamov was amazed by the hidden high-tech facility, but not in the least impressed with his companion. Congressman Edwin Durston made a show of bluster and indignation, apparently to demonstrate his perceived importance.

Durston had a round, too-expressive face framed by a squarish Lincolnesque beard. He looked ready to go on the offensive at the drop of a hat, and his lips seemed most comfortable in the shape of a scowl.

After intercepting Garamov at the airport, the congressman himself had caused their late arrival, delaying them several times with “just one more minor item,” talking on his cell phone, dispatching aides to take care of “urgent matters.” Garamov was familiar with such games from politicians in his own country.

After riding in an extravagant limo up the winding roads deep into the Sierra Nevadas, Durston had flouted Proteus checkpoints, demanded more guard escorts than could conceivably have been required, and then complained about lax security.

From far too much painful experience, Garamov knew the Russian bureaucracy was inept and ludicrous, but Congressman Durston demonstrated that American bureaucracy could be downright malicious.

The congressman had emphasized, several times, that he chaired the committee holding the purse strings for the U.S. portion of Proteus funding. He called himself a devil's advocate and remained skeptical about the cost/benefit ratios for the expensive miniaturization project. As far as Garamov could tell, Durston didn't know very much about it, however.

Once past the threshold of the underground facility, the Russian dangled a cigarette from his spidery fingers, trying not to spill ash on the clean concrete floor, but he could find no ashtray. His features were sallow and tired, his eyes fiery. After the long flight from Azerbaijan to Vladivostok, followed by Tokyo, Honolulu, then San Francisco, he felt haggard and edgy. He had managed to take a shower in the airport in Hawaii, changed into a drab but less rumpled suit, and made himself somewhat presentable.

The Deputy Foreign Minister knew he would pay a dear political price for whisking the alien lifepod here, but for now he intended to savor every moment of what the miniaturization technology could do. Perhaps Felix Hunter would salvage this, after all.

Dr. Trish Wylde stepped forward to greet them just beyond the second guard checkpoint. “I'm sorry, sir,” she said to Garamov without introduction, “you'll have to extinguish your cigarette before I can take you into the laboratory levels. We have a great deal of sensitive equipment.”

Garamov knew about Americans and their paranoid anti-smoking policies. “Of course.” He took a long drag before reluctantly grinding it under the sole of his black wing-tip. Perhaps they didn't
have
ashtrays in California.

Satisfied, Trish gave them a formal smile. “Welcome to the Proteus Facility, gentlemen. If you'll follow me, I'll expedite your entry into the high-security zone. The team has already been miniaturized and inserted into the lifepod. Director Hunter is waiting for you in the observation deck. He can fill you in on what's happened so far.”

“You mean they started without us, even though I sent word that we were on our way?” Durston sounded appalled. Outlined by the anachronistic beard, his cheeks flushed with pique.

“We are tardy, Congressman,” Garamov said pointedly. “By a substantial margin, in fact.”

Durston seemed to think the world ran according to his own watch. “I apologize for this, Mr. Garamov. Director Hunter has always been arrogant and a bit too self-important with this project. I'll see that my committee deals him a reprimand.”

Garamov followed Trish's brisk pace. “On the contrary, sir. I personally gave them a very precise and inflexible timetable. Director Hunter is doing me the courtesy of following it, as I requested. I consider that diligence, not arrogance.”

Trish led them to an enclosed elevator, unable to hide her annoyance. “Mr. Garamov is right, Congressman. This is a carefully planned operation, not a diplomatic cocktail party. You weren't supposed to arrive fashionably late.”

“Who is this woman?” Durston snapped.

Though he had claimed to be a key player numerous times during the long limousine drive, the congressman had obviously not done his homework. Garamov was glad to fill in details for him. “Doctor Wylde is the Project's chief pathologist, not a hostess, and I am certain we are taking her away from more important duties. Considering your obvious… interest in this project, I am surprised you haven't met her before, Congressman.”

Impressed that he knew her, Wylde smiled appredatively at the Russian diplomat. “Director Hunter asked me to lead you to the observation gallery.” She pushed the button, and the elevator dropped several stories. “We'll be there shortly.”

Felix Hunter already had enough problems to deal with. Armed Marines kept a constant watch on the containment room and its deadly fail-safe sterilization procedures. The two moon-suited doctors stood over the sealed lifepod, ready to assist, impatient to participate. Team Proteus continued to explore the unknown alien landscape, despite increasing static that threatened to cut off all communications.

The last thing Hunter wanted was to entertain two politicians.

Durston pushed past Trish Wylde into the observation deck. “Deputy Foreign Minister Garamov has come a long way for this, Director. You should have waited.” Beside him, Trish rolled her eyes; then she left the observation deck, clearly anxious to be back to her duties.

“My apologies, Congressman,” he said without meaning it. “We started precisely at the scheduled time.” Hunter gave no visible sign of how much he wanted to strangle the man.

For decades, Hunter had grown accustomed to dealing with people like Durston. He had traveled the world, stayed in cultural and industrial cities, met with leaders of industrialized nations. People who
mattered
understood who Felix Hunter was, though few others knew his name… which was exactly the way he preferred it. Even his wife, content with her life apart from him in Carmel, didn't know the half of what he did.

He reached out to shake the Deputy Foreign Minister's slender hand. “Vasili, we cannot thank you enough for the opportunity you have offered Project Proteus. I appreciate your faith in us.”

The Russian gave him a curt nod and slicked back his dark hair with one hand. “Please remember that, Director Hunter. I may soon be looking for another job.”

Hunter motioned the two visitors to a pair of seats. He had requested that the guests' chairs be more plush and raised higher than his own. Tiny touches, harmless concessions.

An avid chess devotee, Felix Hunter enjoyed replaying the games of grand masters. He liked the strategy, but more than that, it forced him to sit still and concentrate, to fine-tune parts of his brain that might not otherwise get exercised. As Project Director and earlier as a corporate captain and manager of a diverse workforce, Hunter had played the game with people, a chess match with infinitely more variations and challenges.

He doubted any other person could have successfully integrated the Cold War miniaturization programs, not even his old college friend Chris Matheson. He'd bridged classification problems and enlisted cooperation from unlikely heroes and public figures, including surprisingly visionary Russians such as Vasili Garamov.

Unfortunately, Congressman Durston had a different agenda every time a funding question arose. However, now that the bearded man saw the sealed lifepod and the actual alien inside, his overblown complaints petered out. True amazement restored some semblance of humility to his round face.

Hunter took his own seat and gave a brief summary of what had already happened. He could see the growing worry on Garamov's face, as well as an eager hunger in the Congressman's eyes.

“You seem to have applied sufficient quarantine precautions to address all of my concerns, Mr. Director.” Garamov leaned forward, paying attention to the spacesuited doctors in the chamber. “Is that my old friend Sergei Pirov? I thought he had been assigned to the actual miniaturization team?”

“Dr. Pirov requested reassignment to this position. Several crew members were changed at the last minute. We had an unfortunate accident during a test mission this morning—”

“What kind of accident?” Durston said. “Why wasn't I informed?”

Somehow, Hunter maintained his patience. “Captain Wilcox was injured, and he's recovering in the infirmary. Consequently, Major Marc Devlin took his place as pilot. Since Major Devlin designed the
Mote
himself and has flown the ship on numerous missions, I have every confidence in him.”

He looked over at Garamov. “While miniaturized, Dr. Pirov gave Wilcox emergency medical attention, but he was rather shaken by the incident. Dr. Cynthia Tyler is now part of the exploration team. She is very qualified, and I'm sure she will pursue her research with a high degree of competence.”

Durston did not appear satisfied, but the Deputy Foreign Minister nodded. “Sergei has been with the miniaturization program longer than any other person alive. He was Dr. Rokov's protege before the doctor defected to America.” Garamov's expression was mild and gave no sign of holding a grudge about past Cold War struggles. “I am glad you could find an important job for him.”

Below, Pirov spotted the two visitors on the observation deck. Recognition was obvious in the old man's expression even behind the transparent faceplate. “Greetings, Mr. Deputy Minister,” Pirov said in Russian through the suit microphone.

Scratching his squarish beard, Durston questioned the wisdom of bringing a “flake” like Arnold Freeth into such an important mission. Hunter indicated the extraterrestrial lying motionless below. “Given the evidence of your own eyes, Congressman, you may have to reassess your definition of a 'flake.' Mr. Freeth believed in UFOs and aliens all along, and he was right.”