Fantastic Voyage : Microcosm

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Devlin feigned a disappointed frown. “Roger that, and now I'm stuck taking your place on the Mote. Man, I wanted to watch my soaps this afternoon.”

  Wilcox had trouble orienting himself, finding his voice. “You mean you don't really want to go?”

  Devlin gave a reassuring laugh. “Of course I do. It's my dream come true. Unfortunately, this is probably the only way Felix would ever let me fly the ship. He tends to be a bit overprotective of me, you know.”

  Wilcox managed a disbelieving snort. “Lucky you. The Director runs the rest of us ragged.” He leaned back, obviously groggy and in pain. “So, did you get that UFO guy? Is he for real?”

  “Who can say? At least he's earnest. And he certainly doesn't know less about the alien specimen than we do.”

  Devlin wondered how Arnold Freeth was handling his introduction to Project Proteus. Trish Wylde would no doubt select the most rigorous, most comprehensive training routine she could fit into the available time. Afterward, Freeth would probably consider the strangest Abductee's convention to be a walk in the park.

  One of the medical technicians came in, wearing a look of disapproval. Devlin glanced at his watch. “Hey, I'm on my way. Just wanted to check up on you. There's a briefing in half an hour, and I've got to get up to speed on everything you were supposed to do. Slacker.”

  “Hey, watch out for Tomiko, okay?”

  Wilcox had seen all of Nolan Braddock's action films and could discuss them in more detail than even Tomiko could. Devlin suspected that must embarrass her greatly.

  He smiled at the very idea of needing to rescue the beautiful Asian powerhouse. “I suspect you'd have to ask Tomiko's kindergarten teacher for the last time anybody needed to watch out for her. Our collective butts are in her hands.”

  Wilcox grinned at the image. “You wish.” He let out a bittersweet sigh of disappointment and lay back in the bed, ready for the comforting embrace of more sedatives and painkillers.

  Devlin stopped at the infirmary door. “You'll go on the next mission, Garrett.”

  “Don't think so… probably be hobbling around for the rest of my life.” His voice was slow and slurred. “And I got a security clearance for this?”

  “Look on the bright side. You can always spend hours and hours listening to CIA wiretaps.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Wilcox said.

  Plucking at his rubberized environmental suit, Arnold Freeth looked over at the chief pathologist. She kept glancing at her watch, urging him to begin the simulation. “Time, Mr. Freeth. We don't have all day.”

  “But why would I ever need to use this?” He rubbed at the polymer sleeve, then adjusted his waist belt. The outfit looked like a scuba-diving getup.

  Trish Wylde draped a comfortable Proteus uniform on one of the plastic chairs lined up against the wall. “You can wear this when you're finished. You'll find it much more pleasant than that environmental suit.” Her voice sharpened. “But this test exercise is rather rigorous. Since you're going on a real mission in a few hours, we'd better hit you with the hard stuff now.”

  She led him toward a deep tank filled with slow-moving amber liquid. Freeth looked into the container with an uneasy frown. In panic, he glanced back at the elfin face of the redheaded pathologist. “But I don't know what you're doing, what you expect me to—”

  “Your full mission briefing is in less than an hour. You'll learn everything you need to. But if the Mote gets trapped in bodily fluids and starts sinking, don't you want to know how to swim to safety?”

  “Trapped … in bodily fluids?”

  “Don't worry.” Somehow, her smile did not comfort him in the least. “For the most part, you'll be sitting in your seat the whole time. But you need to be aware of the differences, if nothing else. On the microscopic scale, you can't just move the same way as you might swim in a pool. When your body is only about a millionth the size it is now, you have to worry about factors such as air or fluid resistance, not to mention Brownian motion.”

  “What's that?” Freeth asked, as if it were some sort of deadly hazard. He turned away from the thick fluid in the tank, hoping to stall her.

  “Random disturbances caused by the movement of molecules in a liquid or gas. Have you ever seen an image waver around in a microscope? That's Brownian motion. When you're miniaturized, tiny ripples can seem like a thunderstorm.”

  “But how am I going to be shrunk down to microscopic size?” Freeth raised his voice. “And for what purpose?”

  “Why, the better to see the alien, of course.” She gestured impatiently toward the tank. “Now get in.”

  “I'm not sure I like this,” Freeth said.

  “You signed the papers, didn't you? Anyway, I thought aliens were your business. I can't imagine what would happen to your reputation if word got out that you refused a chance to explore a genuine extraterrestrial.”

  Freeth squared his shoulders. “You're right. I survived the jerry Springer Show … so how bad can this be?”

  “Good attitude. Now that you're suited up, I'm going to have you practice moving through thick oil. It has a significantly different viscosity than water or air… and we didn't have time to prep the gelatin tank.”

  “A gelatin tank?” The UFO expert took a step backward, picturing himself drowning in lime Jell-O.

  She ignored the comment. “When you swim through oil, the difference will make you think in alternative ways, make you use different tactics for simple movement. You'll need to question your instincts and react according to your surroundings.”

  Freeth looked at the tank of sluggish, translucent liquid. “Is it vegetable oil or motor oil?”

  She sealed the breathing mask over his mouth and nose and pulled the transparent visor down over his eyes. “Consider it a surprise.”

  Then, none too gently, she nudged him into the tank.

  Chapter 10

  Time to mission: 3:00 hours

  Even buried within a secret maze of guarded tunnels that would have confused the most cheese-hungry experimental rat—the Proteus briefing room looked just like any other conference room in any other office building.

  The first to arrive for the meeting, Devlin lounged back in a chair. He breathed deeply to relax his muscles and bring his reflexes to peak performance. He had to shift his mindset, pinch himself to believe that he was actually going on the mission, rather than standing by as a troubleshooter and mechanic.

  A projection screen filled one wall in front of a long table marred with water rings from drinking glasses and coffee cups. A box of doughnuts sat on a table in the far corner, brought in from Fresno two hours away. A coffeemaker exuded sour smells on a black-metal credenza.

  Wearing a crisp, official Proteus jumpsuit, Arnold Freeth entered the room after a guard led him to the door. His freckled face looked pink, freshly scrubbed; his hair was damp and mussed. “Major Devlin! Are you coming along on this crazy mission, too?”

  “Roger that. There was an accident, and I'm the only other qualified pilot. So I got promoted.”

  “An accident?” Freeth paled. “Are we going to be in any danger ourselves? Do you even know how to fly the ship?”

  “Affirmative, to both questions.” He gestured toward the box of doughnuts. “You'd better eat something, Mr. Freeth. There's no restaurant on board the Mote.”

  The UFO expert chose a frosted jelly doughnut and used an institutional brown paper towel for a napkin. He fingered the laminated badge on the chain around his neck, as if to prove he'd been brought here for a legitimate purpose. “How many other people are on the team?” He blotted sugar from his lips with the rough paper.

  Tomiko Braddock sauntered in as if she were stalking someone. “Depends on how many show up for the meeting. Around here, if you don't attend briefings, you don't get miniaturized.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Okay, let's move it. The Director should know better than to be late for his own show.”

  Freeth stuck out his hand, after carefully wiping raspberry jelly fro
m his fingertips. “I'm Arnold Freeth, UFO Specialist.”

  Tomiko looked at him as if analyzing a specimen and returned his handshake firmly enough to show that she could have ripped his arm out of its socket, if she'd felt like it. “Good to meet you, Arnold.” Her glance slid to Devlin. “Sorry you had to come to the party at the last minute, Marc. I should've taken better care of Garrett.”

  “Well, I'd hoped we could avoid disasters at least until the mission started,” he joked, “but I'm grateful for the unexpected opportunity.”

  Devlin had always gotten along well with Tomiko. If he ever decided to start dating again, he would probably ask her out. He was fairly certain her current relationship with Garrett Wilcox was less a matter of emotional attachment than one of convenience for the two of them. Aside from being relatively compatible people working at close quarters, both available, both attractive, the two had little in common.

  The next person to enter was Sergei Pirov, with short-trimmed, gray-brown hair, leathery skin, and reddened eyes. The old Russian doctor looked drained and uncertain, as if he'd been through too much already for one day. He sagged into his chair and meticulously began studying a blank laboratory notebook he had brought with him.

  Finally, Project Director Hunter strode in, talking with Dr. Rajid Sujatha and a slender, intense woman with permed blond hair. Seeing the UFO expert, she smiled in satisfaction. “Ah, Dr. Freeth! Welcome, I'm Dr. Cynthia Tyler. I've seen your Alien Dissection video. Very impressive. I brought it to the attention of Director Hunter, which led to your being invited to join this mission.”

  Freeth didn't know what to say. “Thank you… I think. And, by the way, it's Mister Freeth.”

  Devlin chimed in, “They don't give doctorates in his area of expertise.”

  Freeth blushed.

  Felix Hunter offered his hand. “Despite my initial skepticism, Cynthia here convinced me your expertise could be useful. She can be quite persuasive when she puts her mind to something. We'll be glad to have your… unusual perspective aboard.”

  “Perhaps someday you'll host this video, Mr. Freeth,” Tyler said, tossing her curly blond hair. “Call it Alien Dissection II … if they ever declassify the footage.” She sat next to him.

  Hunter placed his long fingers on the water-stained table and waited until the chatter died down. Finally, he activated the projection screen to display an image of the alien's sealed lifepod.

  “As you can imagine, it was difficult to bring the extraterrestrial here intact without letting a thousand scientists tinker with the capsule first.” His dark mustache curved downward in a frown. “But Russia's Deputy Foreign Minister is a friend of Project Proteus.”

  Dr. Pirov, still shaken and uneasy from the Wilcox emergency only a few hours earlier, perked up. “Yes, Mr. Garamov has proved quite helpful to me in the past.”

  “And he's fully aware of what we can do here,” Hunter said. “Through what may prove to be a stroke of luck for us, Garamov was assigned to Azerbaijan in the recent Baku crisis, and he was on the scene when Russian Typhoons shot down the extraterrestrial spacecraft.”

  Freeth bit back a squawk. “Fighter jets downed a flying saucer? What if it was carrying an alien ambassador? That could start an intergalactic war!”

  Tyler agreed fully. “An absolutely valid point.”

  “I hope Mr. Garamov hasn't inadvertently started a war here on Earth, either,” Hunter continued. “He's one of only a few witnesses who actually saw the lifepod. On the official record, it was listed as a pilot who ejected from a downed rebel MiG. Even the Russian higher-ups will take a while to figure that out.”

  Devlin leaned forward. “So, what really happened to the flying saucer? Still no sign of any wreckage?”

  The Director shook his head. “When the air-to-air missiles struck, the UFO seems to have vaporized. Possibly some sort of automatic self-destruct system to prevent their technology falling into other hands.”

  “Especially into the hands of primitive folks like us,” Tomiko said.

  Dr. Pirov took half-hearted notes in his lab book, looking as if he wanted very badly to be somewhere else. His hands were shaking.

  Hunter tapped his laser pointer on the table, waiting for quiet again. “Mr. Garamov is a very cautious man. When he understood what he had, he realized that extraordinary precautions would have to be taken—both for secrecy and for safety. An overzealous technician might crack open the case and kill the specimen. Worse, the alien might contain extraterrestrial bacteria, viruses, or even bodily toxins that are perfectly normal to its biochemistry, but could be deadly to humans.”

  Tyler made a rude noise. “We've been over this already. Our Class IV chamber has full defenses, including an automatic sterilization/incineration protocol in the event of a worst-case scenario. How many triple fail-safes do you want?” She looked over at the UFO expert, as if for approval.

  Arnold Freeth sat forward, surprising everyone. “Sorry, Dr. Tyler, but the law requires you to follow the quarantine guidelines in the Code of Federal Regulations. Title 14, Part 1211, regarding 'Extraterrestrial Exposure.' ”

  Hunter gave him a blank look. “Is that really in the CFR?” Devlin had never seen the Director taken so completely off guard. He tried to cover his smile, watching his father-in-law handle the situation.

  Freeth spoke smoothly, in his element at last. “A fairly arcane law, adopted in July 1969, states that anyone 'extra-terrestrially exposed' can be quarantined under armed guard for an indefinite period. A person can also be jailed for up to a year and fined as much as five-thousand dollars for letting himself become exposed. The text goes on at great length.” He blushed as he realized everyone around the conference table was staring at him. “Uh, you can look it up yourself.”

  “I have never heard of that law.” Hunter looked at Devlin, who shrugged.

  Cynthia Tyler pursed her lips, impressed even though the UFO expert had disagreed with her. “See why I suggested we bring him on board, Director?”

  Hunter cleared his throat. “No one knows how to work the capsule's mechanics or life-support systems—unless you have some inside knowledge to share, Mr. Freeth?” The expert quickly shook his head. “Therefore, there's only one way to perform a thorough investigation and retain the integrity of the capsule and the extraterrestrial specimen.”

  Devlin looked around the table. “If we're smaller than the size of a cell, we can explore without leaving a mark. Assuming we can get inside the pod in the first place.”

  Hunter looked very proud of himself. “Exactly what Garamov realized. In order to transport the specimen here without disturbing it, he bypassed so much red tape that heads are likely to roll—including his own.”

  “Unless we pull off a miracle,” Devlin said.

  “So we'll have to do just that,” Tomiko said. “No problem.”

  “It seems a… sensible approach,” Pirov said, but his voice sounded uneasy.

  “My arrangement with Garamov is that we must return the alien lifepod, intact, within twenty-four hours. He can impose diplomatic delays for no longer than that. There's a chance we can curtail an international incident before it begins. That doesn't give us much time to prepare.”

  Hunter flicked the screen to a diagram of the lifepod capsule beneath a bulleted list of the mission sequence. “I had already chosen team members late last night, but recent events have forced me to reassess my choices. Since Captain Wilcox is now unable to fly the exploration ship, Major Devlin has agreed to take his place as pilot. Tomiko Braddock will still act as security.”

  The Director looked at Cynthia Tyler and Rajid Sujatha. “I want you two to stand by to assist inside the Class IV room in full anti-contamination suits.”

  Tyler, in particular, did not look happy with this turn of events. “But Felix, I—”

  He cut her off. “Mr. Freeth will go along to provide his insights into alien anatomy. I would have preferred to give him more thorough training, but time does not permit it.”
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br />   Freeth wrung his hands, his skin as pale as milk, looking as if he wanted to crawl off to the nearest UFO convention. “Remember when you asked if I brought along a clean pair of undershorts, Major Devlin?” he whispered. “I think maybe I… need them right about now.”

  Hunter continued, anxious to finish the briefing. “Because of his long association with Project Proteus, I have selected Dr. Pirov to serve as the on-board medical expert. He will direct the biological exploration, though Major Devlin can veto his suggestions if there are any safety concerns. I don't want to lose crew members over this.”

  Instead of being excited, the Russian doctor looked deeply disturbed. “Director Hunter, I believe I must ask you to make another choice. My responses during this morning's emergency were not… acceptable. I am perhaps too old to undergo such rigors. My reflexes are not as good as they should be.” He looked down at the doodles in his lab notebook, as if they might offer some arcane answer. “I would be better qualified to assist … in some other capacity.”

  Cynthia Tyler practically jumped to her feet. “Director, you know I'm the best qualified person to go. I've studied that alien body from the outside, I've run all the possible scans, I've trained for these missions—and I'm the one who found our UFO expert.” She gestured toward Arnold Freeth. “You owe it to me.”

  Surprised, Hunter looked at the Russian doctor. Pirov leaned across the table, resting his elbows on two circular water stains. “I would be glad to take Dr. Tyler's place in the isolation room. I am qualified to assist in an external capacity, and I honestly think my younger colleague could do a better job aboard the Mote.”

  “And I would be happy to have your assistance in the isolation room, Dr. Pirov, sir.” Sujatha smiled at the older man.

  “I don't have any objection to the switch, Felix,” Devlin added.

  Every face around the table looked at the Director, waiting. Hunter saw the fearful and uncertain expression on Pirov's face and realized that the Russian might indeed be a liability. Pirov had been a political choice, but Cynthia Tyler was much more intense and determined… perhaps too much so.