PROTOTYPE 01 By Heck Comments to heck@petermeyer.go-plus.net CHAPTER ONE Scientists and artists. There are two types of each. Your practical scientist will see a problem and set about solving it in a methodical, practical manner. He will set up well-considered experiments, work out the math, and arrive at his conclusions through patient and logical effort, and the application of dedicated hard work. Very basically put, if he wants to discover how something works, he takes it apart and puts it together again. Similarly, your practical artist will record what is there. Set him up near a mill by a peaceful river, with a cartload of hay negotiating a ford, or in front of a beautiful woman wearing a black dress and an enigmatic smile, and let him put in hours of painstaking work. What he will produce is a lovely and faithful picture of a wagon crossing a stream or a beautiful, enigmatic woman. Everybody's happy. Your other type of scientist puts in little real work. Instead, he frets and fusses until he imagines things like quantum mechanics or chaos theory, and spends his grant money postulating that butterflies fluttering their wings in Bolivia cause typhoons in Indonesia. By the same token, your modern or abstract artist tries to interpret what he sees in an 'individualistic' way that, curiously enough, involves little in the way of work. Set him up by the same river or before the same woman, and what you get is a splodge of colour or a set of blocks that may be pleasing to the eye but bear little or no relation to the subject matter. The same artist may win prizes for a pile of bricks or an unmade bed, which he calls art and for which he gets paid an unfeasible amount of money. Everybody's confused. Strangely enough, both types have got it wrong. Life isn't that simple. Or that complicated. Things don't always happen for a reason. Sometimes, they just happen. This is known as random causality, which is the chaos theorist's way of explaining something, which, in reality, has no explanation. Men used to say, 'The Finger of Fate writes and, having writ, moves on". The trouble with fate is, she's a bit of an old slut and sometimes doesn't care where she sticks her finger. At other times, the cause of a sequence of events may be so complex that even the most logical, methodical approach doesn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of sorting it all out. Luckily for us, the answer usually lies somewhere in between. * I was late. This was nothing out of the ordinary. I often am, but this morning I had no good excuse. The sonic alarm, which is tied in to a satellite and resets itself every ten seconds to within a millionth of a second accuracy, had failed to go off. Well, let's start the way we mean to go on, and tell no lies. I slept through it. What was more, there was no hot water, and I stood shivering in the shower, steeling myself for the shock of the icy blast. The phone warbled. I blessed it for saving me from a freezing fate, wrapped a towel round me, and picked it up on the fifth ring. The acne-pocked face of Rob, my assistant, appeared on the screen. "Sean? That you, man?" "Aye, I'm here. What's wrong? Your screen on the blink?" "Ah, Sean, there you are. You're late for work, man". "This I know. You called to tell me that?" "No, man. It's just, you don't wanna be late today. Oh, man, you should see all the brass round here. All over the place, man". "Brass? Why? We don't see them from one month to the next. Have we done something wrong?" Rob's hands appeared, sweeping his long, greasy hair back from his forehead. "No, these are, like, new brass. It's all goin' down here, man. You gotta get here. You gotta see this". "See what?" "It's totally awesome, man. Heavy dudes runnin' round. Just get here". "All right. Calm down. I'm leaving now. Give me half an hour, OK?" "Later, Dude". I hung up with a wince. He constantly called everyone 'man', regardless of gender, and I could live with that. But 'Dude'? Eeyechh! Five minutes later I was in my car and inputting the start code. The old Ford was so ancient that it still navigated by GPS, but it was reliable and that was all I asked of it. The rotary electric engine hummed to life, and I pulled out of the parking garage and into traffic. Once there, I keyed in my destination and took my hands off the wheel, letting the in-road guidance system do the driving. The fact that I was late didn't worry me, much. I gave a hundred and ten per cent dedication and effort when I was at work, and often worked far beyond the hours for which I was contracted, so a little tardiness in the mornings was neither here nor there. But too be late on a morning when the brass decided to put in an appearance - that made me a little anxious. Music. That was what was needed. I tuned the radio to catch the Pete Blackwood Morning Show. He was a pompous ass, but played some good tunes, concentrating on the old classics. An old time band called 'The Monkees' were playing a song called 'Daydream Believer'. Funny, how a song over a hundred years old can still lift your spirits. Just over thirty minutes after hanging up on Rob and wondering what so many cars were doing here, I was pulling into my space at work. SETI. Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence. The most run down, under-funded, cock-arsed government department in existence. The giant radio-telescopes at Aricebo and Kilimanjaro still collected data, but these days it was all funnelled to this shabby, unassuming downtown building, where there was Rob, two secretaries, and me. I'm an exobiologist. I never meant to be. I graduated from the University of Glasgow with a degree in psychology, and went on to further studies with a view to becoming a clinical psychologist, but got sidetracked. I worked for a while at NASA, and got interested in the possibilities of alien life. I studied biology for a while, and spent time extrapolating theories about how these life forms from otherworld environments might appear and function. Which was fine for Hollywood, but of no practical use whatsoever. Somehow, I got to be an authority on the subject, and go co-opted into SETI. Which was fine. I mean, it would be exciting if we ever did meet ET, but the unimaginable distances of space make actual contact highly unlikely. The best we can hope for is some sort of signal from their equivalent of radio or TV broadcasts, and then perhaps a world record long-distance phone call. But in its ninety-odd years of existence SETI hasn't discovered one yet. There've been a few that might have been from an intelligent source, but nothing concrete. So my job is not what you might call vital, but I live in hope. One day. It's indoor work, with no heavy lifting. See what I mean about the Finger of Fate? I think it was the twentieth century philosopher John Lennon who wrote, 'Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans'. Inside the lobby Rob was hopping from one foot to the other while he waited for me. He looked both nervous and excited at the same time, and I wondered what was going on. We couldn't have picked up a signal or made first contact, or anything like that. He would have told me on the phone. He had obviously been told to say nothing, and that intrigued me even more. "'Morning, Rob". "Dude. Hurry up, man. They're all upstairs". He ushered me into the lift. Sorry. Elevator. I must remember that I live in America, now. It's only been seven years. We passed through the doors and I reached for the button for the second floor, where my office and all the labs were. Rob intercepted my hand and produced a card from his hip pocket. He swiped it through a channel and the car began to climb. I raised an eyebrow. "We're goin' to the top floor, man", he said, nodding and grinning. "They loaned me this card. I gotta give it back". This was interesting. We had always thought the top floor was just an attic. Storage space. There were no stairs to it, and we assumed, in moments of idle speculation, that the stairs had been blocked off. I had no idea that the elevator went there, I had never been up there and, to my knowledge, neither had Rob. "So, what's going on, Rob?" He contrived to look sheepish and knowledgeable all at the same time. That's what I like about Rob. He looks more gormless than I do. "Not supposed to say, man. All I can tell you is, when I get in this morning? There's this truck parked outside, and they were, like, unloading something from it, all covered in, like, a tarp or something. I tried to sneak a look, but these heavy dudes turned me away". "But you know now?" "Yeah, I know. But I can't say anything outside the top floor. If I do, they might, like, you know, shoot me or something". The doors hissed open and we stepped out into a bland corridor. A big man in a black tee shirt and black jeans peered at me through his shades. "You Dr Cameron?" I agreed that I was. "This way, sir". He led us to a double door, where another man who might have been his clone waited for us. He indicated that I should face the wall, and his clone patted me down. "What's going on?" I wanted to know. I thought it was a reasonable question. The goons were completely impassive, ignoring my question as if nothing I could say was important. Which to them, I suppose, it wasn't. "Clean", the clone reported. The first goon entered a code into a keypad, and stood aside as the doors swung silently open. I stepped through with Rob on my heels. The room inside was as cold and clinical as any laboratory, with high, narrow windows of frosted glass, tiled walls, and a stainless steel bench at one side. In the middle, a long table, again of shiny stainless, extended much of the length, but there the resemblance to a lab ended. A coffeepot bubbled away on the bench, and four businesslike people sat on comfortable chairs around the table, drinking coffee from fine china cups. Papers scattered over the table, and one of the men had his feet up on it. Another wore the uniform of a five-star general. The other two wore sharp business suits, in stark contrast to the jeans and sweatshirt of the lounger. All nice and normal. Except for the autopsy slab in one corner. And the huge plexiglass dome, all of three metres high and five across, with the view of the interior shielded by opaque blinds. A feeling of dread clutched my heart as one of the suits rose to greet us. "Dr Cameron", he smiled cordially, extending a pudgy hand for me to shake. "Welcome. What a pleasure". "I'd return the compliment", I said, sarcasm creeping into my voice. "If I knew it was going to be a pleasure". "Oh, it will be, I assure you". He was bald and red faced, what we used to call a 'jolly fat man' before political correctness strangled our imagination. "But first, I have to ask you to sign something". He led me to the table, where a sheet of paper and a pen awaited me, and gestured for me to sit. "Before we go any further. This is an undertaking, a promise, if you will, that you will not reveal what you are about to see to anyone outside this room. Ever. If you do, you will face the full penalty". "You mean, if I tell, I go to gaol?" "In this case, no". The solemnity in his words told me I didn't want to explore the consequences any further. "Sign it, man". Rob's honest but pimply face was alive with excitement. He wanted me to see what he had seen, that much was obvious. "It'll totally be worth it. You'll see". I didn't bother to read the document. I suspected that the penalty for not signing would be equal to that for betrayal of secrets and, besides, I was quite excited myself. Whatever had brought these people to SETI, what ever was behind those blinds, I wanted to know about it. I signed. "Thank you, Dr Cameron. Now, to introductions. This is General Hector Jackson, head of.well, for the moment, let's just say he's high in military intelligence". There's an oxymoron, I thought as Jackson came to his feet. He stepped smartly forward to shake my hand. "Dr Cameron". "General Jackson". "This", the fat man went on. "is Assistant Director Santana of the FBI". The other suit was a woman with dark, bobbed hair. She looked trim and fit, and would have been quite pretty behind her shades, in a severe, cruel sort of way. She didn't bother to get up, but nodded curtly in my direction. I smiled politely, trying hard not to look too imbecilic. Trying not to let my face give away the fact that this woman made me more nervous than the others combined. "And this is Professor Michelangelo DeLuca, from Harvard. He's a physician, specialising in anatomy and physiology". Professor DeLuca unfolded himself from the table and stood up. And up. He topped my one-eighty centimetres by a good seventeen or eighteen, and was built like a quarterback. His face held the traces of many races; Afro- Caribbean, Hispanic, Chinese and, I later found out, there was some Irish in him, somewhere. He grinned widely as he came to greet me, meaty hand held high to accept a high-five. "Hey, Doc". He had a deep, warm voice. "Good to see you. Don't worry about the handle. Call me Mike. Everyone else does, gnome sane?" I slapped his hand as expected, taking to his ebullience right off. "Gnome sane?" The question mark in my voice told him that I found the words incongruous and didn't quite understand. "Hey, I'm from the street, originally. West Philly. So I guess I still have some of the speech mannerisms, gnome sane?" "Gnome sane", I repeated to myself. Listen, I'm a Scot, OK? The accents and idioms of Glasgow run deep, so even after seven years my knowledge of North American speech patterns sometimes leaves me adrift. Not my fault. "Sure, Doc". The big man repeated the phrase slowly, as if talking to a moron. Which, on this occasion, I was. "Gnome.sa..ne". "Gnome sane, gnome sane". I went over it in my head. The penny dropped. "Ah! Gnome sane! Know'm'sayin'! Know what I'm saying! I get it!" "There you go. You 'n' me're gonna get along fine, Doc" The fat man harrumphed, ready to proceed. "And I am Charles Bouvier. My job title isn't really relevant at this stage. Suffice to say". He smiled at me like I was a favourite nephew. "Suffice to say that, somewhere along the line, I'm your boss. But, please. Call me Charles". "OK. Charles. Now, will somebody please tell me what's going on?" "A.discovery has been made. Something to the study of which I think you and, of course, Professor DeLuca, are particularly well suited". "An exobiologist and an anatomist?" My mind jumped to conclusions without any prompting. "ET has landed?" "Not exactly. I think the easiest way forward is just to show you. General? If you please?" Jackson crossed the room and tapped a key on a board by the air lock of the dome. There was the hum of an electric motor, and the blinds began to crawl toward the apex. Unable to wait, I bent to peer under, but all I could see were the legs of a gurney and the trefoil base of an IV stand. After an interminable wait, the blinds retreated sufficiently to expose what lay on the gurney. Naked, with an IV line in her left cubital fossa, a urinary catheter in situ, her eyes taped shut and an oxygen mask in place, a woman lay prone and flaccid. Her hair was blonde and her body was fine. I mean, really fine. But she was just a woman, an honest to goodness human woman. I have to admit, I was confused. Why had they called me in on this? The chances of parallel evolution producing a perfect duplicate of Homo sapiens elsewhere in the galaxy were, not to put too fine a point on it, infinitesimal, so why did they need an exobiologist? My conflict must have shown on my face, and I heard Rob chuckling. "Oh, man! How disappointed are you?" "Not disappointed", I corrected him, turning to face Bouvier. "Confused, though. I'm definitely confused. This is not what I expected". "No? What did you expect, Dr Cameron?" This was the first time Santana had spoken, and her quiet voice matched her image. There was a sinister edge to it. "Perhaps 'expected' is the wrong word. Until a few moments ago, I didn't even know this floor was occupied. But I'm certainly surprised to find a woman here. What can I tell you about humans that isn't already known?" "Same here". DeLuca's reaction was similar to mine, except he was slightly more pissed off. "I don't see why you hauled me from my family. I'm a doctor, sure enough, but there must be hundreds hereabouts. If this woman needs treatment, why bring me all the way from Harvard?" "Gentlemen, please". Bouvier raised placating hands. "All will become clear, I assure you. Take a seat, and General Jackson and I will explain everything". He motioned us to the table, and we instinctively gravitated to the seats furthest from Santana. "General, perhaps you would like to begin with a little history?" Jackson returned to his seat, but didn't sit down. He stood behind it with hands clasped behind his back, as if addressing a class of raw recruits. "I don't know how much you know about early twenty-first century space exploration". It wasn't a question, but Rob's hand shot up eagerly. Jackson ignored him. "Or if you ever heard of the Space Shuttle Europa. Assuming you haven't". We had or, at least, Rob and I had, but he plunged on regardless. "Europa was launched on July fourteenth two-aught-aught-four. On it's mission schedule, among other things, was the retrieval and repair of a fairly insignificant commsat. Routine stuff, and everything seemed to be going according to plan, except that a relay burned out on the robotic arm and needed to be replaced. One of the crew, Science Officer Lucy Radovic, went EVA to fix it. With me so far?" We nodded in unison. Jackson took a sip of his cold coffee before continuing. "Well, gentlemen, that's when all hell broke loose. The last thing Houston heard was the captain, John Sorensen, yelling to his number two to fire thrusters, and that something was approaching the ship. Then, nothing. The Europa was completely destroyed, with the loss of all hands". "Man!" Rob breathed. "What was it? Meteorite?" "That was what was assumed. Of course, we sent up a rescue mission ASAP". He pronounced it 'ay-sap'. "There was nothing to find except a few pieces of debris. No survivors, or even bodies. There was evidence of an explosion, and the crew must've been incinerated in the blast. "There was an enquiry, of course, but the results were inconclusive. The files were closed, the families notified, and that was the end of the matter". Jackson drew out his chair and sat down. A curious silence filled the room. Curious from our end, anyway. "That was sixty-four years ago", Bouvier explained. He picked up the cafetierre and poured himself a fresh cup. "Coffee, anyone?" Rob and I accepted while DeLuca declined. Bouvier distributed the beverages and sat down. "A week ago, the Deep Space Vessel Parsival was on her way back from Mars, having dropped off a new crew for the terraforming project. Her captain reported a substantial sensory echo while still two-point-five million miles out, but it appeared to resolve itself without incident. When she entered earth-orbit, however, she picked up a similar echo, very much smaller, which appeared to be in synchronous orbit in the exact position from which the Europa was lost. The Captain ordered his ship to match it, and what they found was a human body in a Mark VIII environment suit. A type of suit, incidentally, that hasn't been used for over forty years". Understanding began to dawn, and I turned to peer at the figure in the dome. It couldn't be. Could it? "Parsival retrieved the body and, to their surprise, they found that the 'body' was very much alive. The badges and insignia identified the suit as being part of the complement of Europa. Initial examination of the occupant posed questions, which were, shall we say, difficult to resolve. But fingerprint and DNA analyses leave no room for doubt". He rose to his feet and approached the dome with an outstretched arm. All three of us knew what he was about to say, but sat in stunned silence anyway. Gobsmacked, my dad would have said. "Gentlemen". He paused for effect. "Allow me to introduce Science Officer Lucy Radovic".