Fantastic Voyage: Microcosm (2 page)

He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

When it struck, the ejected container had gouged a long furrow in the dirt and splintered dozens of dark pines. Yet the armored pod remained intact and sealed, even after such a rough impact.

Leaving the pilot behind, Garamov approached the object. Strange designs and lacings of circuitry trailed all around the exterior, giving it a cocoon-like appearance. Immediately, the design and the technology intrigued him. The markings were in no language he had ever seen.

Through clumps of mud trickling off the misty window ports, Garamov could discern that there might be a survivor inside. Or at least a body. Smooth and gray-skinned, with grossly large eyes squeezed shut in unconsciousness or death. Not an Azeri rebel, not a human at all. An
alien
body.

He knew this was a mistake to far overshadow all the bureaucratic bungling he had ever experienced.

Letting out a long, heavy breath, as if someone had punched him in the stomach, Vasili Garamov realized that his already-impossible assignment had gotten even more complex.

Chapter 1

Thursday, 2
:01
a.m
. (Proteus Facility, Sierra Nevada Mountains, California)

The unmarked convoy was on its way up the steep, switchbacked slope. Felix Hunter, Director of Project Proteus, could hear the distant engines toiling out there in the darkness.

Delivering an alien body was the sort of thing best done in the dead of night.

High in the isolated Sierra Nevadas, on a rarely traveled road, Director Hunter stepped away from the blazing spotlights in the compound. Motioning to the facility guards, he passed through the sallyport one chain-link barrier at a time and took a few steps down the gravel road to where he could see the stars… and think.

At this high altitude, the atmosphere was startlingly clear, like a lens through which billions of pinprick stars shone. Given hours of solitude, he could have walked deeper into the forest, away from human settlements, and let his eyes adjust.

Out of all those twinkling lights, which one did the alien specimen call home?

When his daughter Kelli had been a young girl, Hunter had taught her the constellations. He had enjoyed those times. He was glad he could think of his daughter without feeling the ache of grief. Now only the bittersweet memories remained.

The guards left the fence gate open but remained alert, weapons ready. The main defense of the Proteus Facility was simply to be unobtrusive. Few people accidentally stumbled upon this isolated location, and what anyone saw on first glance looked like an innocuous cellular phone substation and power plant, complete with
no trespassing
and
danger: high voltage
signs. The real security began beyond the first set of fences and gates leading into the mountain tunnels—and no unauthorized person had ever gotten that far.

The chill air made Hunter's ears tingle, but he waited, listening to the rumble of trucks until he spotted the headlights of the approaching vehicles. He would be there to meet the convoy.

In his early sixties and very healthy, Felix Hunter was not a big man, but he carried himself with great confidence and self-possession. Kelli's husband, Major Marc Devlin, had once joked, “Felix, you could walk whistling through a minefield with your eyes closed and never miss a single note.” He had an olive complexion, a trim mustache, and dark hair with a fringe of salt-and-pepper around the ears. He wore a suit even inside the lab and felt as much at home in the rock-walled tunnels as at a black-tie function in Washington, D.C.

He took a last glance at the peaceful stars above and trudged back toward the fences and security lights. When the trucks and their extraterrestrial cargo arrived, he and his team would have to get back to work. That was where his real passion lay.

The alien specimen from the Azerbaijan battlefield remained sealed inside its armored pod, undamaged even after being shot down by Russian fighter jets. Deputy Foreign Minister Vasili Garamov, one of the silent international partners in Project Proteus, had been true to his word.

This mission would be a perfect showcase for their capabilities.

Miniaturization technology had been around (and highly classified) for decades. During the 1960s, the U.S. project had been run with an iron hand by General Walter Carson, a gruff and far-too-confident commander who demanded Black Program funding to keep America one step ahead of the Soviets.

Carson's scheme had been to shrink airplanes and armies to microscopic size; he could deliver a fly-speck invasion force invisible to enemy counter-measures, then restore them to normal size for an overwhelming surprise attack. Though the idea sounded preposterous, the general had enough clout—maybe even blackmail material?—to push the program through the attendant red tape.

Back during the Cold War, the original Project's objectives had been strictly military. There had been no discussion about the possible commercial applications of miniaturization technology—transportation, precision manufacturing, integrated circuit design, surgery, much less pure science. All of those things could come much later, after Carson had his own way.

The death knell for the project had involved the lead researcher, Chris Matheson, an old friend and former classmate of Hunter's at Yale. While Hunter had worked his way up the ladder of large international corporations, dabbling in politics and diplomacy, Matheson had developed the classified miniaturization project for General Carson. After several amazing tests with the prototype apparatus, Matheson had boldly insisted on shrinking himself. Even in college, the man had liked to test the limits. Following orders, his technicians had reduced him smaller and smaller… until he broke a quantum boundary. Despite their best efforts, the technicians had been unable to reverse the process.

Hunter hadn't been there himself, but he had repeatedly watched the 16-mm film of the test. Chris Matheson had shrunk smaller than a cell, smaller than a nucleus… until he vanished into nothingness. Matheson had never come back.

In the furor afterward, General Carson had been removed from his position, and the vastly expensive project was dismantled, its components locked away. With the fall of the Soviet Union in 1990, the urgency for Cold War competition faded. The program records were boxed up and stored in a Top Secret warehouse, where the magnificent technology had languished for decades.

Until Hunter had resurrected it.

Now at last, through a fluke, Project Proteus would have the opportunity to prove its worth—if the Director could get his team together in time and run them through their paces.

The lights of the convoy's first scout car bounced up the road, twin high beams glowing like the eyes of a dragon. It was a black, unmarked sport utility vehicle with run-flat tires and bullet-proof glass. The two armed men inside it had orders to shoot to kill in the event of any perceived threat.

The scout car pulled up to the gate outside the mountain facility. Proteus guards came forward, their high-powered rifles unshouldered. Hunter thought the paranoia might be a bit too intense, but given the cargo, they all had a right to be suspicious and nervous.

The armored convoy—a Safe Secure Transport, or SST—was normally reserved for moving nuclear warheads, but the alien pod could be even more valuable and dangerous, than any atomic bomb. After all, Hunter thought, there were plenty of warheads, but (as far as he knew) only one extraterrestrial cadaver.

And that was assuming the thing was actually dead…

He came forward in the headlights' glare and identified himself, showing badges, providing passwords, signing papers. Behind them the armored cargo truck climbed the steep mountain road, shifting gears, its headlights blazing like a ghost hunter's high-powered flashlight in a haunted house. The heavy vehicle showed no intention of hurrying, despite the extraordinary time constraints under which Hunter had to operate.

All too aware of how easily the situation could fall apart through mistakes, apathy, and bureaucratic incompetence, Vasili Garamov had gambled everything and bypassed appropriate channels. Now Team Proteus needed to get to work before Moscow politics got involved.

Hunter expected that his Russian friend would pay dearly for his audacity, especially after the Baku massacre. But if Project Proteus could pull off a miracle, to Garamov's credit, the Deputy Foreign Minister just might survive. At the same time, Hunter would boost his own top-secret project by proving its worth to the narrow-minded skeptics who challenged his funding year after year.

The vehicles rumbled through the sallyport and entered the guarded compound. They were followed by the chase car, the convoy's final line of defense in case the SST were attacked.

When the fence gate rattled shut again, locks clamped down, and the guards—wearing “rent-a-cop” uniforms—took up their positions once more. Motion sensors placed at strategic positions for hundreds of acres around the mountain facility automatically reset themselves. Hunter watched as the red taillights of the truck disappeared into the big semicircular opening inside the granite cliff. At last he breathed a sigh of relief.

Finally, they could get to work.

After seeing pictures of the alien lifepod, Hunter had shared them with his team members so they could plan a micro-exploration strategy under the tightest possible time constraints. Once word leaked out even through secret political channels, he would be able to fend off diplomats and other scientists for only a day, at most; the Russian government would demand the return of the sealed pod. The Proteus researchers had no choice but to complete their work before Hunter lost control of the specimen. But he was confident his miniaturized crew would be able to gather the necessary data and come back out— armed with enough discoveries to keep the world of science busy for decades to come.

Now that the alien container was inside the Proteus Facility, the clock had really begun ticking.

Chapter 2

Thursday, 8:05
a.m
. (San Francisco)

As he approached the rundown townhouse in bright morning light, Major Marc Devlin gave a skeptical frown, then shrugged. Not the sort of place he would have expected to find a famous “alien expert.”

The UFO business must have fallen on hard times.

Granted, homes on the outskirts of San Francisco were at a premium, their prices driven up by high-salaried programmers or investment execs. Still, Devlin had anticipated something a little more…
maintained
for the home of a celebrity.

Battered RVs hunkered in driveways across the street; dogs barked in backyards where old lawn furniture was visibly deteriorating. As a pilot, Devlin had learned how to gather details about his surroundings in a flash, using peripheral vision as well as his main field of view. But aside from the unexpected rundown neighborhood, he saw nothing interesting here. Nothing at all.

The self-proclaimed alien expert was probably spying on him through a window.

Although Project Proteus had reactivated his Air Force rank, Devlin wore civilian clothes today. In spite of his long-standing fascination with aerospace and big planes, he'd taken early retirement five years ago at the age of thirty after losing his wife to cancer. He'd spent a few lackluster years as an inventor and aircraft designer, until Director Hunter—Kelli's father—had contacted him with an offer to join the unbelievable new miniaturization program. He'd jumped at the chance.

The uneven fringe of Devlin's mussed brown hair looked as if his mother still cut it. He had a prominent dimple on his chin, large bright eyes, and a face just a bit too boyish to look rugged. Kelli had always done a good job picking his clothes, straightening his collar, helping him maintain proper appearances. During those last weeks in the hospital, he had tried to look his best for her.

Alone now, he found that being a snappy dresser was no longer high on his list of priorities. Working on complex engineering problems for Project Proteus was far more interesting than keeping up with the vagaries of fashion.

Leaving his dark government sedan parked at the curb, Devlin walked up the sidewalk. He noted brown grass in the postage-stamp yard, patched stucco on the townhouse walls, flowering weeds in the so-called lawn, weed-infested flowers in a dirt patch under one window.

By reputation and by his own assertion, Arnold Freeth was the foremost specialist in the country in the field of extraterrestrial sightings. The man's biggest claim to fame was that he had hosted a controversial and much-ballyhooed
Alien Dissection,
available on home video.

So why did the guy live in such a dump? (Not that his own quarters would ever appear in
House and Garden.)
Devlin tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Freeth was so constantly in demand, always speaking at conferences or giving interviews to tabloids or paranormal magazines, that he didn't have time for yard work.

Devlin, who spent his days tinkering with the
Mote,
the beautiful micro-exploration vessel he had designed, had no time to read grocery-store newspapers or watch TV scandal shows. As a practical engineer, he had never really believed the tales of visitors from other worlds, but he had seen the sealed alien lifepod in the Proteus lab this morning before dawn, so he was not about to sneer at even Freeth's most outrageous claims. Not today.

Dr. Cynthia Tyler, one of the world-class medical experts working for Project Proteus, had downloaded clips from Freeth's
Alien Dissection
videotape to show Director Hunter. The similarities with the lifepod alien were uncanny. “We need this man, Felix. Where else are we going to get a specialist for our mission?”

Hunter had been wary of Arnold Freeth's alleged credentials, but he had no time to run detailed background checks. The alien specimen would probably be theirs for less than a day before the already-brewing political furor wrenched it back to Russia.

Devlin's orders were to enlist the UFO expert's help without delay.

Trying to look professional, he stood prominently in front of the door and pushed the button for the bell, but heard no sound. Probably broken. After a second try, he pounded on the door. He peered into the peephole, hoping to see some movement or change of light. He looked at his watch.

Back at the Proteus Facility, the designated miniaturization team had been thrown into a rigorous, eleventh-hour training routine. Seventeen times already, Devlin had been reduced to the size of a dust mote in order to test his micro-exploration craft. Other potential miniaturization team members had all undergone equally extensive preparation—pathologists, anatomists, microbiologists, structural analysts, organic chemists, materials scientists, even a security specialist.

Yet now, for their first real mission, Team Proteus was forced to bring in outside expertise. It was embarrassing, but who could have planned ahead for an alien expert?

Since hotshot Captain Garrett Wilcox would pilot the prototype
Mote
on its microscopic voyage, Director Hunter had insisted that Devlin was the best man to fetch Mr. Freeth. Perhaps Devlin's love for science fiction would give the two something to talk about during the long drive … or maybe Felix just wanted his son-in-law to get his head out of the lab and see other people for a change.

Across the street, a woman yelled at her rat-brown yap-yap dog as it chased children on tricycles. An old man sprayed water from a garden hose onto a hedge of pink oleanders, while glancing at Devlin out of the corner of his eye. Everyone had seen him pull up in the dark car; all of the neighbors wondered what he wanted.

“Mr. Freeth, if I could have just a moment of your time?” he shouted at the door. He would have been far more comfortable in a mechanic's coveralls, a clean-room suit, or a white lab coat complete with pocket protector full of pens to maintain his image. “I promise I'm not selling anything.”

Finally he heard someone stirring inside. With an effort, Devlin rehearsed again what he was going to say. He was no politician, no fast-talker. He suspected that his conservative black suit, polished shoes, and dark sunglasses practically shouted that he worked for a secret government agency. Which of course he did. Otherwise he wouldn't be here.

He certainly had something of interest to show a UFO enthusiast.

Devlin heard a gasp behind the peephole, and the door opened. A pale man with freckles peered out. Arnold Freeth, who according to his file was thirty-seven and unmarried, wore a clean white shirt, blue slacks, no shoes. Beneath neatly trimmed dishwater-brown hair, his muddy brown eyes darted from side to side as if afraid he might miss something. When Devlin stuck out his hand, Freeth looked at it suspiciously. “Can I see some ID, please?”

Devlin reached into his pocket to withdraw a government identification wallet and passed it to Freeth. “Roger that. I had this printed up especially for you. I hope you like it.”

He'd always had a cocky sense of humor. No one could laugh harder at a pie-in-the-face jape or Wile E. Coyote falling off a cliff. Devlin and his Air Force buddies had specialized in harmless pranks that had gotten even more outrageous when he'd first met Kelli Hunter, a civilian medical technician at a local hospital. She had rolled her blue eyes in lighthearted disapproval at his antics. Now, she always wore that expression in Devlin's memories.

He flashed what he hoped was a disarming smile. “My project would like to hire your consulting services, Mr. Freeth. As soon as possible.”

Freeth studied the government ID as if it were a Polaroid photograph of a flying saucer. He didn't even ask what
Proteus Access
meant.

He handed the ID wallet back and ran a hand through his hair, messing up its neat appearance. “I knew someone would come to shut me up and shut me down. The government can't stand me exposing their conspiracies, can they? I know too many things.”

Devlin fumbled the ID into the inner lining of his jacket. Lab smocks had more reasonable-sized pockets. “If it makes a difference, we do plan to reimburse you for your work.”

Freeth perked up. “Reimburse me, that's good.” Beyond the door, Devlin got a glimpse of a dark and cluttered apartment, the walls crammed with bookshelves, every horizontal surface filled with magazines, papers, photographs, and notes.

The man rattled off words and terms like gunfire.
“1
get paid five hundred dollars per day for consulting on paranormal matters, plus expenses. I expect your people to pick up travel costs and provide my meals and reasonable lodging.” He crossed his arms over his pressed white shirt. “That's not negotiable.”

Devlin looked at his watch again. “Roger that. I am authorized to make such payment.” He hoped Felix wouldn't balk at the expense, but supposed he could talk him into it. “Given your track record, I have no doubt you'll be worth every penny.”

Freeth looked at him with an intrigued expression, a wide-eyed nerd trying not to let his interest show. “What am I going to be doing for you, and the government? I…” He swallowed hard. “I have my principles, you know.”

“Well, I could tell you, but then I'd have to shoot you,” Devlin said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Just kidding, Mr. Freeth.” He regarded the UFO expert with a straight face. “If I were telling anyone else what I'm about to tell you, I would feel like a complete fool. But I assure you, this is no joke.”

Freeth crossed his arms over his chest and waited expectantly.

“We, uh… we have an alien body in our possession.”

The other man drew in a gasp, happily believing what most people would have laughed off. “A…
real
alien?” Then he grew skeptical again, as if he'd been the butt of numerous practical jokes before. “Where did you get it?”

“The specimen arrived late last night at our facility. It bears a remarkable similarity to the one on your
Alien Dissection
video. Due to… political pressures, we have less than a day to complete our analysis.” He spread his hands. “That's why we don't have time to learn everything
you
might already know.”

Freeth struggled to control his reaction. He seemed on the verge of hyperventilating.

“We need your help, Arnold.” Devlin tried to sound comradely. “Are you willing to join our team?”

“Absolutely!” The UFO expert looked as if he might grab Devlin in an overjoyed hug. “But please call me Mr. Freeth. I like to be treated as a professional.”

“Roger that, Mr. Freeth. You'll need to get ready to leave at once, and I've got some confidentiality papers for you to sign in the car.” Devlin's voice grew stern. “We're a little pressed for time.”