The Primus Labyrinth

by Scott Overton

  “So unlikely that you felt it unnecessary to mention to any of the rest of us? Why?”

  Tyson licked his lips. “Because bubbles created by such processes rise, as all bubbles do. They displace the surrounding fluid, are buoyant, and travel in the direction opposite to the pull of gravity. It must be so. We concluded that any bubbles produced by the action of the torch might collect on the ceiling of the blood vessel, and so be of no concern.”

  “Except that ceiling turned out to be the shell of the bomb. Primus was working in a vertical position, and the gases did not conveniently get out of the way, but collected nearby.” The Kierkegaard’s tones were calm, but cold. His stating of the facts in such simple terms was an implied rebuke to the high caliber minds ranged in front of him. He knew it. He did not wait for an answer, but continued, “And although that state of affairs was clearly visible in the monitor, no one thought to mention the danger?”

  “I was not. . . . ,” Tyson had begun to say not in the room, but realized that it sounded like an excuse. He had been monitoring events from time to time in another lab. He looked over at Mallory. Her head was down. She’d been one of the assigned observers for the mission.

  Hunter cleared his throat and spoke. “I should have caught it. I’ve done underwater welding before—I’ve even seen the gases collect on the underside of ships’ hulls. I just didn’t recognize what I was seeing. I should have. It’s my fault.”

  Kierkegaard turned his face toward the submariner, but his expression did not change. “Much as I appreciate your attempt to take the blame upon yourself, Mr. Hunter, the fact is—as I’ll remind everyone . . .” He swiveled his head to include them all, “This is a team effort. It does not—it cannot rely on one man. Mr. Hunter has enough on his plate just piloting our unique craft under circumstances never encountered before. He must have all the help he can get.” He looked at Tyson and Mallory. “I trust that you will share any future insights you may have with the whole group.”

  He allowed a long moment for his words to sink in. Then he straightened his back and assumed his familiar stance. The lecture was over. There was work to be done.

  “Now. What we must solve is the real reason behind what happened: the failure of the torch to cut through the shell of the bomb. Dr. Tyson, any thoughts?”

  It was an offer to redeem himself. The scientist took it.

  “We had expected that the non-conductive properties of the silicon would act in our favor, and heat would remain concentrated in one small area. That would have allowed the spark to melt a hole in the shell. Unfortunately, it appears there is enough conductivity at this scale, especially with the effect of the surrounding liquid, to dissipate much of the energy.”

  “Hunter?”

  “It’s a common problem.”

  “What’s the common solution?”

  “What we’ve got on the Primus is like an arc welder. I’ve never trained as a welder. I’ve only seen arc welding done, as an assistant. There are special alloy welding tips for specific purposes. They produce different temperatures and different types of results. It’s the same with cutting tools. Some rigs also use high pressure gas jets to dry out the weld site while the welding or cutting takes place.” He looked at their leader. “I don’t see any of that helping us, sir. We can’t exactly lay the Primus over for a retrofit.”

  “No, we cannot. Anyone else?”

  “It has to do with the micro-distances involved,” Tyson said. “As you know, we weren’t completely sure that it would work.”

  “Can we turn up the heat? Make a hotter spark?” Kierkegaard asked.

  “In fact, we can,” the engineer replied. “But the cost may be one we’re not able to pay.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The device we’re using to power the torch is essentially a capacitor. It stores up an electrical charge drawn from the surrounding molecules of the body. Its natural tendency is to discharge that energy all at once. One of our most difficult tasks was to create a system that would release that charge more slowly, to sustain the torch for a few seconds of cutting time. In doing so, we have to sacrifice some heat. If we allow the capacitor to release all of its energy in one quick burst, we will produce a hotter spark.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “But there will be no charge left to ignite the contents of the bomb. It would not catch fire the way the hydrogen and oxygen did, from the hot tip of the torch alone. We will have punched a hole through the hard casing, only to allow the ADP to slowly leak out while the Primus is building up another charge.”

  “Which could be as long as six to eight hours, our time?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “That would also limit us to one or maybe two missions a day,” Hunter interjected. “Does our patient have that much time?”

  “I’m sure none of us missed the significance, Mr. Hunter. What are the other alternatives, then? Any suggestions? Anyone?” Kierkegaard’s hands remained casually clasped behind his back. He was under tremendous pressure, but it was impossible to read in his face or body language. The group needed to believe they could solve this problem. That he was sure they could solve it. That was exactly the confidence he showed to them. Even so, no-one spoke, cowed by the thought of their recent error, or simply out of ideas. Finally Hunter felt compelled to break the silence.

  “Ram them,” he said simply.

  “Ram them?” Kierkegaard echoed, as if he hadn’t heard properly. All of the heads in the room turned with expressions of disbelief.

  “That’s right. Run the ship into the shells of the bombs with enough force to open them. If we can.”

  “And spill the ADP all at once?” Gage’s voice was thickly sarcastic. “We’ve just found a brilliant way to do that. Why search for more?”

  “Obviously we’d have to find the smallest amount of force we could get away with.” Hunter said. “Crack open a hole large enough for the torch probe to fit through, without spilling too much of the ADP. Once inside, the electrolysis from the torch may even provide fuel for the fire we need. A fire has to have oxygen.”

  His words were met with silence. “You’ve told me that, except for the sensor array, the Primus is nearly indestructible. I’m not talking about taking chances with the manipulator arms. We’d swing them out of the way and batter the shell with the nose of the sub.”

  Hunter’s body was stretched forward over the desk, to press his point with more intensity. He leaned back slowly and softly concluded, “I don’t think we have any other choice.”

  Their faces were like stone. Kierkegaard waited for someone else to raise an objection, but when none came, he targeted them individually.

  “Dr. Mallory, you first. Your thoughts on this idea, please.”

  The biochemist shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She cleared her throat and couldn’t bring herself to look at Hunter. “I think it’s a foolish risk, sir. We have only one Primus. It is irreplaceable. If it is damaged, the mission . . . the whole project is over.” She looked around the room for support. “The patient would die. We would have failed the president, and the country. There must be a better way.”

  “As soon as you find it, be sure to let me know. Dr. Tamiko?”

  She turned her dark eyes to the pilot across from her. “It’s understandable that Mr. Hunter would favor a simple, direct approach—brute force, rather than science—but I think we all know that this is a very complicated situation, with engineering, chemical, and biological challenges never encountered before. To suggest that the best solution is to take a nearly miraculous piece of engineering, and . . . use it as a battering ram . . . is not worth considering, sir. We simply can’t do it.”

  “And the alternative is . . . ? No, I suspected as much. Gage? Tyson?”

  With nothing new to offer, Gage simply reiterated points made by Mallory and Tamiko in an even more condescending manner. Tyson, however, was silent for a moment, then said simply, “I think
it could work.”

  There were startled reactions around the room. Kierkegaard raised an eyebrow.

  “A solution doesn’t always have to be complicated, sir,” Hunter offered. “Sometimes the simple way is the best way.”

  Kierkegaard nodded, and then turned his back to them for a full minute, staring at a pull-down diagram of the patient’s circulatory system, as if asking for her help to make such a difficult decision. At last, he turned back and said, “I agree. Let’s get to it.”

  There was no further discussion. His word was law.

  This time Kierkegaard did not leave first, but stood by the door while the others withdrew. Hunter was last of all. Before he could turn down the corridor, Kierkegaard stopped him.

  “Forget what I said in there, Mr. Hunter. It was your fault. See that it doesn’t happen again.” And he walked away.

  18

  Studying the diagrams for the next mission made Hunter feel a little voyeuristic and he was amused to see an outright blush on Tyson’s face. The target site was in the skin of the upper chest, along the inner curve of the patient’s left breast. The Primus had been removed in order to replenish its chemical cargo of countermeasures, but they weren’t re-loaded yet. It was decided to use the cargo hold to collect a fluid sample, once the “burn” had been accomplished.

  The re-insertion went badly wrong. They miscalculated on the depth. Or the patient’s skin twitched at the wrong moment, or the needle simply missed by a fraction of a millimeter. Whatever the reason, the ship was released a hair’s breadth from its target. On that scale, it was like entering the basement of a skyscraper and having to navigate to the penthouse, using only the stairwells and the corridors.

  Tamiko had mapped the area well, and had refined her navigation system to place simplified two-dimensional maps in the corner of Hunter’s heads up display. She no longer gave him verbal directions unless absolutely required. It was an added burden, to read the maps and steer the craft on his own while still dodging the hazards of the bloodstream. But verbal directions had been too much of a distraction, interfering with his use of the VR link.

  He’d tried to explain to Truman Bridges about the enhanced sense of presence that he’d been experiencing: the unexpected something extra in the way his mind was processing the VR input. The doctor had offered the word ‘dasein’. It was a term coined by a German philosopher of the mid-1900’s, Martin Heidegger, to explain the peculiar status of human existence. The word conveyed a sense of being not only physically present within a system, but also being an essential, interactive part of the whole.

  Whatever you called it, verbal communications interrupted his sense of connection the way a flash of bright light ruined night vision—it took crucial seconds each time before he could fully process all of the sensory input again. For that period of time, his full immersion in the three-dimensional environment was reduced to a two-dimensional representation on a screen, accessible by his vision only. It was a serious impairment. So Tamiko removed herself from the equation, and gave him near-autonomy. A few quick tests showed that the system was efficient and elegant—the lady knew what she was doing, and he’d said so.

  Neither suspected it would be wasted effort.

  Within minutes of beginning the mission, dismay washed over him. Tamiko’s maps were clear and precise, simplified just enough to make them easy to scan, yet providing exactly the information he needed. They were placed in precisely the right spot in his display so as not to block his vision. They were just what he’d asked for.

  And they produced exactly the same distracting effect as the verbal commands.

  All sense of unity vanished. His dasein collapsed. The only difference was that he had to mentally perform the disconnect himself by putting aside his mind’s acceptance of the reality it was processing, and forcing it to see the images as a flat screen once again. It was the only way he could see the HUD. It was like changing the focus of his eyes from a video screen across a large room to words on the page of a book only centimeters away. His mind’s eye quickly grew fatigued, and his head began to ache.

  He didn’t dare say anything. Tamiko would think he was trying to discredit her. Hunter hadn’t explained about his special connectedness to anyone but Bridges. The others would consider it total bullshit.

  What choice did that leave him? If he kept trying to switch back and forth, he could miss something important, or even cause a collision. He would soon have a splitting headache. If he ignored the maps he would get hopelessly lost, and the result of one missed turn on the last mission was only too fresh in his memory. Was there a compromise that would work?

  Maybe he could quickly memorize the key details from each map as it came up, then navigate for as long as possible from memory. Tamiko would have no way of knowing how often he accessed the display. He’d just have to be careful not to trust too far to his power of recall.

  It worked. Memorizing the maps became easier with practice, and he soon fell into a routine: a quick look to commit the pattern of colored lines to memory, followed by a long period of careful steering, reveling in the deeper feeling of dasein . . . of connection. Inevitably, as his comfort increased, his glances at the heads up display grew shorter, the periods between, longer.

  There came a time when he just knew where he was going. The route took a convoluted series of turns, switchbacks, and extended runs around countless obstacles, through nearly every possible plane of motion. Yet he didn’t get lost.

  And then, the bomb was there, in front of him, vast and menacing, and it was time to put the second part of the plan into play.

  Easy to suggest, terrifying to carry out. His mind filled with the vision of a billion dollars in super-advanced technology crumpling into useless junk. Swallowing hard, he steered straight into the bomb and knew right away that the force of the impact was too small. He backed up and did it again, harder. Each jolt from each progressively stronger collision, made him shudder right along with his craft. He didn’t want to know what the other team members were thinking.

  The manipulator arms folded neatly back along the body of the ship. As long as he could keep the craft straight, Primus herself should not suffer damage. He kept telling himself that.

  He was right. With the sixth collision, at a speed he’d carefully noted, he could see a split in the bomb's shell. It was small and narrow, but once the molecular bonds were broken it might grow quickly into a significant leak. Hunter didn’t hesitate. He slipped the tip of the torch deftly into the hole, and hit the ignition button.

  At first nothing seemed to happen. The spark formed, but with no result. He pictured the bubbles of oxygen and hydrogen boiling furiously away from the electric fire. With any luck, the hydrogen would dissipate, but the stream of oxygen would ignite and . . . .

  Whoomp! Hunter saw the thin shell of the bomb light up from within like a flame inside a Chinese paper lantern. A spray of burning material jetted through the hole, past the still-embedded probe. He’d left it there like the Dutch boy’s finger in the dike, to prevent a flood of burning chemicals that might ignite the proteins and plasma of the surrounding blood. The probe wouldn’t burn.

  He watched in awe as the lantern flickered and flared, and eventually died. Once the amount of carbon dioxide and other waste products of combustion grew greater than the combustibles themselves, the fire could burn no longer. Hunter withdrew the torch, rotated the ship, and opened the cargo bay, deliberately left empty for this run. When he was reasonably sure a small sampling of material had been sucked into the bay, he maneuvered Primus to its removal location.

  # # #

  Tests of the sample showed that virtually all of the ADP had been consumed by the fire. They finally had an unqualified success.

  Kierkegaard made a special point of praising Hunter and Tamiko.

  “Together, your navigation was right on the money. Exactly what we needed. Thank you.”

  As he left the room with a rare smil
e on his face, most of the others followed. Hunter turned and caught Tamiko staring at him with a mixture of incredulity and chagrin.

  “What is it? Did I do something wrong? We found the bomb, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, but you took a wrong turn.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Devon told me not to. The others didn’t see.” He could tell that she was angry, but there was something more behind it. Something he couldn’t read.

  “But I still found the bomb. I must have subconsciously used the map to get back on track right away.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head slowly in puzzlement. “You went completely off course. I had no maps prepared for that contingency. You found a new route all on your own.”

  19

  They couldn’t run another mission until mid-morning of the next day, at least. The Primus had to be re-loaded with its plasmin cargo. Hunter chafed at the delay. A full-sized submarine could probably be re-armed and re-stocked in a similar amount of time, because they could use as many people as needed for the task. With a vessel the size of a virus, and cargo measured by the molecule, the process could not be hurried.

  As he drifted down a hallway, Tamiko came out of a nearby lab room. He nodded and meant to go on his way, but she thrust out an arm to stop him.

  “How did you find your way on your own? Find the bomb. Tell me.”

  He sighed. “Luck, Lucy . . . just luck. How hard could it be?”

  She pointed with one arm and pressed against his back with the other. He entered the lab and stood near her as she used a few keystrokes to call up an image on a large monitor. It was a picture of the patient’s chest in false colors, possibly infrared, with a sheet placed carefully to conceal her nipples. This time Hunter found himself more aroused than embarrassed. The site of the mission was highlighted by a small red circle. Tamiko tapped some more keys and the view zoomed in, concluding with a computer-generated rendering of a cross-section of tissue. Its diameter had to be extremely small, yet it contained a daunting tangle of blue, red, and grey lines: blood vessels and lymph vessels. He swung his head away from the monitor and found himself looking at Tamiko’s cleavage above the square-cut neckline of the knit cotton top she wore. He quickly looked up, but her frown confirmed that she’d caught the motion.