Terminal Event

by Robert Vaughan

  “How do you know?”

  “Look, down here on the side. The numbers give us a message. One, two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two,” Damien said.

  McElwain shook his head in confusion. “What sort of message is that, other than the fact that the numbers are doubling?”

  “That is the numeric progression of embryotic cellular division,” Damien said. “Whatever is inside is biological, and whoever put it there went to a lot of trouble to protect it.”

  “What ancient civilization would understand embryotic cellular division?” Calhoun asked.

  “Perhaps the same civilization who could leave us a canister one-half mile below the ice,” Damien replied.

  “Let’s open it,” Lewis said

  “Wait a minute!” McElwain said. “If Damien is right, if this is biological, then we could be opening Pandora’s box. There’s no telling what kind of biological agent we might be unleashing.”

  “We could take it over to the nuclear lab and open it robotically,” Calhoun suggested.

  “No,” Damien said. “You were right to keep the cylinder in the cold room. I suspect that whatever is in there has been preserved by the cold. If you take it away from here, an abrupt temperature change could kill any viable protoplasm.”

  “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” McElwain proposed. “Maybe we should kill it, rather than run the risk of opening it.”

  “When the Romans of Julius Caesar sacked Alexandria they burned the library,” Damien said. “The knowledge that was lost when those books and scrolls were destroyed may have set civilization back by two hundred years or more. Then, when the Spanish invaded the Aztecs, they destroyed records and artifacts that could have told the world about marvelous civilizations that flourished, then died, here in the Western Hemisphere. Surely, you don’t propose that we become the modern equivalent of the Romans and the Spanish, simply because we fear what we don’t understand? We have a responsibility to posterity.”

  “We have a responsibility to the present as well, and I don’t intend to do anything that would endanger the public,” McElwain replied.

  “We can do it in such a way that only one person is exposed, and I volunteer to be that person. We can open it right here in the cold room. That way, whatever is inside will be protected. Besides, this is the ideal place for such a procedure. It is already a clean room, and it is protected by an airlock. All we have to do is make certain that there is a positive pressure in the airlock and reduced pressure in the cold room. If we do that, it will be impossible for any trace elements to escape.”

  “That sounds like a workable plan to me,” Calhoun seconded.

  “I agree,” Lewis agreed. “And Damien’s right. We can’t let this get away from us without finding out all we can about it.”

  McElwain ran his hand through his hair. “Your point is well taken,” he said. “All right, when do you want to do it?”

  “Right now,” Damien replied quickly. “Or as quickly as we can get set up for it. Walt, this is your territory, how long would it take to prepare?”

  “It shouldn’t take too long,” Calhoun answered. “I’ll just need to run a double-check on the chamber seals to make sure they will hold the pressure. I could have everything ready by two o’clock this afternoon.”

  Damien looked at the president. “It’s your call. Do we open it today?”

  “Do it,” he said, folding his arms together. “Let’s just get the hell out of this cold room. I’m freezing to death.”

  Digital News Network headquarters, St. Louis, Missouri

  After Marcus Worley made billions of dollars from his North Star Internet Service Corporation, he decided to branch out further into the media business. Although he lived in Richmond he had selected St. Louis as headquarters for his international satellite and internet television network because of its central location. DNN’s conservative political slant set it apart from most of the other news organizations, and because of that, DNN had carved out a rather significant viewing audience.

  One of the most popular of all DNN’s on-air personalities, was Ava Glennon. Ava was a tall, shapely woman with platinum blonde hair, cobalt blue eyes, and high cheek bones. Ten years earlier, she had been Miss Missouri, and a first runner-up in the Miss America pageant.

  Ava was considerably more than a beautiful woman though, she was a skilled journalist who knew how to report a story. Over a relatively short time she had developed incredibly valuable sources in and out of government, and she was an exceptionally sharp interviewer. She had been lauded for her role in the last presidential debate, asking incisive questions, and having knowledge enough to exploit them.

  “Ron,” Ava said, as she was looking over copy. “Do we have any follow up on this golden canister?”

  “You mean the one they found down at the South Pole?” Ron Pitman was the show’s executive producer and sometimes director.

  “Yes. What do we know about it?”

  “Not much. It was found by that team of explorers that Jefferson University sent down.”

  “Buried deep under the ice?”

  “Yes.”

  “How in the world did it get there?”

  “Ha,” Ron said. “If you can find that out, you’ll be the golden girl of television.”

  Ava smiled, held her hands beside her face, and struck a pose. “Why Ron, I’m already the golden girl of television,” she teased.

  “Yeah, but only because you have such a good producer and director.”

  “Ten minutes, Miss Glennon,” an assistant producer called.

  Ava walked out into the studio, took her seat where she was fitted with a lavalier microphone and equipped with an earplug. She took a quick glance at the teleprompter displays, then waited.

  The red light came on.

  “It is noon in St. Louis, I’m Ava Glennon, and this is America at Mid-day. One of the biggest mysteries of the last few days is that of a golden canister that was found at the South Pole. The canister, which is covered with mysterious hieroglyphic-type markings, appears to be the product of modern engineering. But, and here is the biggest question, how did it get more than half a mile beneath the ice?

  “We will follow up on this story and bring you more information as it is made available to us.

  “In Washington today, Democratic Senator Brian Turner…”

  Damien Thornton who had been watching the report from the science building, picked up the remote and shut the TV off. He wondered how Ava Glennon had gotten the information about the golden canister. He thought there had been a general agreement to keep everything quiet until they knew what they were dealing with.

  What would he find inside the canister? He had to admit that this was one of the most interesting projects he had participated in throughout his entire academic career.

  3

  By early afternoon almost everyone in the country, if not in the world, knew about the mysterious golden cylinder that had been found deep in the ice, at the South Pole. Although Ava Glennon had scooped everyone else with her report, immediately thereafter it became breaking news on all the major networks, important enough to interrupt daytime dramas, game shows, and talk shows. News was also leaked that the cylinder would soon be opened, and viewers around the world were assured that, “When that happens our cameras will be right there on the scene, bringing it to you live!”

  Damien showed up at Spengeman Hall precisely at 1:45 p.m. Although he had seen Ava Glennon’s report at noon, he had watched no TV nor listened to the radio since then, and because of that he was unaware as to how widespread the news was. He was surprised by the size the crowd that had gathered, not only journalists, but ordinary citizens as well.

  There were several hundred on the campus, more blocking traffic on the streets. There were far too many people for campus security to handle so McElwain had to request help from the county police.

  Nearly a dozen huge, TV-remote trucks were parked nearby, the sides of the trucks emblazoned with
colorful logos, from ABC to Zeta Net. Satellite dishes sprouted from the top of the trucks, all pointed skyward.

  “Hey, did this thing come from outer space?” someone shouted.

  “What is it, Professor? What have we found?” another called.

  An attractive blonde woman approached Damien, microphone in hand. Her hair was perfectly coiffed and she was wearing a red dress that both augmented her figure and presented an aura of cool professionalism. Even though Damien recognized her from seeing her on TV, she identified herself when she approached.

  “Dr. Thornton, Ava Glennon, Digital News Network,” she began. “Would you tell us what you expect to find in the alien capsule?”

  Damien had planned to push through the reporters without responding, but her question stopped him. He turned toward the attractive young woman with an expression of surprise.

  “I beg your pardon. Did you say alien capsule?”

  “Isn’t that what it is?”

  Damien started to deny it unequivocally, then he stopped. “Look, Miss Glennon, I know that you – ” He looked at the other reporters who, less assertive than she, had hurried forward quickly with their own microphones and cameras to take advantage of Ava’s initiative. “ – all of you,” he amended, “have a job to do, and the more dramatic the news, the easier it is for you. But don’t you think finding a machined object deep below the surface of the Antarctic ice-sheet is dramatic enough in itself, without speculating as to whether or not it came from outer space?”

  “If it didn’t come from outer space, where did it come from?” one of the other reporters shouted.

  “We don’t know where it came from, and until we have more information, I refuse to speculate.”

  “I understand that you are going to open it this afternoon,” Ava Glennon said. “Do you have any idea what to expect?”

  “Yes, I believe we are going to find some sort of biological factor,” Damien replied with more candor than he intended. He smiled. “But, if you folks don’t let me get on with it, we’ll never find out what’s inside.”

  Another reporter called out: “Professor Thornton! Starr Conyers, United Television Service. Don’t you think opening that cylinder might be a little irresponsible?”

  Again, Damien stopped. “Why would you think that, Mr. Conyers?”

  “It is true, isn’t it, that by opening it, you might expose millions of people to the plague?”

  “Back in 1942, a man named Enrico Fermi and a group of physicists working under the football stadium at the University of Chicago initiated the world’s first induced nuclear chain reaction. They did this, knowing there was a calculable risk that the chain reaction couldn’t be stopped, that it could continue until the entire world was destroyed. But even knowing that, they did it anyway. Such are the perils of progress.”

  “What are you saying?” Conyers asked in a shocked tone. “Are you suggesting that there really is some risk the world could be destroyed if you open that cylinder?”

  Damien smiled. “Well, no, you are the one who suggested that,” he said. “But I have always found the story about those early nuclear researchers quite interesting, and I thought I would share it with you.”

  Looking out over the reporters, he saw that only Ava understood he was teasing them. Laughing, the beautiful TV journalist brushed a fall of blonde hair back from her face, and she looked at him in a way that suggested something more than mere professional interest.

  “But I don’t understand!” Conyers shouted as Damien walked away from them. “Is there a comparison to be made here?”

  There were a dozen other shouted questions from reporters and bystanders but Damien ignored them all. When he reached the door, he looked back one more time and saw that Ava Glennon was still smiling at him. He nodded at her and, almost imperceptibly, she returned the nod.

  Because campus security and the city police were keeping the crowd out of the building, there was a precipitous drop in the noise level once Damien was inside. He saw two men dressed in bio-hazzard protective gear.

  “What’s this for? I thought I was the only one going in,” Damien said.

  “You are. They are on standby just in case something happens to you,” McElwain explained.

  “No, if anything happens to me, seal the room. Don’t try and get me out until you have figured out how to deal with whatever it is.”

  “That would mean certain death for you,” McElwain said.

  “Better me, than the entire city of St. Louis.”

  “We are well-trained and experienced at working with chemical and biological hazardous material,” one of the two men said. “I’m sure we could get in and get you out.”

  “You don’t understand. If anything happens to me, I might become the vector myself,” he said. “We don’t have any idea what we are working with.” He looked at President McElwain. “Mac, promise me you’ll keep them out.”

  McElwain sighed. “All right,” he said with a reluctant nod. “We’ll do it your way.”

  “Thanks. Now, do you have one of those suits for me?”

  “Yes, sir,” one of the two men said. “Come this way and we’ll help you get suited up.”

  Fifteen minutes later, completely enveloped in a haz-mat suit and breathing from a self-contained oxygen supply, Damien entered the cold room. He heard the door close then click securely behind him. The noise of the compressor kicked in as the airlock was pressurized. At the same time, pumps began decreasing the air pressure in the cold room.

  He waited until the inner door of the air lock opened, granting him access to the cold room. Leaving the air lock, Damien felt his ears popping, just as they would if he had been flying at altitude in a depressurized aircraft.

  “All pressure readings are correct,” Calhoun’s voice came to him through the small receiver in his ear. “You may begin.”

  “Thanks,” Damien replied, speaking into the microphone inside his helmet.

  Damien picked up the cylinder. His first challenge was in figuring out how to get the container open.

  “Damien, you may have noticed the two adjustable wrenches on the table. They are power operated and can apply up to one-thousand foot-pounds of torque each. They should do the trick for you,” Professor Calhoun said.

  “Thanks, Walt, but I hope I don’t have to apply that much pressure. I want to get it open without damaging anything.”

  Damien took another look at a symbol he had earlier thought had something to do with the number key. It was of an arrow pointing down, and a second arrow, making a counter-clockwise motion around the first. He laughed out loud, then pushed the top of the canister down and twisted. The top came off easily.

  “Damn!” Calhoun said. “How did you do that?”

  “Have you ever opened a safety top on a bottle of prescription medicine?” Damien asked.

  “Yes. They are a pain in the ass, but I’ve done it. Wait a minute, are you telling me the canister had a safety top?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Damien answered. He pulled the top away. The inside was filled with a cold liquid which he allowed to drain away into a container. What remained after the liquid was gone was an efficiently designed rack which protected six small glass vials.

  Outside the cold room, McElwain, Calhoun, Lewis and almost two-dozen others from the university staff and faculty were waiting patiently. By looking through the double pane of thick glass on the wall of the cold room, they could see Damien as he opened one of the vials.

  “My God! This is amazing!” Damien suddenly said, speaking excitedly into his microphone. “It’s beyond belief!”

  He put the contents of one of the vials under a microscope.

  “This can’t be!”

  “What? What is it?” Calhoun asked.

  Damien looked up through the thick glass toward those who were waiting outside. “They are embryos. Human embryos.”

  “What?” Calhoun gasped.

  “And what’s more, the embryos are viable,” Damien
continued. “There is no doubt in my mind that if we implant them into a host womb, they can be brought to term.”

  4

  It had been ten days since Damien discovered the human embryos, and though Jefferson University had made no official announcement of the find, the news flashed all over the world within hours. It seemed as if every reporter in the world wanted to talk to Damien, and his secretary, Kathy Sherman, was fending them off as well as she could.

  “You can’t just hide forever,” Mrs. Sherman said. “You are going to have to talk to someone, sometime.”

  “Who is the most persistent?” Damien asked.

  “Oh, that’s easy. That would be Ava Glennon.”

  “Ava Glennon, you say?”

  “Yes. You’ve seen her, I’m sure. She’s based here in St. Louis, but she is on DNN so her program goes out all over.”

  Damien did indeed, remember Ava, not only how pretty she was, but also the fact that there seemed to be some sort of connection between them. At least, he had perceived that to be the case. He drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment, then he said, “All right. Next time Miss Glennon calls, put her through.”

  “I suppose being a very beautiful woman does have its advantages, eh?” Mrs. Sherman teased again.

  “Of course it does, how do you think you got your job?” Damien replied.

  Mrs. Sherman laughed out loud. “Oh, Dr. Thornton, you are an absolute mess,” she said.

  Almost as if she had been listening, Ava Glennon called within an hour of Damien’s conversation with Mrs. Sherman.

  “Professor Thornton, what a pleasant surprise,” Ava said. “I had about given up hope of ever getting through to you.”

  “Have dinner with me tonight,” Damien said.

  There was a slight pause from the other end of the line. “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you want to interview me, have dinner with me tonight,” Damien said.

  “Uh, I’m not sure I understand. Is this to be an interview, or, are you asking me out?”