Longer

by Michael Blumlein

  She was tempted.

  In the end she decided to take out her frustration in the Onizuka mod, which had a treadmill, bike, resistance trainer, and a VR setup that synched with each. She chose a FPS that put her in a ring, initially against a lead-footed ogre who could take a punch, working her upper body first. After that, heart, legs, and lungs, building up a sweat to the sound of her Velcro soles ripping off the belt, along with the cheers and heckles of the ringside mob. Felt better afterward, wiped herself down, PO’d a liter and a half, then returned to the observation mod. Cav hadn’t budged.

  “I talked to Laura Gleem.”

  “It moved,” he said.

  Stunned, she pressed her face to the glass. The Ooi looked exactly the same as before, in exactly the same position. She took a photo, compared it to an earlier one. Couldn’t find a shadow of a difference.

  Cav had to agree. “Interesting.”

  “In what way?”

  “It moved, then returned to its exact original shape and position. Like a spring. As though engineered. Or preordained.”

  “Or imagined.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “Let’s do some tests.”

  “Not yet.”

  “When?”

  “It could be dormant. Or partially dormant. If it moved once, it’ll move again. We need to give it time. Maybe it needs to feel more comfortable. More secure.”

  The Ooi was plastered to its rock, cozy as a button. Cav was plastered to his chair.

  “Take a break,” she said. “Get some rest. I’ll watch. Promise. I won’t miss a thing.”

  * * *

  The next day Cav agreed to spectroscopy. Light spectroscopy first, the least destructive. According to most people, not destructive at all.

  The asteroid was high in carbon, no surprise. It had carbon’s distinctive black color. It also contained trace amounts of oxygen, hydrogen, phosphorus, and nitrogen, some in molecular form. They found carbon chains and rings, amino acids, hydroxyl and methyl groups, phosphates, and amines. The asteroid was a chemical smorgasbord. They learned a lot.

  They learned less about the Ooi. Or rather, they learned something, possibly a great deal, but didn’t know what it meant. The Ooi had similar chemical composition to the asteroid, as far as its elements were concerned. LIF showed that. But its Raman spectra, which detected atomic bonding, were difficult to interpret. They varied from scan to scan. No two readings were identical. The first showed one molecular signature, the second a slightly different one, the third slightly different yet again. Could have been due to absorption of radiation used by the tests themselves. Or to something else entirely.

  What did this mean? As far as Cav was concerned, only that the Ooi defied spectroscopic definition. He could think of a number of reasons why. None of them disabused him of the notion that it was living. Its signal varied. So what? Variability was a defining feature of living systems, which characteristically showed peaks and valleys of activity, stochastic swings within a range. Not usually at the level of small molecules, but even there, conceivably. He guessed there was a pattern, which they’d observe if they waited long enough.

  “We should tell Gleem,” said Gunjita.

  “Tell them what?”

  “What we’ve found so far. Send them our measurements. See what they come up with.”

  “It’s a little early for that. We’ve barely gotten started.”

  “They’re waiting,” she said.

  “Let them.”

  “The Ooi isn’t yours, Cav. Technically speaking, it’s theirs.”

  “It’s no one’s.”

  “The asteroid’s theirs.”

  “So we’ll send them our analysis of it. That’s what they’re interested in. Can they make money from it? I’m afraid they’ll be disappointed.”

  “We need to say something about the Ooi.”

  “We have nothing to say.”

  “How about this: we’re busy. The great man is thinking. We need more time. Leave him alone.”

  “Perfect.”

  “You’re living in a cave,” she said. “They’ll send someone if we don’t communicate.”

  * * *

  The following day they added IINS spectroscopy to their testing, repeating it three separate times, with the same confounding results. Cav wanted to do a fourth. Gunjita put her foot down.

  “You love to do this,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “You know we’re going in there.”

  “Eventually.”

  “You’re procrastinating.”

  “Due diligence, Gunjita.”

  “Delayed gratification, Cav.”

  She was right.

  “I’m suiting up,” she announced.

  He nodded. It was time. Fact was, he couldn’t wait.

  “I’ll be right behind you, sweetheart,” he said.

  The big concern, of course, was contamination. Human beings, even freshly cleaned, plucked, shaved, deodorized, debugged, and antisepticized, were not germ-free. Germs, quasigerms, and pieces of germs in the form of embedded fragments of genetic code, and other, nonembedded pieces in free-floating form, and still others in the process of active mutation to create new germ pieces, germs of the future, lived in, on, around, and through the thing called human. A human being was fertile soil, a Garden of Eden for nonhuman organisms, simulacrum of the Earth itself, built over eons through trial and error and slow accretion of materials, including living materials. A body was a magnet for all manner of life, bringing it together, binding it energetically, holding it in balance. A laboratory for experimentation, a friendly host, a breeding ground, a passenger, as well as a carrier, and notoriously good at spreading disease.

  Also good at attracting disease: life attracted life.

  And good at warding it off. Repelling invasion. Usually very good at this on Earth, where the invaders, as a rule, were familiar, and used familiar tactics.

  The Ooi came from outer space.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Gunjita. “Please don’t.”

  They were standing at the door to the cargo bay, suited and gloved, helmets in hand.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Take off your helmet when we’re inside. Or your gloves.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “That’s good to hear. And your contrarian streak? The side that loves to ad-lib?”

  “It’s under control.”

  “Also good.”

  “Honestly? I’m not worried. I don’t sense we’re at risk. Not bodily. But the reverse . . . if we harmed it? Unconscionable. I can’t imagine anything worse. Until we know more, a lot more, I’m not willing to take that risk.”

  She was cheered to hear this. But like every silver lining, there was a cloud attached. What did it mean for the future of this little project of theirs, this little side job—delving into the riddle of the ages, the burning question on every stargazers’ mind since the dawn of time: Are we alone in the universe, is there other life?—for one of the lead scientists to claim he had “a feeling” they weren’t at risk?

  Helmets on, they entered the bay. The asteroid floated a couple of feet above the floor, held in place by bungies. It was charcoal-black, its surface angular, sharp-edged, and irregular, all save one small section that looked engineered. Four narrow ledges rising not far from the Ooi, like miniature stairs. As though carved in the rock. As though purposeful.

  Gunjita quickened her pace. She refused to believe it.

  “Slowly,” Cav whispered.

  She stopped at arm’s length from the pint-sized stairs, just to the right of the Ooi. Moments later, Cav joined her. They were stabilized by Velcro soles on their boots. The Ooi appeared unaware of their presence. If aware, it appeared unperturbed.

  “Someone’s playing a joke on us,” she said.

  “Mother Nature. She loves jokes.”

  “You think they’re random?”

  “Not random. But not deliberate
.”

  “I hope not.” She leaned closer. “You think the rock could fracture just like this? In just this pattern?”

  Cav had his eyes on the Ooi. He suppressed the thought that it was responsible for what they were seeing.

  Gunjita answered herself. “Of course it could.”

  He nodded.

  “Big universe,” she added.

  “Huge.”

  She wasn’t entirely sold. Objectivity was key. But the more she looked, the less the stairs resembled stairs, the more they flattened out, or else deepened, shifting shape, becoming other shapes, other patterns, as though her vision had become unglued.

  She took a step back and blinked several times. Slowly, the stairs reconstituted themselves. But they looked ever so slightly different. The lines looked harder. The dimensions more chiseled. More muscular. As if a new way of seeing were asserting itself in her. A new spatial awareness.

  Interesting.

  She glanced at Cav, who was transfixed by the Ooi. She knew what he was thinking. She could tell by the rapturous look on his face. Seeing it, she understood that she’d been overly ambitious. Had asked too much of herself. Objectivity was at best an approximation. Subjectivity was impossible to fully control or suppress. Its source in this case was a photo of a snow-capped peak she’d taken years before, and which, recently, had somehow wormed its way on-screen attached to a smiling, apple-cheeked Tyrolean face urging her to book a repeat visit. She’d seen the photo that very day.

  “I was thinking about that trip we took to the Alps,” she said. “Do you remember? We were collecting extremophiles. A storm nearly knocked us off the mountain. Fortunately, the Swiss had conveniently carved steps into the rock face.”

  He remembered. “A scary experience.”

  “Unforgettable.” In fact, she’d forgotten until the photo. A memory unburied by spam. “We see what’s familiar. Experience thwarts objectivity. It interferes.”

  “And informs.”

  “Yes. Informs and interferes.”

  “A balance,” he said. “Like everything. Take a look at this.” He was pointing to an arm of the Ooi. It was shaped like a camel’s hump. On the opposite side was another hump-shaped arm, slightly wider and also slightly thicker. “Symmetrical, you think?”

  “Almost.”

  “Yes. An almost symmetry.”

  Symmetry implied organization, a cornerstone of life. Though not necessarily life. Atoms and molecules were extremely well organized. On a larger scale, so were galaxies.

  “It’s getting energy from somewhere,” he said.

  “That’s a big leap.”

  “I’m assuming. From the phosphates, you think?”

  What was the spectroscope seeing that he didn’t? More to the point, why was he seeing the Ooi so much better than the machine? If the spectroscope was to be believed, it should have been a blur. To him it was a map, exquisitely drawn, of intrigue and mystery. Three-dimensional, maybe more. Shiny, smooth, lumpy, yellowish-green. Not large, but life came in all sizes. A speck could be a universe. Intelligence could hide in plain view.

  He bent to study it closer, careful not to brush it with his helmet, wishing he could do without the helmet, stifling the urge.

  Where was a HUBIE when you needed one?

  He cringed at the thought, quickly suppressed it.

  Turned his attention instead to the Ooi’s method of staying in place. It appeared attached to the asteroid, draped across a narrow crevice. How was it attached? And why? What was the nature of the interface?

  It seemed to flow over the rock, over and possibly into, as a liquid might have flowed before hardening and congealing. He imagined a connection between it and the asteroid, an interarticulation, a sharing of some sort, possibly one-directional, more likely back and forth. Perhaps it had roots. Perhaps a tube, or many tubes. Perhaps feet. A mouth? Why not? Everything needed to eat.

  It feathered to an edge that was no more than one or two millimeters thick. He had to stifle another urge, this one to lift its border (if it could be lifted), peel it back, and have a peek. A terrible idea, inviting disaster. But he’d learn so much.

  The lumps, for example. What were they? He had a feeling that sooner or later he’d have to find out directly, through an incision, and he cringed at this thought, too. The last thing he wanted to do was harm it. Besides, his knife-wielding days were past. As exciting as surgery had once been, he’d long since preferred a hands-on, not-in, approach.

  Plus he was old, himself no stranger to the knife. He’d been stabbed surgically on three separate occasions. Nothing major, or that he wouldn’t consent to again. But each stab was a violation, shocking to the body and the spirit. The first time was the worst, each subsequent shock duller, as though he were becoming desensitized, when in fact it was the opposite. He felt more vulnerable to injury than ever, and paradoxically more resistant, as though as his outer self became frailer, his inner, truer self retreated and became harder to reach. And what could be reached was more courageous and resolute. He hoped this were so. Courage was always welcome, but never more than in old age.

  The Ooi might be just as old, or older.

  Did it have a dormant, cryptobiotic state? Was that what they were seeing? How had it looked and acted when young? Had it always been this shape? Had it always had lumps? There were seven of them, all small, some smooth, some chunkier.

  “What do you think?” he asked Gunjita.

  “A silicate, I’m guessing. Maybe a quartz of some kind.”

  “You’re sticking to your guns.”

  “Nothing’s changed my mind. We need a piece. Doesn’t have to be big. We can probe it for biological activity.”

  “We have probes?”

  “We do.”

  “Why? We don’t need them. Not for the H82W8 work.”

  “Part of my toolkit, dear. Never leave home without them.”

  “You’re amazing. How many?”

  “A few hundred.”

  “Unlikely we’re going to find a match.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “Unreasonable to expect the same evolutionary path as Earth,” he pointed out.

  “I’ll deep sequence it then. How’s that?”

  “It may not even have DNA. Probably doesn’t.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  “How big of a sample do we need?”

  “Tiny,” she said.

  He stared at the Ooi. Could it be alive? If so, could it feel pain, or any sensation recognizable to a human? Would it hurt to be knifed? How would it feel being punctured, dissected, and sliced? He had no idea. But he knew how it felt to him.

  “Let’s hold off,” he said.

  “We’ve watched it for two days. How much longer do you plan on waiting?”

  “Before cutting it? As long as I can.”

  “Before admitting it’s a rock.”

  “Jury’s still out. We need to run more tests.”

  “You’re impossible, you know that?”

  “I do know that. Your patience means everything.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What are you seeing that I’m not?”

  “I don’t know what I’m seeing. Honestly. I don’t know what this is.”

  “Peas and diced chicken,” she said.

  “In reference to . . .”

  “You asked what I thought.”

  “Ah. Yes. You’re doubling down.”

  “I am. It looks like puke.”

  “Thank you. Very scientific.”

  “Inclusions, okay? Obviously.”

  “Mineral?”

  “Yes.”

  He unfolded his gloved hand and held it above the Ooi. Feeling for heat, or cold, or anything. “Not organs?”

  “No.”

  “Or organelles?”

  “No. Not organs or organelles. And not symmetric, either. Randomly distributed.”

  “Random to us,” he replied.

  She gave him a look. “We don’t call it science, Cav,
if you keep rewriting the rules. We call it your version of things. Then it’s your word versus the world. Let’s avoid that. Instead, let’s agree on some basic principles. Mathematics, for one. Physics. Reproducibility.”

  The palm of his hand had started to tingle. He checked his glove. Needed to check his skin. The Ooi, as far as he could tell, hadn’t changed.

  “I agree completely. We need more tests. Noninvasive ones.”

  They left the bay, sealed the door, removed their helmets and gloves in the airlock. The skin of his hand looked normal. He rubbed his palm.

  “Something the matter?” she asked.

  “It’s tingling.”

  “Let me look.”

  “There’s nothing to see.”

  She grabbed his hand, inspected it.

  “It’s gone now,” he said.

  “Put your gloves back on.”

  He nodded. She put hers on, too. Then the helmets, and they went back.

  He repeated what he’d done, holding his hand inches above the Ooi. He had a mild age-related tremor, and the effort of keeping his hand in place accentuated it. After a while he got a cramp, along with a pins-and-needles sensation nearly identical to what he’d felt before. He switched hands, then took a break. Gunjita relieved him, cupping both her palms above the Ooi, as if it were a crystal ball.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “You okay?”

  “Just tingling a little.”

  “Like before?”

  He didn’t respond right away, working his hand. Then he said, “Yeah. More or less.”

  * * *

  The next day they added more nondestructive tests. In medicalese these were called noninvasive, to distinguish procedures that didn’t hurt, or only hurt a little, from those that hurt more, and carried more risk. The difference between, on the one hand, doing an X-ray, say, or scraping a sample of skin, or snaking a tube through the nose or the butthole, and on the other, puncturing the skin and opening the body with a scalpel. In truth, all forms of testing were invasive. This was Cav’s position, and he wasn’t wrong. Mass spectroscopy bombarded an object with other objects (electrons, chemicals, light), vibrational spectroscopy with infrared radiation, MRI with electromagnetism (a dangerous test if an object were metallic, unknown in this case, and therefore out of the question), ultrasound with sound waves, X-ray with ionizing radiation. The invasions were invisible but no less real. Cav worried how the Ooi would react. He worried they might harm it. An ancillary worry, they might alter it somehow, or it might alter itself in response. Accordingly, he used the lowest possible setting on each device to begin testing, increasing only when and if it became necessary, and then by the smallest of increments. As a result, the testing lasted two full days. In the end they knew little more than when they’d started. Or rather, they knew this: