From the corner of his eye, Patrick saw the public relations director and her companion NSEG officials frown, but the question was out now and on-camera, and it would have to be addressed. No matter; he was great at diplomacy.
“All sorts of things can go wrong when you’re thirty-five million miles from home,” he began. “We—”
“I can explain the breakdown,” Dennis interrupted.
Patrick raised an eyebrow at his friend and tilted his head to indicate that Dennis had the floor. The reporters in the audience leaned forward in anticipation, and one or two of the suits standing next to NASA’s PR directors looked ready to wince.
“I’m sure you all realize that communication is an extremely expensive industry,” Dennis said with deadly seriousness. “NSEG didn’t pay the phone bill. Government cutbacks, you know.”
The people in the audience laughed and looked at each other. When most of the chuckling had died down, the same woman fired another question before Patrick could single out a different reporter.
“Can you describe how you felt during those moments of tension?”
For a long, painful moment, none of the three spoke. Finally, Anne reluctantly pulled the microphone toward her mouth. “It was . . . a blur,” she said.
“I don’t recall,” Dennis added.
Not good answers, and Patrick could tell by the expressions on the faces before him that this had the potential to be on the front page of the next batch of tabloids—hell, it probably would be, anyway—if he didn’t jump in and fill in some blanks for these people. He cleared his throat to pull the audience’s attention off his floundering crew members and sent the reporters the most engaging smile he could manage. “Remember that we spent five years training for this mission,” he explained. “Much of that training was devoted to troubleshooting the what-ifs in a situation, so that if something were to go awry—as it did here—your training and your preparation and your instincts kick in. You go into a sort of autopilot function, as we did, and the next thing we knew, we were headed home.”
That seemed to satisfy the woman, and Patrick passed the lead to Dennis as she sat down. Dennis scanned the faces in front of him, then arbitrarily picked a woman four rows from the back. “You have a question?”
“How do you feel about the corporate sponsorship that made the mission possible? Isn’t that a sell-out?”
Dennis tried to arrange his face in a glare but he couldn’t hide the smile that came out with his answer. “You’re damned right it is. And do you know what I’m doing right after the longest space voyage in history?” He sat up on his chair, straightened his tie, and sent a glitzy grin at the cameras trained on them. “I’m going to Disneyland!”
Another round of laughter, at the end of which Patrick looked over at Anne. The smallest shake of her head told him she had no desire to go one-on-one with anyone in this room, so Patrick chose again, finding a harmless-looking fellow a couple of rows back. But the reporter, a balding man in his late forties, asked a question that startled Patrick enough to bring a little color to his cheeks.
“Patrick, are you surprised at your status as a sex symbol for the nineties?”
“I’m afraid that’s something you guys in the press cooked up to sell newspapers,” he replied. “I’m a one-woman kind of man.” He looked to the far left and saw Melissa standing straight and beautiful next to his father, sent her a tiny wink. Let the reporters notice her—in fact, he hoped they would. Maybe that would put a stop to all this nonsense. But still . . . he should keep it light. “My girlfriend would kill me if I didn’t say that.”
“Any thoughts about NSEG’s sexual-quarantine policy?”
“It’s standard mission procedure,” Patrick replied. “No different this time than any other.”
“After eleven months in space,” Anne put in unexpectedly, “ten more days doesn’t seem too long.”
“Correction,” Dennis said. He looked intently at his watch. “Nine days, twenty-two hours, five minutes, eleven seconds.”
Anne grinned, her face going red. “Talk about a one-track mind.”
“I believe that what the world wants to know, Commander Ross,” spoke up another man without being asked, “is whether there’s alien life on Mars.”
“Perhaps on a microscopic level there once was,” Patrick answered without missing a beat, “although it almost certainly died out billions of years ago. As someone who’s been there, I can tell you that as far as I could see, there were definitely no little green men walking around up there.” He glanced at Anne. “Or red ones either.”
Patrick Ross turned his piercing blue gaze back to the audience and sent the folks down there a perfect smile. His next words earned him and his crew a well-deserved round of applause.
“When it comes to evolution, I think we’re the ones to beat.”
2
Monroe Air Force Base is heavily guarded, one of the most secretive facilities in the United States. It is a series of long, low-slung buildings made of dull gray-and-white cinderblock interspersed with steel-sheeted, whitewashed hangars, all surrounded by walled towers and firepower-laden sentries. For the most part, it is drab and nearly camouflaged. Harsh and sparse, from the outside it looks like the most unwelcoming, most unfriendly place in the world.
For some, the inside can be just as inhospitable.
“What you are about to see here in the BioHazard Laboratory is ‘For Eyes Only’ and may not be shared with anyone other than your superiors, who already know of its existence and by whose direction you have been brought here,” Dr. Laura Baker said from her position in the main control crane a good forty feet above the floor. “Only the people who work at this facility, plus a very few others, know about this project. I’m sure you’re all aware of the ramifications of disclosing top-secret information.” This was an unnecessary warning perhaps, but one the molecular biologist felt compelled to make one that she wanted on record—the audio was always on and recording everything in this room. Laura’s own security clearance was unquestioned—the badges plastered all over her lab coat attested to that. After all, what they were about to see was her own specially altered recreation of something that once could have destroyed mankind.
Standing silently behind the glass of a viewing booth ten feet above her and next to Colonel Carter Burgess, Jr. were the men she’d come to think of as the “Pentagon Three.” That trio probably comprised a hundred and fifty years of uninterrupted military experience, and as for Colonel Burgess . . . he was what Laura privately termed a professional hard-ass, and she despised him. She had an ex-lover who fell into that category, and she was realistic enough to recognize that Press—the infamous former significant other—was probably the reason for her opinion. At least the two didn’t look alike: where Press had been dark and rugged, more fit than was apparent at first glance, Colonel Burgess was just . . . big. Slightly taller than average and on the burly side, the tautness of his muscles was finally loosening with age; Laura thought that now he most likely hired others to do his dirty work for him. No doubt the loss of one of his eyes—the glass replacement gave his face a strangely skewed look—had taken him out of the physical foray.
The other three men weren’t much different—craggy faces, stiff manners—except perhaps that their identities had been kept secret even from her. They were probably all retired four-star generals, but the fact that they still worked for the government wouldn’t be found on public records anywhere.
No one in the booth said anything in response to her warning, so Laura inhaled and began her demonstration. “We have re-created the alien being known as “Sil” from a frozen lab embryo. If you look to the center of the work area, you will see the results of our efforts.”
Laura entered a series of commands on her control keyboard and there was a ratcheting sound as unseen switches were released, followed by the hiss of hydraulics. In the middle of the floor, a petal-shaped circle spun open and a glass cylinder rose smoothly into sight. Standing inside, h
er beautiful face deceptively innocent, was—
Sil.
No—not quite.
“This, gentlemen, is . . . Eve.”
Laura heard a murmur from above and resisted the urge to sneer. Had they thought she was exaggerating? Well, she hadn’t been. The same DNA, a combination of human with the alien formula transmitted in a coded message to Arecibo in 1992 and decoded in 1993 . . . the same mixture that had nearly caused a global disaster when the resulting creature had escaped.
The same kind of creature that stood before them.
Tall and stunning, Eve stood naked in the glass tube, the portrait of a perfectly formed woman. Slender but shapely, with small, perfect breasts, a flat stomach and lean hips, she looked like anything but the uncontrollable life-form she had the potential to become. Staring around her at the lab and the workers beyond the unbreakable quartz-glass panels—no stupid mistakes this time—Eve gave the impression of nothing more than a terrified, captive victim.
But Laura Baker knew better. God, how she knew.
“The test capsule is mirrored on the inside, and she cannot see the technicians in the lab while inside it, nor can she see you. As you’ve all probably noticed, Eve’s enclosure is in the upper part of a larger living arrangement, a sort of human ‘habitrail.’ The environment has been specifically designed so that all areas of it, including a small garden on the Upper level, are in full view. The creature can hide nothing from us.” She raised her hand so that her small audience could see it, then gestured toward the floor below. “We have a fully staffed testing laboratory, complete with technicians, biologists, and heavily armed guards—all, of course, female.”
When there was no comment from the men secluded above her, Laura continued. “Our goal is to discover a means to defend ourselves against this species should it, in its natural and purest form, ever find its way to Earth. What you see here is of necessity a genetically modified version of what we speculate that form would be, half alien and half human. She appears to be human in every respect, but I assure you that she can still be quite deadly.” Laura glanced upward, but none of the men in the viewing booth were looking at her; their gazes were riveted on the woman in the cylinder, and Laura was far too intelligent to think it was for sexual reasons.
“One of the things we’ve developed here in the lab is a hydrochlorine-based toxin. In a moment, you will witness the effects of this chemical agent on the alien.” More commands into the keyboard, a firm stroke of the enter key, and suddenly a blue-tinted mist spewed from nozzles set at regular intervals around the inside of the glass cage. Within the tube, Eve gasped and her chest began to hitch in humanlike sobs as she twisted and turned in a vain attempt to avoid the haze.
“As you can see,” Laura said grimly, “Eve is not only repulsed by the hydrochlorine toxin, but it results in distinct physical injuries. If you’ll turn your attention to the monitors across the room, you’ll be able to view close-up images from two perspectives. One is a magnetic-resonance pattern of Eve’s body, the other is a real-time video feed that shows the damage being done as we speak.” One of the screens flicked to a close-up and showed Eve writhing in agony, her formerly smooth skin covered with ugly, raised welts. Laura gave her audience a few moments to register what they were seeing as she checked the biological information scrolling beneath the film views, then she leaned forward.
“Unfortunately, it’s far too early in our experiments to celebrate. Watch very closely, gentlemen. What you are about to witness will shatter any notion that you might have that the young woman below you is a member of humankind.” Laura almost felt their interest elevate as she thumbed the switch that brought her voice down to the technician in charge on the main floor. “Clear the tube.”
Somewhere out of sight, a reverse fan whirred to life and the air in the glass capsule began to reverse, the noxious blue mist spiraling down to thin ribbons as it was sucked out via the same nozzles it had entered. In a few seconds, the glass was once again unobstructed, this time giving them a view of a different Eve—swollen, red, and crying like a child.
Laura didn’t say anything more—she didn’t have time to—before Eve’s healing began.
It was like watching a layer of sand shift and bubble across the woman-form’s skin—a vibration of cells rearranging, regenerating, right in front of their eyes. Two seconds, then three . . . and every indication of physical harm was just . . .
Gone.
Eve stood there, rosy-skinned and perfect, blinking but seemingly unsurprised at her own metamorphosis, completely at home in her own skin despite the blatant display of her nudity. She was healed; she was whole.
She was Eve.
When Laura glanced up at the viewing booth, she saw all four men staring down, their expressions frozen with disbelief. She cocked an eyebrow and broke the spell. “Now you understand what we’re up against here. Every toxic chemical agent that we’ve come up with has had the same result: as an offense, whatever we employ against her works only once, and only very briefly. The alien’s biology immediately adapts and renders the weapon useless.”
For the first time, the speaker on her console came to life and she heard Colonel Burgess address the others in the booth with him: “Simply put, this is it. Nothing we’ve found so far works, and we still haven’t figured out an efficient way to deep-six these alien bastards.”
Wow, Laura thought with a roll of her eyes that thankfully couldn’t be seen from above. A man of eloquence. Still, she felt compelled to add her own measure of important information. “There’s another extremely important thing. The species displays a very measurable sixth sense—a form of telepathy. We believe it’s essentially a Darwinian survival mechanism that enables it to communicate with others of its kind in what it perceives to be hostile environments.”
For a long moment there was no response, and Laura could imagine the Pentagon Three considering this new bit of information, turning their strategy-oriented thinking toward the concept of a savage being capable of communicating without their knowing it. When the response finally came, it was short and to the point.
“Continue the testing, Dr. Baker.”
Was there ever any doubt?
Laura gave the three figures in the viewing room a brisk nod, snapped on the control that would drop Eve’s glass capsule back to the lower level for unloading, then climbed out of the control pod and went back to work.
It took only a few minutes to store the notes from the experiment and make backup copies for the data banks, but in that short time Eve had already been released into her habitat by the safety crew on the main floor. Laura found her getting dressed in one of the simple-patterned jumpers that made up her wardrobe, anger sparking from her clear blue eyes as she yanked the cotton fabric down and over her head, then jammed her feet into a pair of white canvas flats. Eve stood when she saw Laura, then backed up a step and folded her arms defiantly, like a schoolgirl standing up to a teacher. “Why did you do that to me?” she demanded.
For a moment, Laura couldn’t answer. Guilt suffused her, robbing her of the scientific reasons that she knew would justify her actions; all she could see was this blond-haired, fresh-faced young woman standing in front of her, all she could hear was Eve’s righteous indignation. This was the image that stayed with her at the end of the day and the reason she sometimes had to forcibly remind herself that the being in front of her was an alien creature, not the exploited woman she appeared to be now.
“I-I’m sorry, Eve,” she managed to say. “We lowered the dosage as far as possible, but the purpose of the test was to show the toxin’s effect. It could have been so much more painful . . .” Her voice faltered as she belatedly realized that her words sounded like nothing less than a threat. “I’ve explained why we have to do this,” she said at last, her voice low and as reassuring as she could make it. Eve said nothing, just continued to stare at her. “What happened with Sil—”
“—and why you have to be prepared,” Eve cut in bitterly. �
�Survival of the fittest and all that. Right.” Her voice softened and she looked away from Laura, gazing longingly at the color television, now dark, built into one wall of her living area. “I suppose that one must be cruel in order to survive.”
Stung, Laura opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she say to that? In nature cruelty was a given, brutality accepted and even admired. But in the human race, were they not expected to be civilized? Or even kind?
“You know,” Eve said when Laura remained quiet, “I watch all these programs on television and see the places I can’t go, the people I can’t meet—I bet you didn’t know that I’d give anything to visit the Pyramids, did you?” She gave a short, harsh laugh. “No, of course not. How could you?”
“Eve—”
“A lab rat,” Eve said suddenly, her eyes narrowing. “To be tested and poked and prodded. Tortured. Is that all I am to you? I wonder what your animal-rights people would say to this.”
“Stop it,” Laura said, more sharply than she’d intended. Her face was heating up with exasperation and she hated that—if she didn’t put a stop to this now, the constant videotape would make her look like she’d painted rouge on her cheeks. “I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances.” With effort, she brought her tone back to the carefully measured level she always used when talking with Eve. “Part of the reason I took this job was to make sure these experiments were done with regard for the subject—”
“Subject,” Eve said with a sneer. “Yeah. That would be me.” Gazes locked, for a long moment neither woman said anything. Then, feeling chastised, Laura broke the gaze and turned to go.
“Tell me,” Eve said from behind her, “what was the rest of your reason? Curiosity, perhaps?”
Laura stopped and turned back. “Aren’t we all curious?”
Eve cocked her head. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Her expression relaxed a little and she looked thoughtful; then hesitantly she reached out and touched Laura on the arm. “I know you’ve been good to me, Laura. But remember one thing . . .
Species II Page 4