Fantastic Voyage : Microcosm Read online

  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.”

  Chapter 3

  Thursday, 8:05 a.m. (Proteus Facility)

  The densely packed integrated circuit was only a few millimeters wide, but it looked as large as Nebraska to Tomiko Braddock and her miniaturized team.


  The metal wall stood before her like a sheer cliff ten times her height. The circuit path's face had been sheared off using state-of-the-art processing efforts to smooth its edges, which still left microscopic imperfections, lumps, and curves.

  Insurmountable.

  No problem.

  Garrett Wilcox, the designated pilot and commander of the upcoming mission, would probably try to leap it in a single bound just to show off in front of her. The twenty-eight-year-old captain kept himself in shape, drank orange juice by the gallon, and never complained about Proteus mess-hall food; he often even asked for seconds.

  Now, standing on the intricate pathways of the computer chip, Tomiko assessed the straight walls of gold, copper, and germanium dodging right and left at sharp angles, racetracks through a convoluted maze. It was a new-design ULSI chip, or Ultra-Large-Scale Integrated circuit. The light seemed grainy at her minuscule size, shimmering as if in anticipation of a thunderstorm.

  For a last-minute proficiency exercise, Director Hunter had sent them into this unknown scenario, just to see how the candidates responded. Tomiko and Wilcox were accompanied by the medical specialist assigned to the upcoming mission.

  Dr. Sergei Pirov had participated in the initial Soviet miniaturization research at the height of the Cold War decades before. Although he now had trouble keeping up with the younger members of the team, his skills were vital to the mission. Pirov's techniques for studying cellular damage and pathogens would be crucial to understanding the alien body on a micro-level.

  Unfortunately, his expertise wasn't terribly useful here on substrates and nonhomogeneously deposited layers of metal films.

  In fact, Tomiko was the only one of the three who knew her way around an electronic map. When she'd been younger, her indulgent parents, busy celebrities, had smiled upon everything she wanted to do. One of her hobbies at age thirteen had been building circuit boards in a little garage workshop in Sausalito.