Dilation Chapter 4: Chattahoochee
City lights became sparse as Fowler sped behind the other vehicle on their way to the forest. Upon seeing the two black SUVs parked side by side, Dobbs had asked if the Department of Defense got a bulk discount on tinted Escalades. Nobody had answered, but honestly — they probably did.
All three scientists rode in silence along the freeway, which eventually hit I-19. The concrete buildings were soon replaced by trees, some of which stretched ten to fifteen stories tall. Fowler stared absently at the vehicle in front of him. His mind often looped through worst-case scenarios before he deployed, but this was different. There was so much unpredictability here…they didn’t even know what any potentially-living creatures might look like. If a gelatinous blob tried to absorb the secretary of defense, what the fuck could Fowler do about it? Let it happen? Pray to whichever god came to mind first that shooting would stop it?
Fowler wondered how God felt about aliens. When he was growing up, his mother made him go to church every week. It had been a sort of spiritual recovery for her after losing his father, but she kept it up to this day. Fowler never paid much attention, or even wanted to go, but from what he remembered, aliens weren’t —
“Hey, look!” Plum pointed through the windshield at a green exit sign illuminated by four lights at the base. It was for the westbound 170 to Roswell. “Brilliant.”
“That explains it,” Dobbs said. “Once per century, the aliens crash a ship near a town called Roswell.”
“I think if there were a seventy-year-old alien research facility in New Mexico, none of us would have been called.”
“Someone look up how many Roswells there are — oh wait…I forgot, we can’t. Too risky…we might post pictures of mutilated alien corpses on our dating profiles. Well, all of us except Kelly Ditka.”
“Her computer’s already government property,” Fowler said dully. He was surprised he hadn’t thought about Area 51 until now. It seemed unlikely there had been an alien crash in New Mexico, based on tonight’s disorganization and confusion.
Walker caught his eye in the rearview mirror. “Do Lauer and Ditka work together often?”
“They have in the past. She does a lot of intelligence work.”
“The other car is only defense personnel. Is there a reason for that?”
“Most likely.” The vehicle split was a bit concerning to Fowler. Lauer was likely discussing defense concerns in the SUV ahead — a conversation Fowler would like to have heard.
“Uh oh, did you get in trouble?” Dobbs poked. The boyish attitude was getting on Fowler’s nerves, though no one else seemed bothered by it. Academia was a very different world.
“I’m the only one good enough to babysit you solo,” Fowler said. Dobbs scoffed.
“We won’t need any sitters, let alone three.”
“You don’t think we’re going to find intelligent life?” asked Walker.
“Do you?”
“I don’t know what we’ll find.”
“Sure, but we know they’re not alive.”
“How do you figure?”
“The amount of work done on the ship when it crashed would be so extreme that any surviving life would have to be microscopic.”
“It went down intact, though,” said Fowler. He was invested now.
“And?”
“And…it should have been a five-mile-long scrapyard.”
“That’s true,” said Plum. “The amount of damage done to the craft — or lack of damage, rather — is beyond explanation. It’s safe to say, we have no idea how much force was experienced inside the cabin.”
“Or how much pressure any organisms onboard can handle,” said Walker. “Some species can withstand incredible forces; tardigrades can survive out in the vacuum of space.”
“I know, Denise,” Dobbs said. “I know how they do it, and it’s only possible because they’re microscopic. That’s what I’m saying.”
“What are these things?” asked Fowler.
“They’re commonly called water bears,” Walker explained, “because they’re often found in lakes and resemble eight-legged bears under a microscope. They’ve also been found frozen solid in mountains and boiling in hot springs. Their livable temperature is something like -200 to 150 degrees Celsius.”
“-330 to 300 Fahrenheit,” Dobbs clarified.
“Scientists started testing every unnatural boundary they could think of. Water bears can live without oxygen. They can withstand six thousand grays of radiation where five grays total will kill a person. And more to the point, they can handle six thousand times the pressure of our atmosphere. Someone eventually shot a whole batch of them into space — no protection, no radiation shielding, nothing. They were brought back ten days later, still able to reproduce.”
“Then there are the gritty details,” said Dobbs. “Those feats are accomplished by suspending themselves in a sort of stasis — a tun — that drops their metabolism a thousand times below normal. Other functions change depending on the stimulus to ensure survival. If they’re freezing, the tun prevents crystal formation on cells. If they’re suffocating, it relaxes their muscles. They’re practically dead, but they revive once they’re thrown back into water, even a century later. Larger lifeforms can’t do the same. A human dies when less than half of the brain’s oxygen supply is cut. Tardigrade brains don’t do anything.”
“Right, but these hypothetical aliens only need to handle some extra force. There are large, complex lifeforms at the bottom of the Mariana Trench living in a thousand times our atmospheric pressure.”
Dobbs thought for a moment before letting out a huge, thunderous laugh. He slapped his hand down on his leg.
“I’m convinced!” he cheered. “Live aliens it is.”
“If there is life on board, they traveled quite far,” Plum said. “Unless the species is immortal or has some form of hyperspace travel, they’d have to fly near the speed of light to make the trip without dying of old age. Withstanding larger forces would allow them to reach the required speeds far more easily.”
“How significant would that be?” asked Walker.
“Very. Ignoring energy consumption — for a human being to accelerate to those speeds and brake…it would take a few years. Not to mention the time spent at the maximum speed. Would you be willing to cram yourself in a small ship for six years?”
“Never.”
“What if it were only one?”
“Still, no,” Walker said. “But I see your point. They’d be more inclined to accept interstellar travel.”
“Broad-stroke speculation.”
“Sure.”
Dobbs clicked on the roof light behind Fowler, browsing over the contents of his manila folder.
“We’re not talking about a light sail pulling a camera at a quarter of the speed of light, here. This ship weighs several kilotons, at least, and would need to travel within a fraction of a percent of the speed of light. It’s an unfathomable amount of energy.”
“Right you are,” Plum said, smiling in the moonlight beside Fowler. “However they got here, it will change engineering as we know it.”
Intermittent light from street lamps dissipated as the freeway became a highway. Not long after, they crawled along a narrow, unpaved road with only Pierson’s tail lights guiding their way. Shortleaf pines and southern red oaks tightly enclosed the unlit path, blocking the stars as they delved further into the park. For fifteen minutes, they wound along the narrow road, long past the signs for recreational spots, tourists, and hikers.
“A bit off the reservation, aren’t we?” mulled Plum.
“This is the beginning of the Appalachian Trail,” Dobbs said. “So…no.”
A reflection from up ahead caught Fowler’s eye as the other car’s headlights passed over a military vehicle. The checkpoint consisted of two armed guards dressed in forest camouflage and an unhappy Forest Ranger. After a brief pat-down and scan of their vehicle, they were back on the trail, hitting the end of the road a couple of minutes later.
The last eighty feet of packed dirt were home to three tents. Each was adorned with a small light to help find it, but looked more like stars peeking through the canopy from afar. Fowler pulled their SUV beside the other, and the four hastily made their way into the CDC quarantine.
On her way into the first tent, Walker struggled to keep her eyes open. It was barely visible from the outside and illuminated like a lab on the inside. Three people from the CDC were already setting up the interior equipment. Monitors covered a desk beside them, all of which faced away from Walker. To the right of the entrance were a couple of lockers and a table with boxes of radio equipment.
The far half of the tent was sectioned off by a clear plastic wall, the inside of which was split again into two sections. Pale, orange hazmat suits hung on the wall in the right half. They weren’t quite as bulky as the ones Walker had seen in the past. The front half of the helmet consisted of a large viewing section — as if someone had cut a plastic sphere in half.
The other half of the partition was empty aside from an exit flap and a grid of piping along the top with half a dozen sprinklers poking down. The tubing connected to a couple of sleek, white drums on the other side of the main divider.
Secretary Lauer introduced the three doctors, none of whom Dobbs seemed to know.
“Welcome to base camp,” said the woman running the show, introduced as Doctor Chandler. “This tent is primarily for surveillance and decontamination. The other two tents are being set up for sample analysis.”
They didn’t get a tour of the other tents. Instead, Chandler directed them to put on radios and hazmat suits, promptly leaving with Lauer to check on the progress of the pop-up labs. The secretary turned back briefly, looking between the three DIA agents as if he were picking sandwich bread at the deli.
“Oh, ah — Fowler’s on point.”
Without waiting for a response, he ducked through the entrance flap. As the group gravitated towards the radio, Walker looked towards the two remaining researchers.
“Has anyone gone out to look at the site?”
“Yes,” said one. She didn’t elaborate, continuing to check connections between the machines.
“And how long ago was that?”
“About an hour,” said the other. His CDC badge showed his name as Xi. “We’ve been monitoring from a distance. No one’s been within four hundred meters of the craft — that’s where we set up the stationary cameras.”
Both researchers seemed frazzled. Walker assumed they would inform the contact team if something were seen on the cameras, but at this point, it was hard to tell if that were true. She watched the other researcher dig through a box of wires for a moment before making her way over to the lockers with the others.
Fowler really didn’t want to take point on this. Not that he felt incapable, he just didn’t want to. As soon as Lauer exited the tent, the three intelligence agents met together, speaking quietly so only they could hear.
“You feeling good, Iffy?” Sconi asked. Fowler never cared much for the nickname, but it had stuck years before. He shook his head, watching the odd group of doctorates scratch their heads trying to figure out the radio equipment.
“Not really. I hate going in this blind. We don’t even know what to look for if things take a bad turn.”
“It’s bad if they start firing lasers at us,” Pierson said.
“Noted.”
“Sharpen up then,” Sconi said, “because you’re making the calls.”
“No, Lauer’s making the calls. I’m just the first one into the ship.”
“I thought you and I were on the same page about this? You gave me the look and everything. Lauer hasn’t been in a combat situation since the nineties. He’s sure as hell not going to prioritize these people’s lives.”
“He’ll prioritize his own though,” said Pierson.
“After he realizes he’s in danger. I’m just saying we’re responsible for their safety and I trust Isaac’s judgement more, so we do this like the Richmond standoff. If he pulls the trigger, so do I.”
“Same,” Pierson said.
“Only if everything is fucked…”
“No shit.”
Sconi looked back to the lockers. Ditka was placing her laptop inside one while Dobbs struggled with radio wires.
“Point-man, we’re gonna need hip holsters,” Sconi said, eyeing the orange hazmat suits. He handed Fowler a set of keys. “There’s some in the back of our van. Grab us a few.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“I’m gonna help these poor bastards get mic’d up. We also brought some extra equipment. If you’re going in first, you get to lug it around.”
Fowler begrudgingly left the tent, waiting for a few seconds as his eyes adjusted to the canopy-shrouded night. Once he made the outline of the two black SUVs, he opened the one Pierson had driven and sifted through a bag of tactical straps. He finally dug three hip holsters out of the dark nylon coil, but the rest of the vehicle was empty. Twice he went through it without any luck, and just as he was about to close the back and head in, he realized the bag was on top of a large gun case that took up the entire width of the trunk.
Flicking the locks off, he found an M4A1 carbine with a suppressor and infrared sight. Far more than Fowler thought was necessary, but as the saying went, it was better to have it and not need it. Still, reentering the tent with an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder gave everyone pause.
Moving into the first partition, the group started putting on the faded, tangerine suits. The large helmet offered outstanding visibility, with the transparent half encompassing most of Fowler’s field of vision. When he turned his head to the side, he saw the edge of the sideways dome in his peripheral, along with a small camera fastened on the inside of the helmet.
Dobbs checked each tank’s airflow with what little range of motion he had, the top half of his suit clinging taught against his chest while the bottom dangled loosely. Plum discovered the switch on his belt for the headlamps — they were sufficiently bright.
Fowler needed some help getting the rifle to rest comfortably on his back beside the air tank. The agents struggled to fasten their holsters around the hazmat suit. Drawing and holstering his pistol a couple of times, Pierson grunted.
“These gloves are clumsy. I can’t even get my finger through the trigger guard,” he said, trying to squeeze his index finger through the small loop of metal designed to prevent the gun from accidentally being fired.
“I don’t think the CDC uses hazmat suits with tactical gloves,” Fowler said. He handed his sidearm to Pierson. It had a wider trigger guard, and the rifle’s was even bigger. “Plus, if you have to use it, tearing the glove will be the least of your concerns.”
As they finished sealing up their hazmat suits, Lauer returned with Dr. Chandler, who beckoned them all back into the main partition to outfit them before their hike to the ship.
“Those suits are tough, but not armored,” Chandler explained to the seven orange silhouettes. Her voice was muffled by the plastic dome and partially obscured by the light hiss of air. “Try not to block the camera, watch where you step, and more importantly, be careful what you brush up against. The suit can tear. In the event of a tear, radio us immediately and return to the decontamination chamber alone.”
A small collection of gadgets strewed the table to Walker’s left — a geiger counter, a spectrum analyzer, an aerosol impaction mechanism. Dobbs started filling the pockets of his suit with smaller objects — the kind of items that would certainly come in handy at some point before they returned. Walker did the same, lining herself with sample cases and litmus testing kits. What she really needed was a camera or tablet…something to document and take notes.
“This is all of the handheld equipment the Department of Defense has authorized us to use,” Xi told them with mild irritation. “If you need something else, I’ll see if I can find a suitable replacement. The labs will be more extensive, so this should suffice for anything that can’t be brought back.”
A small assortment of power tools sat amongst the sensors. It gave Walker an uneasy feeling for some reason. Maybe it was just the idea of taking apart something from the ship. It felt wrong — like disturbing a nest.
The concern faded as Ditka joined them at the table, carrying portable speakers and some rolled-up posters. Walker hadn’t had a chance to speak to the DARPA woman since they’d first met. It was hard to tell if she was austere, or simply quiet. Walker’s voice almost seemed to startle her.
“What are those?”
“Oh!” Ditka said quietly. “Auditory and visual stimuli. I had to produce an assortment of potential communication materials…in case there’s a living being on board. These two mediums were deemed safest.”
She unrolled the posters partway. They contained images of people and animals: a family, a person hugging a dog, a woman talking to a parrot perched on her arm. The last few were landscapes and buildings — a beach, a meadow, the Parthenon, the New York skyline.
“I want to show them what we look like, show us interacting positively with other species, and hear what we sound like.” She held up the speakers. “It also has animal sounds for the images, but primarily, I want to play classical music. It’s mathematical in foundation, so they may be able to feel or hear the patterns to know it was designed.”
“How thoughtful,” Walker smiled. She had been thinking about communication during part of the drive up. Animals communicated in so many different ways, and many of them are easy to perceive as hostile. Tactile communication was out of the question entirely. Pheromones and other aerosols could be easily considered aggressive, not that any live aliens would breathe the air, anyway.
Lauer returned in a hazmat suit of his own. Walker couldn’t help but be impressed by the secretary of defense’s willingness to go with the first contact group. For all she knew, the president was making him, but it made her feel a bit more at ease. Dobbs checked the small air tank on Lauer’s back, giving him the thumbs up as the octet moved into the decontamination room. Different solutions alternated from the sprinklers above for a minute, washing their own bacteria off before finally rinsing them free of the chemical cocktail.
“You’re clear to leave,” Xi’s voice came digitally through the radio. One by one, the contact team left the tent, hiking north into the night forest.
Headlamps illuminated their way as Fowler led the team through the Chattahoochee forest. Xi was monitoring their cameras, giving Fowler brief directions as they trekked along. The ground had a slight upward slope, but ample room to move between the trees. None of the conifers had the giant trunks you’d imagine when thinking of a forest. They were thin, like an unorganized orchard.
He could hear the doctors organizing equipment behind him among heavy breaths as they walked uphill. Ditka was looking for someone to hold up posters when she flipped through the audio clips and music. Dobbs quickly volunteered, despite being arrogantly certain not more than an hour ago that they’d never find live aliens.
“This one first…” Ditka explained. “Don’t walk towards them, just hold it up at arm’s length. Don’t block your camera, though. Count to ten, then the next one. No — this one. They’re already in order.”
Fowler hadn’t been actively searching for the stationary cameras set up by the CDC, but was a little disappointed in himself after discovering he’d missed them completely.
“We just picked you up on a stationary camera,” Xi’s voice came through the radio. “You should be able to see the craft once you round those two large trees at your eleven o’clock.”
“Everyone drop the chatter,” Fowler called into the radio. He listened carefully as he led the group up to the trees Xi mentioned. The ship must still be a good distance past them to be obstructed by the thin trunks. Then again, it was dark. The canopy sat about fifty feet above their heads, sufficiently blocking out all of the starlight. The only light came from their headlamps, and the only sound came from their feet. The forest was unnervingly still — not even sounds of wildlife.
“What kind of animals are supposed to be out here?” Fowler asked.
“Oh shit,” Walker said — not the response he wanted to hear. “Uh…there could be black bears, but we might be too far south. Keep an eye out.”
“Wonderful…Anything else?”
“Just typical forest dwellers like birds and deer…maybe salamanders or garter snakes.”
“Those aren’t poisonous?” Pierson asked.
“Garter snakes? No.”
Crunching through small twigs, Fowler rounded the two large ash trees, easily spotting the clearing two hundred yards away. Every tree in a seventy-five-yard radius was destroyed, surrounding the clearing with a barricade of large splinters. Unhindered moonlight brilliantly illuminated the scene like a spotlight from heaven, outlining a shallow crater of dark, freshly-upturned dirt.
And in the center of the crater sat a spacecraft.
