The Terra Debacle: Prisoners at Area 51

Chapter Nine

  Exotic Biological Species Laboratory (EBSL)

Nellis TMR

Restricted Area 51, Building T-1110

Rachel, Nevada

May 31, 1978

1141 PDT/1841 GMT

THYRON STARED BACK, CONFUSED. Sapphira's subhuman pygmies worshiped him as a god. Were these Terrans of similar mind? Ceremonial garb notwithstanding, that wasn't what he detected from their psimissions. Perhaps their clothing was some sort of environmental suit. But who were the extreme precautions intended to protect? Them or him?

He sensed an answer from Greenley, who psaid back that it was for them both. The answer was not reassuring. Was it a good or bad thing that this hostile human could read his thoughts? It had been a good thing earlier when it prevented him from being maimed. On the positive side, at least they could communicate; on the negative, doing anything covert would be difficult if not impossible.

You may refer to me as Gabriel, Gabe, Dr. Greenley, or even Doc, if you like, the man responded. Don't worry. I have no intention of harming you.

Thyron sensed sincerity, but his surroundings indicated otherwise. The room was well-illuminated, which was good, at least for photosynthesizing, but he was surrounded by ominous-looking equipment, which was bad.

The wall in back and to his left were covered by man-sized, metal boxes, a variety of smaller free-standing versions on a counter in front. Some bulged with attached cylinders and viewports; others displayed gauges, status lights, and controls. The work surface was covered with optical gadgets, heat-generating devices, and glass containers of different shapes and sizes, some of which were strung together with tubing. A large glass-enclosed area with an obliquely shaped hood stood in back, its volume three times that of the ECV. Its access area was of suitable height for an erect human, but the only way to reach inside was through two circular holes, each attached to devices the size and shape of human hands. The wall to his right held five equally spaced windows to a similar room, more equipment interspersed below and between them.

While his experience with such devices was limited, he couldn't help noting that the flightdeck of an interstellar vehicle appeared less complex.

What exactly do you intend to do? Thyron psaid, hoping the human would perceive the words without his raging concerns.

"I'm going to check you for bacteria, viruses, molds, or fungi," Greenley said aloud, voice muffled by the suit's hood, which covered everything but his eyes. "I'm sure you'd like to get out of the ECV, but first I need to make sure you're not infected with something that would be harmful to us. If you're worried about the same thing, this is a cleanroom, which filters out such contaminants."

How clever of you, Thyron psaid, dripping with botanical sarcasm.

"We try," Greenley replied.

So how do you intend to do that?

"I'll take an air sample from the ECV and a surface sample from one of your leaves."

Thyron rustled nervously, remembering the cutting device the man had wielded earlier. Fortunately, he managed to suppress an encore of his defensive reaction, which wouldn't help, anyway, given his container's filters.

"Don't worry. All it requires is a swab of soft material. It won't harm you. Then you need to tell me how to get you properly planted. Mineral and moisture requirements, things like that."

Thyron pondered the concept of being planted, something his distant ancestors had endured before evolving mobility. Renewed fear tingled through his protoplasm at the prospect of being stuck in a pot in this human-infested horror chamber for the remainder of his life. Furthermore, his progeny would suffer the same unfortunate fate. His boughs drooped. All wisdom and knowledge acquired through his adventures would be lost forever.

Greenley's troubled expression reflected comprehension of his horrific thoughts.

"What's going on?" one assistant queried, puzzlement tinting his voice. "Are you talking to yourself, us, or with the, uh, specimen?"

"Sorry, Bill," Greenley replied. "Yes. The specimen, I mean. It's telepathic and apparently I'm sensitive to its thoughts. It's frightened, as you can imagine, being trapped on a foreign planet and now confined, not knowing its fate."

"Are you crazy? It may have eyes, but it's a plant, for Pete's sake!" stated the other white-clad assistant. "Since when does a plant worry about its future? Or anything else, for that matter."

"You'd be surprised; and apparently, this one does," Greenley replied evenly. "Obviously you're unfamiliar with Cleve Backster's work as well as Marcel Vogel, Sir Jagadish Chandra Bose, and numerous others. Plant sentience is nothing new. If you want to remain on this project, I suggest rather strongly that you familiarize yourself with their work.

"All that aside, communicating as specifically as this one does is definitely unique. Which implies there's no telling just how intelligent it actually is. Underestimating an unfamiliar lifeform is never wise. As an extraterrestrial species, there's no telling what its defensive or strategic abilities might be. It's our job to find out. Furthermore, David, since it's sentient, we have a moral obligation not to harm it."

"Isn't that contrary to policy?" Bill argued in a deep, scratchy voice. "Our mission is to learn everything we can about alien lifeforms. Protecting them is secondary. If they're intelligent, they could be dangerous."

"Until we determine its character and motivation, we can't make that judgment. We can learn much more from one that cooperates. I don't think we have to worry about this fellow taking over the planet."

"You never know," David said, frowning. "I've heard some pretty weird stuff goes on around here. Could be another Audrey."

All three of them laughed hard, providing Thyron with a triple vision of a carnivorous plant that thrived on human blood. Ha. Revenge is sweet, he thought.

Unfortunately, Greenley picked it up.

If you ever want to get out of that ECV, we're going to need to have a serious dialog. You apparently can't hide your thoughts from me any more than I can hide mine from you, so achieving trust or lack of it should be fairly easy. Understand?

Thyron recognized the statement held dual potential, threat as well as promise. Yet, so far, Greenley seemed sincere. Maybe he couldn't help Thyron's situation, but he could make it as pleasant as possible. Or miserable.

Tell me about yourself. What are you? Plant or animal? Greenley psaid, parking on a stool to peer at him while both assistants stood behind, emanating skepticism.

Neither, Thyron replied. I'm a vegemal, possessing characteristics of both. Not flora or fauna, but known in more enlightened galactic sectors as flauna. Specifically, I'm a flora peda telepathis.

A vegemal. Fascinating. So you could be considered an animal whose metabolism is based on photosynthesis, or a plant with communication abilities. Am I correct in translating your genus to indicate you're a telepathic plant species with some level of mobility as well?

That's correct, Thyron stated, surprised he figured that out.

So being confined to a pot isn't your ideal environment. You want to be able to move about. Correct?

Yes.

Okay. I don't know exactly how much space I can promise, but I'll do the best I can. Tell me about your nutritional needs.

Thyron proceeded to explain how he absorbed nutrients from the ground through rootlets on the bottom of his bipedal nodes and how much moisture content was required to assimilate it. He listed the specific minerals he needed, including copper, magnesium, potassium, and a generous quantity of phosphorus, to maintain optimum health. It pleased him that Greenley proceeded to write them down, even though he was doing so on the same cellulose substance as the guard's list at the gate.

How backward were these people?

"I'm sorry paper offends you," Greenley said aloud, "but I'm afraid it can't be helped. I can write faster by hand than I can type into the computer. Technically, paper isn't supposed to be in here, but it's been UV sanitized and the filtration system will remove any particulates."

Nice. Of course the real question was how long would he have to stay in that cramped chamber, unable to stretch his limbs?

"Like I said before, I'll need to analyze an air sample as well as a swab from a leaf before I can even think about letting you out."

Fine. So what was he waiting for?

Greenley's eyes looked as if he were smiling as he proceeded to use a syringe to draw out some air through a valve in the top of the chamber, which he handed to the nearest helper. Then he turned off the fans, opened a small door in the side, and reached in with a short stick topped with a wad of more vegetable material. He stroked it along the bottom of the nearest leaf, then another along a branch. Thyron shivered from the contact, which tickled, but left no damage.

"There. Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

No.

"Let's take a look at the air," Greenley stated, turning the chamber's fans back on before placing the sample in one of the machines. After a slight pause, a series of lines appeared on a screen. "Only a trace of volatile chemicals," he announced. "Normal, considering he's under stress. Let's get a culture started, too," he added, then did something with the swabs on the other side of the room.

When he'd finished, the scientist motioned to his assistants to follow through a network of transparent flaps to the right, their movement triggering a whoosh as a blast of air welcomed them to the other cleanroom next door.

Thyron watched through the windows separating the two rooms as they proceeded through a decontamination suite, entered an anteroom where each removed his protective suit, placed it in a bin, then left.

For the first time since landing on Terra, Thyron tried to relax. As far as he could tell, he was in no immediate danger and had plenty to investigate in his surroundings. Stress chemicals circulating through his protoplasm gradually diminished and his mental processes cycled down closer to normal, allowing him to absorb his environment more efficiently. The poetic speech pattern he'd acquired onboard the Cerulean Nimrod had definitely disappeared, and he felt as if he wasn't photosynthesizing at top efficiency. Besides the excitement, poor light quality, not enough CO2, plus mineral depletion from being away from soil since leaving Sapphira had taken their toll.

Moments later, the three men showed up in a small room beyond the counter, separated from the lab by another window. The assistants sat at a table while Greenley stood by the opposing wall, mostly covered by a green slab marred by markings comprised of a chalky substance similar to gypsum. Primitive, to be sure, but certainly better than paper.

Thyron got comfortable and tuned into the conversation.

"I'll get to work culturing the samples to make sure it's not carrying any pathogens. I should have preliminary results within three days. Anything suspicious, I may have to go as long as three weeks. One way or the other, we need to build it a suitable phytotron," the botanist stated, pensively pursing his lips.

"A what?"

"A habitat. Apparently, it's ambulatory and wants to move around."

"Move around? What for?" asked one of the assistants. Now that the man was out of the environmental suit Thyron could see he was a relatively young man with a strong jaw, head covered with shaggy brown hair the color of dead leaves. "I've heard about some pretty strange lifeforms around here, but a walking plant? Are you kiddin'?"

"No, I'm not. I suspect that may be why sentience and eyes evolved in this species. A stationary plant has a much less stimulating environment. It's certainly not marathon material, but it can shuffle around. So it needs some room. David, I want you to put together a humus rich, organic soil mix a bit on the sandy side that has plenty of nitrogen with the usual trace elements including calcium, magnesium, phosphorus, zinc, and a touch of copper. Here's a list of the exact percentages, including the moisture content. We'll need at least a cubic yard."

Greenley turned to the other man, aged a bit more than the first, who had short dark hair in a military cut similar to the men where they'd landed. "Bill, get with the guys in the shop and build an enclosure with these specifications." He drew a large, upright box on the green board.

"I want a stainless steel frame with quartz glass walls, no plastic, since it might off-gas toxins the specimen can't tolerate. Understandably, it's upset by wood, so avoid it as much as possible, but it's going to have to get over it. Besides, wood could harbor contaminants. We'll set it up in room one, so be sure the components fit through the decontamination suite. I need it ASAP, so we can get it out of the one it's in."

"That's not going to happen," David cut in. "It's the week after Memorial Day. Between graduations, weddings, vacations, and stuff, just about everyone I know out in the shop is on leave. Probably be next week sometime. At least."

"Well, do the best you can. At least order anything not in stores."

"What about control systems and electronics?" Bill asked.

"It needs a HEPA-filtered circulation system with humidity and temperature controls to the same specs as the ECV. I want sensors for N2, O2 and CO2 with a constant level pressure system, one atmosphere for now, but capable of maintaining two. I need an RF alarm tied to my pager, in case any systems fail or the gas mix gets out of balance. It'll also need automated lighting. I'll ask it what it prefers."

An equally divided period of a standard galactic day, which is twenty six of your hours, Thyron replied. No wonder you people are a little slow.

Greenley laughed. How about we start you there, then gradually bring you around to ours? As long as light and dark are of equal duration you should be okay. Do you agree?

I suppose.

"Set it for a diurnal, twenty-six hour day, adjustable to twenty-four over a week's time," he stated, to which the two assistants exchanged a look, psimissions projecting suspicion regarding their superior's sanity.

When the pair departed, Greenley got up and gazed through the window, eyes locked with Thyron's for a considerable time. Eventually he smiled, muttered "Holy guacamole," then shook his head and likewise left the building.

Thyron frowned as the door closed behind him, wondering who or what guacamole was and why she was considered sacred.

He'd assimilated human language easily, due to his strong intuitive abilities that linked words with specific energy psignatures. Subsequently, when he'd encounter a situation, the relevant word or phrase surfaced effortlessly. He particularly thrived on colloquialisms, which possessed a pleasing energy, similar to the poetic speech that came naturally when his biological and intellectual needs were properly met.

All that aside, he'd never heard of holy guacamole before, its interpretation elusive. The only emotion he'd detected behind it was surprise with a touch of wonder, not the reverence he'd expect if directed toward deity. He'd have to pay closer attention and, if he couldn't figure it out, ask Greenley to explain. After all, the entire point of this venture was enlightenment.

To be canonized certainly implied sentience far beyond his own. Maybe he'd get to meet this divine entity at some point. Better yet, maybe she could help him escape.