Cold Storage. David Koepp
red paint across its middle.
“For years NASA assumed that was all that would ever be found, as the rest of it either burned up on re-entry or is at the bottom of the Indian Ocean,” Hero continued. “After five or six years, they figured anything else on land would have turned up by then or was somewhere uninhabitable.”
“Like Kiwirrkurra,” Roberto offered.
She nodded and turned another page.
“Three days ago, I got a call from the NASA Space Biosciences Research Branch. They’d gotten a message, relayed through about six different government agencies, that someone was calling from Western Australia because ‘something had come out of the tank.’”
“What tank?”
“The extra oxygen tank. The one that fell on Kiwirrkurra.”
Trini sat forward. “Who called from Western Australia?”
Hero looked down at her notes. “He identified himself as Enos Namatjira. He said he lived in Kiwirrkurra and his uncle had found the tank in the dirt five or six years earlier. Uncle had heard about the spaceship that crashed, so he moved it in front of his house and kept it there as a souvenir. But now there was something wrong with it, and he was getting sick. Quickly.”
Roberto frowned, trying to piece it together. “How did this guy know what number to call?”
“He didn’t. He started with the White House.”
“And it got through to NASA?” Trini was incredulous. Such efficiency was unheard of.
“It took him seventeen calls, and he had to drive thirty miles to get to the phone every time, but yes, he finally got through to NASA.”
“He was determined,” Roberto said.
“He was, because by that time, people were dying. They finally put him in touch with me about a day and a half ago. I do work for NASA sometimes, inspecting their re-entry vehicles to make sure they’re clear of any foreign bioforms, which they always are.”
“But you think this time something came back?” Trini asked.
“Not quite. This is where it gets interesting.”
Roberto leaned forward. “I think it’s pretty interesting already.”
Hero smiled at him. Trini tried not to roll her eyes.
Hero continued. “The tank was sealed, and I highly doubt that it could bring anything back from space that it wasn’t sent up with. I went through all the Skylab files, and on the last resupply it seems this particular oxygen tank had been sent up not for O2 circulation, but solely for attachment to one of the outer pod arms. There was a fungal organism inside the tank, a sort of cousin of Ophiocordyceps unilateralis. It’s a cool little parasitic fungus that can adapt from one species to another. Known to survive extreme conditions, a bit like Clostridium difficile spores. You know those?”
They looked at her blankly. Knowledge of Clostridium difficile was not a requirement in their line of work.
“Well, they’re pernicious. They can survive anywhere—inside a volcano, bottom of the sea, outer space.”
They just looked at her, taking her word for it. She went on. “Anyway. The sample in the tank was part of a research project. The fungus had some peculiar growth properties and they wanted to see how it was affected by conditions in space. Remember, it was the seventies, orbital space stations were going to be the next big thing, so they needed to develop effective antifungal medications for the millions of people who were going to go live up there. But they never got the chance.”
“Because Skylab crashed.”
“Right. So, after five or six years sitting outside in front of Enos Namatjira’s uncle’s house, the tank started to rust. Uncle wanted to spruce it up a little bit, make it shiny and new again, maybe people would pay to come see it. He tried to remove the rust, but it was resistant. According to Enos, his uncle tried a number of different cleaners, finally using a folkloric solution: cutting a potato in half, pouring dish soap on it, and rubbing it on the surface of the tank.”
“Did it work?”
“Yep. The rust came off easily, and the thing shined up. A few days later, Uncle got sick. He started to behave erratically, not making a great deal of sense. He climbed onto the roof of his house and refused to come down, and then his body started to swell uncontrollably.”
“What the hell happened?” Trini asked.
“From this point forward, everything I say is hypothesis.”
She paused. They waited. Whether Dr. Martins was aware of it or not, she knew how to tell a story. They were transfixed.
“I believe the chemical combination that Uncle used dripped through microfissures in the tank’s exterior and landed inside, where the dormant Cordyceps fungus was rehydrated.”
“With the potato stuff?” Roberto wondered. Didn’t sound very hydrating.
She nodded. “The average potato is seventy-eight percent water. But the fungus wasn’t just rehydrated; it was given pectin, cellulose, protein, and fat. And a nice place to grow. The average temperature in the Western Australian desert at this time of year is well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Inside the tank, it’s probably closer to a hundred thirty. Deadly for us, but perfect for a fungus.”
Trini wanted to get to the point. “So, you’re saying the thing came back to life?”
“Not exactly. Again, I’m speculating, but I think it’s possible the polysaccharide in the potato combined with the sodium palmitate in the dish soap to produce a pro-growth environment. Normally, they’re both large, boring, inert molecules, but you put them together, you might have some good unpredictable fun. Don’t blame Uncle; I mean, the guy was trying to produce a chemical reaction.”
She was getting warmed up now—her eyes shone with the intellectual exercise of it all—and Roberto couldn’t help it, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers.
“And he did?”
“He sure the fuck did!”
Lord, she swore too. Roberto smiled.
“But I don’t think either the polysaccharide or the sodium palmitate was the underlying change agent.”
She leaned forward, as if telling the punch line to a joke that everyone was absolutely going to love.
“It was the rust. Fe2O3.nH2O.”
Trini spit her gum into a tissue and popped in a fresh piece. “Do you think, Dr. Martins, that somewhere inside you lurks the capacity to summarize?”
Hero turned to Trini, her demeanor matter-of-fact again.
“Sure. We sent up a hyperaggressive extremophile that is resistant to intense heat and the vacuum of space, but sensitive to cold. The environment sent the organism into a dormant state, but it remained hyper-receptive. At that point, it must have picked up a hitchhiker. Maybe it was exposed to solar radiation. Maybe a spore penetrated the microfissures in the tank on re-entry. Either way, when the fungus returned to Earth it was reawakened and found itself in a hot, safe, protein-rich, pro-growth environment. And something caused its higher-level genetic structure to change.”
“Into what?” Roberto asked.
She looked from one to the other of them, the way a teacher looks at a pair of slightly dim students who refuse to grasp the obvious. She spelled it out for them.
“I think we created a new species.”
There was silence for a moment. Since it was Hero’s theory, she claimed naming rights. “Cordyceps novus.”
Trini just looked at her. “What did you tell Mr. Namatjira?”
“That