Butterflies

It isn’t Russian; there is too much sophistication evident in its simplicity for it to be theirs.

For that matter, too much to be ours.

It appears to us as a perfect circle some two meters in diameter, its skin as smooth and as dark as that of a pilot whale even as it offers a hint of transparency, a taste of what that skin is protecting--from time to time and with more randomness than mathematical precision, spots of dull light appear on its surface, light that we first think to be reflections of distant stars.

I watch as Lee, other than myself, the only one left of our shuttle crew, floats closer to the porthole, his need the same as mine: to know more about it, our awakening to what it must be forcing a rush upon us that is hard to put down. Likely it is the same for Mission Control, likely that their curiosity is closer to the boiling point than to the trickle of interest which was all they would admit to at the start--it had appeared to them only two days before our launch, and generated such a "trickle" that checking it out was bulldozed into an already tight schedule, unheard of in these days of stringent rehearsal before any deviation is permitted.

Not much of a deviation, though. We were, in a sense, going that way anyway, our primary mission to drop off the first US contingent to the newly-completed International Space Station. That and the science that preceded it now done, we have only this "fly-by" before heading home.

My job is to fly the shuttle, while Lee is a combination of scientist and astronaut, but titles mean little when faced with something like this. For this, we have common drives and common interests, the latter as equal citizens of a planet that is aching to know if anyone is out there. Excited and only slightly alarmed, we feel the answer sits less than a mile away.

I am flattered but not surprised when Mission Control orders us to approach within ten meters, flattered because this is not an easy thing to do. Less flattering is the knowledge that this order, delivered as it is with unrestrained urgency, means we are now considered expendable, that there is too much about this object to pass it by, that the promise it holds to the United States and to humanity in general outweighs one space shuttle and the lives of two astronauts.

With Lee’s help, I bring the shuttle to where it matches perfectly the orbit of the unknown object—we are even closer than the requested ten meters. I confess a certain shaking of the hand that finesses the controls as I do this, but that is less fear for our safety than respect for what lies before us. When finally we can call the maneuver completed, we make a dash for the nearest porthole, the fire of curiosity consuming us.

I realize with a start that I can see through its skin. Lee can not, but I can. Not only that, but the patch of light, which to this point has been random and fleeting, is now fixed in front of me, as if offering me a better look.

Or studying me as I am studying it.

I shake off the latter thought with an unnecessarily harsh suggestion to Lee that he cannot fail to see what I see, that he must not be paying attention. (How can anyone not pay attention at a time like this?) About to complain, instead Lee’s eyes widened as they fix on a hole that has only then opened up to him. It is as though the object has finally realized that we are two beings, not one being with two heads. I makes me wonder, as surely Lee does, whether it is adjusting to our needs. If so, it means it wants us to see, it wants this alien inspection to be two-sided.

My eyes search downward through a tunnel of light to where a giant rose-covered ball gently floats above a fiery surface. It appears to be miles away, even as I know the entire object to be no more than two meters in diameter. The ball is half covered with slender, tube-like forms slithering around with no apparent direction or purpose. They are worm-like and as rose-colored as the ball they move around on, and in their movement they appear to be seeking relief from the fire’s heat.

Before I can decide whether they are biological beings or machinery, two of them break away and begin floating upward. The move is unexpected, and for a brief moment fear outweighs curiosity. It soon becomes obvious that we are their target, and that they will continue to come our way until they reach the opening through which we stare in pathetic fascination, unable to turn away.

Our bodies jolt in tandem as the order comes through on the shuttle’s speaker—the ground has been listening to our grunts and our rapid breathing and are impatient to share the reason. We tell them what we know then listen as a dozen voices testify to how heated the discussion is between them--there is danger in this object, danger in the unknown, danger in offending what might be more powerful than we. But there is opportunity as well, fantastic opportunity, opportunity that does not readily knock. The latter opinion wins out. It argues that, while we are planning a proper introduction to our find, it might elect to leave, fly away as suddenly as it appeared. And what reward will our patience find then?

The decision is not surprising when it comes. In a voice that will brook no opposition, we are ordered to bring the object into the shuttle bay, secure it as best we can, then get ready for inspection, experimentation or reentry, whichever Mission Control decides by then to be the proper next step. Neither Lee nor I have the slightest inclination to argue. We are more excited about the possibilities than the uncertain voices on the ground--we have seen into the sphere; they have not. And although concerned about the negatives—was that really fire in the object’s center?—we are as accepting of the risk as they. We work all thoughts of danger into the background of our concern then go about complying with the order like children racing with wild abandon toward a forbidden wonder.

After agonizing over the methodology for more minutes than either of us wish to spend, it is decided that Lee will maneuver the object into the cargo bay using the shuttle arm—his preference is to go out into space and get it, but with only the two of us, a space walk adds too much risk to an agenda already swimming in it. It takes the greater part of an hour, but when finally able to do so, we close the cargo doors on our unknown but surely alien visitor then begin the process of pressurizing the interior to where it is safe to enter. Lee and I barely allow this to happen before pushing open the door and forcing our way inside, me first, but Lee right on my tail, each of us anxious to return to the sphere’s tiny windows and the view they offer of an alien world. Returning to Earth has become a secondary priority; third, considering we have not yet figured a way to protect our prize in the event re-entry is the call.

The lights reappear, and this time simultaneously to both Lee and me. They appear at a place closest to our point of approach as if aware of our presence and intent and anxious to accommodate us without delay.

Or accommodate themselves.

The two worms that had earlier detached themselves have almost reached the surface, and the realization of this gives us a start—our eyes only inches from the holes, we pull back sharply. But our curiosity has become more than a match for our fear, so we move no further. A feeling has come over us that a great unknown is about to reveal itself and we want front-row seats.

I barely hear the shuttle’s radio as a frustrated someone on the ground orders, threatens, then finally pleads with us to report in—we have not taken our personal communicators with us, the feeling that we should leave them behind accepted at the time without question. Although a part of me says I should order Lee to return to the ship’s quarters to answer the calls, I do not do so. It is not only that I know he will not comply; it is that I feel a new order of priority has established itself within our space craft, and that it is only right and proper that we first consider this.

The worms do not stop at the surface.

At first there is little more than a glow leaching from the skin of the space craft (which is how we now regard the object), but then this glow expands until it takes in, not only Lee and me, but as much of the shuttle as we can see. Although a part of me is terrified, I am surprised at how natural this seems, even as I cannot know what harm will come to me in the process, harm that might have already begun. I do not look over at Lee to confirm a similar feeling in him; I simply know it is there, just as I know he can tell the same of me. It is as if this glow that now touches every part of our bodies acts as a conduit of thought, permitting each of us to know the mind of the other.

Even while so accepting of my fate, I cannot help but gasp at the sudden appearance of the two worms as they exit the spacecraft. Suddenly they are there in front of us, and so large are they that I can barely see the vessel from which they came. Each one easily matches my six feet, and it seems impossible that they could fit into such a comparatively small sphere. I gasp again as they move toward us, one targeting Lee and the other me. We do not retreat, although the thought of doing so is not absent from our minds. Instead we await our fate with the apprehension one feels when approaching a dangerous but much anticipated pleasure.

My worm stops only inches away then immediately begins taking the measure of me, both inside and outside my body then to the depth of my thoughts. Although I can no longer see Lee, I know through the mental link we share that the same thing is happening to him. That this process is not immediate is apparent by the beseeching words pouring out of the shuttle’s radio. Those on the ground are desperate to know what is happening--other than my involuntary gasps, we have made no sound. Although able to reply and understanding of their need, I elect to remain silent, the concern in Mission Control less tugging on me at the moment than offering myself to an alien inquisitor.

I know the exact moment when this inquisition has ended, the moment when my companion releases me from the invisible binds that only then do I know are there, then moves backward to where I can see not only it but Lee’s companion as well. For a moment they do nothing more, and Lee and I wonder whether they expect something of us—do they think us capable of taking the measure of them as they did of us? I am in the process of spawning a question that will not offend or sound idiotic when it becomes clear that inviting us to comment is not their intent. They begin glowing with an intensity that brings the two of us to partially shield our eyes with our hands, "partially" because, blinding light or not, terrified or not, we do not want to miss a thing. They continue in this manner for a number of additional seconds, seconds which permit us to give more thought to the radio still screaming in the background. Mission Control is beyond insistent; they want to hear from us, and they will tolerate no further delay—there is such venom in the spokesman’s voice that I am certain that, had he the capability, he would have us whipped.

We ignore him as before.

Mentally communicating between us, yet not thinking this at all unusual, Lee and I determine that our worms are calculating, and that the complexity of this calculation is beyond anything NASA has even come close to in the past, this even though they have access to the fastest computers in the world. We sense rather than determine that these calculations are including information absorbed from the ground, that they are probing our world, its citizens, its recorded history, even its pre-historic past. What we do not sense or determine is what they are aiming at.

We know they are finished when, in tandem, they begin to change, slowly at first, but soon with the speed of a suddenly-released spring. One moment they are worms, and the next they are us.

Not only us, but exactly us, not a mirror image—a recent shaving cut is not only present but on the correct side of my face. And the twitch in Lee’s eye, which he routinely denies is there, is correctly displayed and so evident that I sense in him more amazement about this than about the fact that he now has a twin.

They ape us in every way. The awe in my eyes is revealed as awe in my double’s eyes; the slight parting of my lips, which reveals an on-going amazement, becomes the slight parting of his lips. I move a hand to further test this theory and find an identical reaction in him, and so quickly does this happen that I know he has to be locked into my mind, receiving my every thought as quickly as I am able to form it. When, obeying a momentary urge, I try to speak to him, I hear only my own words coming back at me.

But I am neither worried nor impatient. Something within me, likely injected by our guests, prevents me from experiencing strong emotion. I feel awe and apprehension, and I experience a start now and then, but I am incapable of thinking myself in serious danger. And I have little concern for the passing of time and for things left undone. Indeed, at this moment, I can think of nothing that needs doing, nothing that cannot wait for later, perhaps much later.

Our images pause for another episode of studied thought, and, as before, Lee and I wait in calm expectation of the results. By now we have mentally tuned out the radio and the voices that alternate between panic and resignation, the latter testifying to a general acceptance that a disaster is in the making—momentarily penetrating whatever is blocking such things, I feel a pinch of fear that they might be correct.

To Lee and me, there is no disaster and no need for panic. What is to happen will happen, and even if we could change this, we would not. Indeed, we have begun to look forward to it.

We stand and stare for some thirty minutes, and thus might be expected to have fallen into a certain lethargy. But we are instantly aware and accepting of what takes place next—I see this in the slight smile on my double’s face, a smile that must have originated in me. Again the change in our guest is slow in coming, and again it builds exponentially. One moment I am what I had been before, what I have always been, the next I am rapidly becoming something else, something that, although odd and even frightening, has a ring of familiarity to it--my double’s smile continues, but it shares space with an expression of awe, awe of what I suspect is happening. My muscles—less so on my legs than on my arms, chest and neck—reduce in size even as my head does the opposite, the cranium swelling to where it seems certain to collapse under its own weight, especially when taking into account that there is less muscle there to hold it. My head swells until it appears to push through my hair, which becomes shorter and as sparse as that found on my arms. There is a pause after the worst of this has occurred—by then I am a top-heavy, anorexic--but before I have time to give thought to any of it, my height begins to drop as if finally aware that, in these reduced circumstances, I will have difficulty standing up to a strong wind.

Although fascinated by what was happening to me and by where this might lead, I take a moment to examine the image of Lee—I know he is doing the same of me. His image (and thus he as well) has changed in the same way as has mine, although there is still the hint of the old Lee in his expression. Like myself, he thinks nothing odd about what we have become, the sight as familiar to us as if we’d been raised in the midst of such beings. I return attention to my alter ego in time to witness a further thinning of my legs, as if they are intent upon playing catch-up to the rest of my body. This reduction in leg muscles continues to the point where it is difficult to imagine what is keeping me on my feet.

Then I realize that I know the answer to this. Not only to this, but to so many questions, some of which I had not yet thought to ask. Although I cannot see to prove this, the expansion in my head is all brain matter. I can reason with greater capacity, far greater capacity as I soon realize. Among other things, I reason that my limbs have become less functional because I need them less. They are the tail we humans once had but need no longer, even while evidence of its ancient presence remains. My legs are going the way of my tail because I am able to support myself by mental effort alone.

Not only that but I know how this is done, even while unaware of any instructions being implanted in my brain. I am not yet practiced enough to get around, but I am convinced that this skill awaits only time and the desire to reason it out.

I also know what this alien exercise is about: I am evolving; I am becoming something the creators of this tiny spacecraft believe will happen to me—and thus to my fellow humans—in time. What I do not yet know is how much time. Or why they are demonstrating this to me.

More unnerving, I also do not know what they have planned as the ending to this impromptu show.

By now Lee and I are able to network our brains to function as one, and as we watch the images in front of us continue to evolve, eventually softening the distinction between facial features, we begin our own series of calculations—our guests have revealed something of importance to us. We reason that evolution on Earth depends on many things: time certainly, but circumstance as well, such as the circumstance that led to the extinction of the dinosaurs and the opportunity for mammals—us—to become dominant. If we evolved so far as to need our brains and little else—by now our eyes had all but disappeared, although I had no trouble "seeing"—enough time would have passed for one or more serious asteroid hits. That our guests have carried us well past that point means they know we will figure a way to prevent it in time—mankind will not go the way of the dinosaurs.

Lee and I calculate that we are witnessing a time span engulfing many times the hundred million years expected between major asteroid hits. Our alien friends are revealing to us that mankind will be around for much longer than that, even while we look back on Homo Sapiens of today as they look back on the tiny mammals from which they evolved. We are a two-person audience to a holographic vision of the future, its theme both promising and frightening, the latter because of the monsters we have become—the thought no sooner hits me than I realize that I now regard Lee and I as normal and those on the ground as "monsters."

But the demonstration is not yet over.

Our awareness of our surroundings have never been more acute, but the senses that we have always assumed to be an integral part of this awareness continue to withdraw. I watch as all remaining facial features dissolve into smooth skin, the tiny dots that were all that remained of my eyes first, then a slow withdrawal of ears, nose and, finally, mouth. As the latter concludes, I have a momentary fear of suffocating, but then it becomes clear to me that I have already stopped breathing, that whatever oxygen my body still requires is being absorbed through my skin. As all this is taking place on my face, my arms and legs, which have by now dwindled to little more than body adornments, vanish completely, leaving what is left of my head suspended in mid air. I smile inwardly at the sight, at least until this too begins to fade.

The beginning of the end of my corporeal body starts with a hint of transparency breaking through the smooth skin covering what is now an egg-shaped skull. I cringe in expectation of seeing myself as an ancient mask of death, but by the time the skull is fully revealed, it too has begun to fade. Like the other changes to our bodies, this begins slowly but then builds as nature determines that the skull is no longer needed, that there are other and better ways to protect what is inside. Even so, I wonder at my vulnerability until I feel rather than see an electric glow surround it, softening the severity of its naked image. It is there to protect what has become the last evidence of what I once was, what is now the entirety of the human species.

Like before, I am given no time to adjust. In seconds, glow, brain and thus me fades to nothing.

I feel no different. I have no perception of body, but none of my senses are impaired. Indeed, they are much improved. I can "see" more than I ever saw before; I can "feel" Lee’s presence and the presence of our alien guests; I can even "taste" the anxiety of Mission Control as they scurry about like trapped mice looking for a solution to the unsolvable—how primitive they appear to me at this moment, me who has become a patch of energy, feeding off a universe where energy is never absent, confident that I can live this way until the universe itself dies.

Still mentally networked together, Lee and I begin working out the next step. What will happen now? Will the aliens terminate the projection, satisfied that we get the point, that we are now aware of where humanity is headed? Have they come all this way just to tell us this?

As if in answer, our mimics become worms once again, the suddenness of this flooding our energy-soaked awareness with trepidation. Then, giving no indication of what they expect of their students, they retreat toward the globe from which they emerged, eventually vanishing into one of its tiny windows. Lee and I are compelled to follow; we are unwilling to consider that they would leave us like this, leave us in such form that we can never again interact with the creatures of Earth—unlike our alien images, we have not changed back to what we were. In our pursuit, we are like small children locked in fear of their parents leaving them.

We do not stop at the spacecraft’s entrance, having discovered that we can follow wherever our alien friends lead. There is more pride in this than fear, even as we become immersed in an alien ship of immense proportions, easily hundreds of miles wide, the entirety of its outer surface impregnated with odd shapes moving about on short tethers. Thoughts of where we are and what these shapes might be nag at our awareness but do not prevent us from pursuing what was once our guests and is now our hosts. We follow them until we reach a position deep within the object’s center, a center that is of itself miles wide.

Not until they stop do we permit ourselves a moment to take measure of the shapes clinging to the sphere’s outer edges. They are biological creatures, millions of them, some duplicates to be sure, but most dissimilar to any other. There are a few who, like ourselves, are more energy than anything else, but most are in corporeal form. So vast are the differences between them that we know that all could not have come from a single planet. More shapes and sizes than we could ever hope to count, yet none who can call any of its neighbors kin--this little craft has been busy.

The glow surrounding the worms envelops us once again, and this time we experience less awe than hopelessness. At the instant of its touch, we feel another presence, as if some futuristic hacker has found his way into our mental network. We do not object because a restraint has been put upon us, the effect rendering us incapable of movement or "speech."

Another reason we do not object, restraining in its own way, is that we sense enough of the answer that it immobilizes us with despair.

These are not "guests" in the sense that we enjoy using the word on Earth. They did not enter our house to share themselves with us as we share ourselves with them. They came to see who and what we were. They are collectors from a distant galaxy on a routine mission to categorize all dominant beings sharing their space. Having advanced even beyond the energy state that Homo Sapiens will eventually become, they consider themselves the now-and-forever leaders of the universe, benevolent but intractable to contrary opinion. To insure the continuation of this status, they are canvassing every star system in every galaxy in the universe, a universe that Lee and I now know is much larger than ours—their home is beyond the view of any of Earth’s telescopes. They are looking, not out of curiosity, but because they want to be certain that no species advances in capability beyond what they themselves possess—which is considerably more than even my energy form could engender. Their goal with respect to Earth is to be fully aware of Homo Sapiens, not what they are at the moment, but what they will become five hundred million years into the future, the time it will take to bring this probe home.

And Lee and I do not have the option of staying behind.

I know what is left to do before starting toward our new home--not much; there are only a few galaxies yet to be investigated. Then it will be a straight run for the home planet, five hundred million of our years away—I know almost to the minute when we will arrive. As I look around me at the millions of samples thus far collected, I realize I know, not only the planet from which each came, but what they looked like at the time they were ‘collected’—the details of this are electronically pinned to them like a tag, the same way it is pinned to Lee and to me. They also have been evolved to what their species will be at the time of arrival—collectively, we are a snapshot of the future.

Although the progression will take place at normal speed, we will begin to evolve again once we arrive at our host’s planet and are awakened from the life-suspension they will soon put us into. In the interim we will be frozen in time, just another two forms tethered to the ship’s outer edge. As we evolve through countless additional millions of years, we will eventually demonstrate to our hosts that Homo Sapiens have arrived at the point where we will soon represent a challenge. When that happens, when our worm captors feel we are catching up too quickly, they will react, react in the time honored manner of solving disputes on Earth. They will war.

Our friends on Earth, whom we shall never see again, will send a ship to our drifting shuttle--this will happen soon; perhaps the process has already begun. They will want to determine what went wrong, what happened to us, to the probe we "captured." They will be disappointed, of course. They will find little of us, and they will find no evidence whatsoever of the vessel in which we flew away. Not finding answers, they will invent their own, whatever it takes to protect their collective sanity--some will no doubt take it further than that. Whatever it is they decide, whatever conclusions they eventually come to, it is a matter of complete indifference to Lee and me.

No one will ever know, even those of our species who, five hundred million years from now, come to look as we do. They will never know that two of their number are collector’s items on a distant planet in a far-away galaxy, living paragraphs in some alien wizard’s encyclopedia of the universe’s dominant species, pinned butterflies on pages that will never yellow.

The husband-and-wife team, Noel and Carol (using the surname, "Carroll") have produced novels and short stories in three genres: thrillers, science fiction and humor/satire. There is similarity between them, with all emphasizing story ahead of the sensational. Sensationalism also takes a back seat to plausibility, to reasonableness, to validity and purpose of character and to avoidance of the commonplace and the expected. The effect is to produce tales that seduce and engage readers of all genres.

E-mail: noelcarroll@worldnet.att.net

URL: http://home.att.net/~noelcarroll

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