Deeptide Vents . . . of Fire Read online

  “Soon, reports of thermal expulsions from vents began to surface, if you’ll pardon a bad pun. Both situations stimulated submersible explorations. Conventional wisdom dictated that no creature could exist therein. The question was how could they live at such depths without sunlight? And what did they feed on? There was always the question of the holy grail of marine biology. Architeuthis, the giant squid, a creature never seen nor discovered, but whose existence is all but known. It must exist at some incredible depth. Only recently has it been exposed, a picture of it.

  “That satisfied some scientists. For the rest of us, soon scientific shock. There were creatures there, in and around these thermal vents! But extraordinary, even weird. Nothing like we’d ever experienced and suspected. Still, these were creatures much like others. They, for want of a better analogy are able to live off of methane and hydrogen sulfide. Specifically through a process called chemosynthesis bacteria are symbiotically acting on these tubular creatures’ outer membrane as they use their ability to oxidize hydrogen sulfide and methane as their energy sources to create organic matter. The gigantic tubular worms somehow absorb this organic matter to add protoplasm to their bodies. So in short there is a symbiotic process that is converting methane and other noxious gases into food.

  This mimics earth’s surface where chlorophyll in plants uses sunshine as an energy source to turn carbon dioxide and water into sugars. Ultimately this yields either food directly, or if it permits grass to grow, cows eating the grass turn it into meat. By capturing this chemosynthetic process, earth’s enormously vast stores of methane would become in effect direct sources of food when this process is harnessed. Instead of burning off methane as we do now, it would be in effect food. There are untold trillions of cubic feet of methane in natural gas wells. Livestock and landfills are now a gigantic source of methane. As these sources are captured and converted, the world’s need for oil as energy to make fertilizer, to drive the vast agricultural enterprises around the world, would be substantially reduced. Expect oil to plummet to $10 a barrel or less. The entire political dynamics of the middle east would be completely shifted. Iran for example would go broke. The Russian economy might be left a dreary third-world empty hulk, making do exporting caviar and those little nestled wooden dolls, instead of oil. Yet more political turmoil.”

  They all looked at Dr. Arthknott – motionless, silent. She adjusted her glasses. They slipped. She pushed them up again.

  “As we speak, some of these forms have been brought to the light of day, after assiduous assessment of how to reduce any trauma or harm. Currently these specimens are being studied intently, then exhibited in various aquariums about the country. But the creatures at the vents and fissures, which we discovered later, well, these were something else again. These are the ones whose DNA we need to capture to understand how they work and so that we can replicate the processes.”

  “It happens that the bedrock that forms the basis upon which the biomass builds life is not so stable as we might think. The rock is in plate form, as we call it. If you think of a cafeteria with trays touching each other on the cradle-bars, and one of them turns at an angle, a hole develops. If the cooking serving-holders of food lay directly underneath, the steam would expel upwards. So it is with these plates of rock. They shift. Holes develop. Steam or great heat emerges. Remember we’re talking about enormous depth—7, 8, 9 miles down.”

  “Twenty thousand leagues under the sea,” Hodges said. Jennifer looked at the hulking football player or heavyweight wrestler. She continued to develop new found respect for the troops’ intellectual capabilities.

  “Not far off, Mr. Hodges. Now at this depth the force pressure is so huge however, bursting bubbles at times emerge all the way to the surface and it changes color.”

  “That’s how you found this one”

  “Yes. We call it Fissure Gargantuans. None other has been discovered this enormous. It was further out in the great swell of the sea than most. It took some experience in knowing what to look for, a keen eye, and fortuitous serendipity. We intend to enter the Fissure Gargantuans to capture our prey.

  “Extrapolating the time the smaller ones are open, I calculate that, as we speak, we have remaining about a nine months window of opportunity.”

  Jennifer felt a twinge of something she did not like in herself, when she realized Susan failed, whether by memory slip or by design, to indicate her as the experienced, keen eyed, and serendipitous discoverer.

  The men peppered Susan and Jennifer with questions. To Susan they were directed formally, as students at seating to the classroom instructor; to Jennifer, someone would lean over or cozy up to her and whisper a question while the formal addresses were being made. Like a co-conspirator, Jennifer leaned into her questioner’s ear and whispered her best quick summary response. Eventually, Susan directed her sternest schoolmarm’s gaze, the all-foreboding raise of the one eyebrow, the right, at Jennifer and her personal questioners to bring order to the room so that all could hear and engage every question and answer.

  The two explorers, scientists, researchers, and teachers continued to alter their view of this brute force. Impressed, they began to admire their intelligent nature and informed curiosity.

  “So they all close. Eventually.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And we want to get this ship in and out before it closes.”

  “Correct.”

  What do you hope to find?”

  Susan stopped pacing. She usually paced when she lectured, Jennifer knew.

  “Strange animals. Perhaps even their birthing grounds. And— but allow me to continue in a logical progression and organized methodology. I assure you, all will be revealed; and with a clearer understanding for the foundation developed.”

  “In 2011 an advanced sub-capsule out of Woods Hole by chance submerged deep just as one of these, for want of a better word, erupted. Within hours, hours, mind you, there were myriads of creatures. As I said, it had first located them in the late 1970’s. But no one was aware how this life, how soon it formed, so to speak.”

  “What kind of creatures?”

  “More like those begun to be found in the 1880’s?”

  “No. Not like those. Not like anything seen, known, or even suspected before. They seemed alien. They do not need oxygen for example. They do not need to have an ecosystem of plants supplying oxygen for animals, animals pollinating plants and providing carbon dioxide. All rules of basic zoology do not apply. They are chemotropic.”

  “They rely on chemicals they themselves produce?”

  “It’s somewhat of a simplification of the process; but in a very real sense, yes, that’s right.”

  The silence seemed heavy. Now, even more than on the previous occasion. Susan didn’t have her overheads nor projected screen PowerPoint. But she retrieved the hand-out photographs in her briefcase. She indicated the pictures as she continued.

  Jennifer gazed about. Although the secret was now out between the two groups, she noticed Delores and her men still wore civilian clothes. The new troops, the additional security detail, wore camouflage battle gear. They were no-nonsense military. They had secured the perimeter in short and efficient fashion. Jennifer imagined these men and women, well, woman, could also be no-nonsense when the time came. Now, however it was clear their scientific curiosity had been piqued.

  Jennifer knew them better now. She went about the room as she had before. This time at a more comfortable level. Strangely, for a moment she felt like she had a camera and was performing one of those panoramas of the characters, stopping at each one to expand, to discern, to—then she realized what she was doing. Any one of these could be a domestic or foreign espionage agent. She looked for a tell-tale sign, perhaps, in a thematic twist of the classic Poe story, the beating of his, or her, nefarious heart. It was hopeless, of course. He wouldn’t give it away. Still, she continued her observa
tions, hoping for some sort of psychic intervention.

  Jarrod Wells. He had blond-reddish hair, the color she thought, of the last gasp light reflecting off the sea at dusk, a sailor’s delight crimson light prism. He was Norwegian or Swedish background, probably a Minnesota farm boy. Once in a while she caught his blue eyes and she almost felt that old familiar feeling come over her, even some wetness in her womanhood. Sometimes she hated herself for liking men so much. She wasn’t sure about Wells though. But he had one wining smile that caused a little tendon in the back of her knees to quiver.

  Allen Johnstone. She knew him very well indeed, at least in the carnal sense. He had a mole on his left thigh, just above the knee. She suddenly couldn’t get his sexual anatomy out of her mind, how it bent or tilted slightly to the left and up toward his stomach. He had begged her to be gentle when she took him into her. Maybe she had been too rough on him. Perhaps he deserved a second chance. He was charming and gentle in his way. And she loved the feel of the skin of African heritage men. It was so smooth, almost like that of a woman of her own race, like silk.

  At that moment, Delores said something to him. He nodded. He went over to the small table at the entrance blast door. He poured a cup of coffee. Black. He brought it back to his commander. Jennifer felt a twinge of envy. Her man, that bitch. It’s my feet, she thought. He hates my feet. And my hair. I’ve just got to do something with my hair. Already the bun unravels in strands.

  The short stout swarthy man with the unlikely name of Samson Magruder. He was the most difficult to read. He looked like an Afghani. Only with a mustache. Did Afghanis have mustaches? Those horrible misogynists seemed always to sprout scruffy beards; but mustaches? She couldn’t remember. She decided not to decide. He did speak with an odd accent. Perhaps he was one of those foreign microbiologists, if he were a microbiologist at all. He seemed to always be fooling with a gray box and gazing furtively about. It suddenly occurred to her that microbiologist might be a cover; he probably was the munitions or bomb expert. In an instant she realized that thought made her particularly nervous. Every time she looked at him he was looking away from her. She had the impression he averted his eyes just in time, that he really had an instant earlier stolen a wayward glance at her, the way some men become expert turning their lecherous looks aside at the right moment. He coughed. He spit into a handkerchief. He pulled up the lid of his gray box. He worked with something inside it. Occasionally Delores and Allen came over to peer in. Delores would then say, “Hmm mm.” They walked away, leaving him to his work.

  She examined herself and Susan. They had decided to return to their field wear. Loose khaki pants, bush jacket shirts and boots. It was functional. They now, that is, she now, like Susan, pulled her hair back tight into a bun. As she did when they were at sea, she wore little make-up: Some base and special lip-gloss to protect against wind and weather. She sat like a man, legs splayed a bit, when she wore clothes in this fashion. The only reason she could divine the men glancing at her now was to continue their amazement at her huge feet. She tried to pull them under her chair. She knew it was futile.

  She gazed about the room again. From the command console in the center, she could gaze more than 180°. Four drawer units stood in front with space to walk between in a semicircular array. Lights blinked on the faces of these units, in a pattern both planned and random, but understood by everyone on the team. A second console stood off left of the main one, at a 45° angle.

  Susan now paced between her and Jennifer’s console. Delores and her troop sat all about on steps and stairs. They appeared enthralled. It was a good lecture. Susan was warming to her topic even more, for she had begun at a high level as it was.

  “Let us begin with life as we know it, or, rather, have known it up to now. The premise we operate from is that life is life; this a truism recounted in a fictional piece, oddly enough, not so long ago, is that DNA, deoxyribonucleic acid, that double-helix shaped protein strand, or, more accurately, series of strands, discovered by Watson and Crick, is the most powerful force in the universe.”

  “Indeed. It is. Given any degree of possible habitat environment within a much broader spectrum of parameter than we at one time thought, DNA will emerge, survive, procreate, and exist longer than any non-living matter, even the very place of its origins. Nothing of that magnitude exists in any known dimension.”

  “There is a species of spider that lives only at the highest elevations of the world. Now nothing else lives there. Nothing as yet discovered. Still, this creature has found its niche and has evolved to exist in what to any other creature or plant or fungus on earth is descriptively inhospitable, in fact, fully hostile.”

  “The question arises as to its food consumption. After all, arachnids are carnivorous. Well, like certain species of scorpion, its metabolic rate is so low it does not require much; still, it is alive, it must metabolize energy somehow.”

  “Although never observed or proven, the only current assumption can be either of prey—a second species at that altitude as yet undiscovered, or, some form of cannibalism, but, obviously, not so intense as to deter the species from ascending into succeeding generations.”

  “We know other creatures, some of them arachnids, that in fact engage in cannibalism. Some female spiders and insects will attack their mates with viciousness once his fertilization contribution act nears its end. However, upon most occasions, she is not as consistently successful as popular thought would indicate. Still, once in a while, she oft presents an alternative meaning to the concept of honeymoon consummation.”

  A joke, Jennifer thought. A palpable quip. A scientist’s lame moment of pith. Jennifer had observed Susan once or twice engaging such a joke, followed by the instructor’s own sniggling high-pitched girlie giggle. Her class emitted almost a nervous laugh, as though snickering at their instructor’s strange humorous self-indulgence than at the punch line itself. Jennifer looked about. These were serious people.

  “There is a species of snail that lives at deep sea levels. Few other creatures can survive at its depth of habitat. Yet it survives quite well. Its locomotion quality appears to us agonizingly slow; perhaps to the snail it moves at a rather good clip. Still, as it imperceptibly yet inevitably progresses along the sea bottom, it constantly ingests sea bottom creatures as its ongoing food requirements.”

  “Viruses are still a mystery to us, seemingly no more than random strands of DNA or RNA, they exhibit faculties that clearly define them as separate living cogent entities. I say cogent; at admittedly a metaphysical and not empirical level, beyond our conceptualization of the bio-physical-natural world, they almost seem to possess some kind of intelligence or will we cannot begin to comprehend.”

  “A highly metaphysical proposition is that they are all strands of one huge unseen entity, guided by this ‘golem’s beyond being’s being.’ This out of body body, if you will, progresses toward whatever motivates its desires and so compels the facets with which we must contend.”

  “I have entitled this non-scientific proposition the ‘Star Trek Episode Syndrome.”

  To the side of Jennifer’s CAD, stood white plastic boards, with magic markers, the antithetical chalkboard. Susan had written, “DNA,” “Adaptation to habitat,” “Viruses” upon it in black marker. Under “Viruses,” she now wrote in blue marker, “Metaphysical;” below this, in red marker, indented a bit, she wrote, “Beyond Being’s Being,” and “Out of Body Body.” She capped the black, blue, red markers. They snapped, each in turn, a satisfying click. Click. Click.

  Again Jennifer gazed about the room. She caught Allen’s eyes. Perhaps playing too much the coquette, she turned her glance away. Hodges and Magruder, and one of the new guys, Smith, Smithson (?) caught her gaze. They turned their glances away. She wore khakis and field shoes. What were they looking at? Probably her feet. Her hair. Next time she would comb it out straight like she liked it, like everyone else seemed to like it. Or maybe they
liked it this way and that was why they stared. Was she really so beautiful as everyone said? She never believed it, not fully. Somehow she had fooled everyone. Not she with the extraordinary feet and ordinary hair. Maybe they stared because …

  With the experienced and confident lecturer’s flourish and flair, Susan removed the cap from the green marker. This action produced a slight squeaking-click sound. Her presence and the squeak-click brought silence to the several hushed conversations about the room. All eyes returned to her.

  Magruder walked over to the table by the entrance. He poured another cup of coffee. Susan waited. The liquid slowly filled his cup. Steam welled up. He poured sugar into his cup. He stirred the beverage. The spoon occasionally clinked the inside of the cup. He put down the spoon. He placed the coffee pot on its heating beveled pad.

  Hodges walked to the refrigerator located by the table. He pulled out a diet Coke. He closed the refrigerator door.

  “Bring me one too, would you?” Jennifer said.

  “This is the last. There’s, wait a minute, let me see here. There’s some, I don’t know, this off-brand here.”

  “That will be fine.”

  “I’ll have one also, if you don’t mind,” Susan said, still standing at the marker-board, the green felt tip piece in her hand. Her hands and arms already appeared as an impressionist’s canvas, streaked with red, blue, green colors from marker ink.

  “Are you sure? I can go topside, see if I can track down another carton.”

  “That’s sweet. No. Really. That will be fine. I just need something to drink and a little caffeine. It is diet, right?

  “Yeah, it’s diet.”

  “That will be fine,” Jennifer said.