Terry Bisson: The Fifth Element

The captain shook his head. “Our thermo-analyzers have jammed. One of them reads over a million degrees, and the other’s at minus five thousand.”

Staedert turned to the grizzled old man with one runny eye who had been his representative on the bridge in his absence. “Major Gruber?”

“Never seen anything like it,” Gruber said, or rather growled.

A technician on a nearby terminal broke in: “It’s taking shape!”

“Let’s see it,” said Staedert.

“Shield,” ordered the captain.

A tech slid a fingertip along a control strip. The stars appeared, one by one, as the shield powered down.

The captain and the others on the bridge were looking out on an unmapped sector of the galaxy. And in the center of it…

An amoebic, moving mass, swirling like a storm.

Something between a planet, an embryonic star, and a black hole.

Its writhing shape, continually changing,

evoked every horror in the universe. It altered color as it roiled and bubbled, spattered and burbled, sputtered and burned―a hideous amalgam of decaying rose, rancid green, cold blue, blood red, and gangrenous purple.

It was all the colors of death, come to life.

The captain had expected it. In fact, it was he who had reported the new disturbance in the sector. Yet even he was terrified and awestruck at the grotesque sight before him.

“What the hell can it be?” he asked.

“Send out a probe,” said Staedert, in a voice that was dearly accustomed to being obeyed.

Light years away, high in the web of towers that was the office of the President of the United Federation, a rustling was heard.

The unmistakable sound of power.

The President entered. He embodied the authority of his office. He was a huge, black, burly man, of African ancestry, with the bull neck of a fullback and the steely eye of a hunter. A war hero, he had been elected in a time of peace, out of public nostalgia for the lost simplicities of interstellar conflict. But now a new conflict had arrived, even though no one knew what it was, from whence it came, or what―if anything―it meant.

“On air with Staerdert in thirty seconds,” whispered an aide.

The President nodded and sat down at his massive desk. His office was crowded with uniformed military men, scientists, aides, techs and advisers.

In the midst of them, all hut unnoticed, was all old priest in a rough black cassock, attended by a young novice.

The young man whispered in the priest’s ear, “I’ll find a seat for you, Father Cornelius.”

“Thank you, David, my son.”

A screen lit up at one end of the room, like a doorway to the far reaches of the galaxy; as indeed it was, since it showed the bridge of a distant star-ship, where an identical screen was opening to show the President’s office.

“President on the line, sir!”

General Staedert looked at the screen, across a wilderness of light years, at the President and his guests.

“We’re in position, Mr. President,” he said.

The President’s deep, commanding voice shook both rooms.

“I have to address the Supreme Council in ten minutes. Just the facts, General.”

“There are no results from the chemical and molecular analysis as yet,” said Staedert. “All the calibers are overshot. We’re initiating a thermonucleatic imaging―“

The President broke in. “What you are saying is that you don’t know what it is!”

Staedert seemed, if anything, relieved. “Not yet,

Sir. The only thing we know is that it just keeps getting bigger?”

A murmur rippled through the ranks in the President’s office. The old priest and the young novice kept their eyes glued to the screen.

The President turned to face his staff.

“Options!” he said. It was neither a statement nor a question; it was a command.

“Wait or act,” said a general, stepping forward.

The President turned back toward the screen. “Staedert. Recommendations?”

Staedert considered for only a moment before answering. “My philosophy, Mr. President, is shoot first and ask questions later. I don’t like uninvited guests.”

The President swiveled in his chair. He sent his next question over the heads (literally) of the military men, addressing the scientists who stood behind them.

“Gentlemen?”

The scientists shuffled and cleared their throats. The boldest of them stood on tiptoes to speak.

“I think it would be foolish to shoot at an organism that seems to be alive, without first taking the time to study it more. Besides, it has shown no signs of hostility.”

There was a murmur of protest from the military men on both sides of the screen.

The President quieted them with a barely perceptible wave of his hand.

“No…” he agreed. “It’s just getting bigger.”

“So do people,” said the scientist, reddening. “But that’s no reason to shoot them!”

The President seemed exasperated by this reply. “The security of the Federated territories is, and remains, number one priority,” his voice boomed.

Then he lowered his voice to address his. gathered generals once more.

“I suppose General Staedert’s ‘philosophy’ is acceptable to you?”

As one, they all nodded.

The President wheeled in his chair. “All right then. Staedert?”

Suddenly a voice broke through from the back of the room. “Mr. President?”

The military men parted like the Red Sea, and a small but imposing figure moved through. It was the old priest, a short, stocky man with a strange silver amulet around his neck.

The novice followed him a respectful step behind. “Yes?” asked the President.

“Cornelius,” said the priest, stepping forward to introduce himself. “Vito Cornelius. I have a different theory to offer you, Mr. President.”

The President seemed simultaneously amused and irritated by this interruption. An aide bent and whispered into his ear: “From the religious delegation, sir.”

The President of the United Federation, elected guardian of 200 billion souls, both human and otherwise, studied the man who had forced himself into his circle of attention.

“You have twenty seconds,” he said.

If his fierce look was designed to intimidate the diminutive old priest, it didn’t work.

“Imagine for a moment,” said Father Cornelius, “that this thing is not anything that can be identified, because it prefers not to be. Because it is evil. Total evil.”

The President shrugged. “One more reason to shoot first, eh?”

The generals all nodded in perfect, simultaneous agreement.

Father Cornelius shook his head.

“Evil begets evil, Mr. President. Shooting would only make it stronger.”

There was a flurry of activity on the screen. The President turned in his chair to watch.

“The probe will attain its objective in five seconds!” announced an excited tech on the bridge of the starship.

“Drop the shield,” muttered the starship’s captain, and the tech’s finger slid along the control strip.

The starship’s windows went clear, and for the first time the bubbling, multicolored dark mass was visible on the screen in the President’s? office.

A gasp went up.

Followed by a breathless silence as the blinking light of a probe drew closer and closer to its object five.

Then a groan as the probe disappeared into the tumorous darkness―and the strange, evil mass began to boil and bubble even more furiously.

“Mr. President,” cried General Staedert. “We’re at a crisis point!”

“Growth rate is at twenty-seven percent!” put in a panicked technician.

All eyes in both rooms―the office and the bridge of the starship―were on the President.

Who seemed puzzled.