Allan Ashinoff - The Vostok Revelation

> CONTACT: Object detected 200,000 kilometers <

> CONTACT: Object slowing <

> CONTACT: Object stationary 99,903 kilometers <

> DETECTION: Object emitting focused electromagnetic waves <

> EVALUATE: Patterned Bombardment <

> THREAT LEVEL: None <

> ASSESSMENT: Object attempting to communicate <

> RESPONSE: Query to establish a communication channel <

Probe One broadcast its full spectrum of electromagnetic waves to assess the four objects. Seconds later a wealth of spectroscopic data began to populate its memory banks. Approaching its memory capacity, following protocol, it prepared to make its broadcast to the next leg in the communications relay, Probe Two.

Barely completing its initial broadcast, the volume of incoming data doubled. Its memory buffer full again, Probe One dutifully broadcast its payload to Probe Two. A half-second after Probe One’s memory store flushed it was saturated by more incoming data, which had again doubled in capacity. Promptly Probe One broadcast its payload.

Ten seconds later, with the volume of the incoming data stream steadily increasing, a fault occurred within Probe One.

All wave broadcast to and from the probe ceased.

Hadfield Mining Station, Outer Main Belt. November 2339.

“Shit,” Carson slammed his palms down on the padded armrests of his office chair. After waiting fifteen minutes for any signal to arrive from the relay the transmission cut-off after only a few seconds. Annoyed, he verified the signal strength between each of the four nodes. The issue was with Probe One, the only probe that was more than a dumb rely terminal. Probe One still had power. Whatever occurred had crippled all communication to and from the probe. If Carson and his people couldn’t reestablish a link to Probe One the twenty-eight megabytes of data would be the only hard information Ottawa and the Federation would receive.

It took more than sixty hours of travel, stopping only to eat and refuel, for the helicopter carrying Professor Sergio DeCardova, astrophysicist and chemist at Sao Jos dos Compos, and his four-man team to touch down on the snow covered remnants of what once was the Vostok Stations landing pad. DeCardova, wrapped in a bulky orange parka, wasted no time barking orders. Having been summoned by the Federation and whisked by helicopter to a remote and forgotten drilling station in what had to be considered one of the most inhospitable place on Earth, he wasn’t about to let a weather system, no matter how severe, infringe on his role in what could be the most pivotal moment in human history.

The biting cold of Antarctica caused each man to pause as they stepped out of the warm cabin of the helicopter with their equipment. With their snowshoes sinking several centimeters into the unpacked snow the team gradually formed a fifty meter perimeter around the dilapidated drilling chamber and began setting up their equipment.

“We have less than three hours before the storm arrives,” DeCordova shielded the microphone with his gloved hand to ensure that his voice could be heard by his team. “Collect as much data and as many clear images as you can. We will catalog everything once we’re back on the mainland. And remember, if anything agitates the entity pull your data drive and haul ass back to the helicopter.”

After a tense ninety minutes DeCardova’s team began returning to the helicopter, their tasks completed. The entity, a flat-gray cylindrical post six meters tall and 170 centimeters in circumference, did not react to their presence in any way. In spite of everything he’d been told prior to coming to Antarctica, the object appeared completely inert. Anxious to confirm his team’s success and depart the continent ahead of the storm DeCordova checked the data gathered from each member of his team. While the team collected a wealth of information using the laser, infrared and ultraviolet equipment, the object presented only a black void in every digital picture taken.

“There is nothing wrong with my camera or the recorders,” Professor Acosta said when DeCordova began to voice his concerns. “The object appears to absorb the entire light spectrum, thus presenting only a black placeholder in every picture and digital recording. It’s fascinating.”

“As fascinating as it may be it does nothing to satisfy the primary reason we are here. Above all, the Federation wanted vivid, detailed high resolution images of the object to study,” DeCordova replied.

“I can sketch it,” Professor Acosta added.

“What will you draw? A large black rectangle?” DeCordova’s tone grew sharper, his role in history felt threatened. “What good will that do? No, we need something concrete, something definitive and absolute. Something that will…” DeCordova grabbed his tool kit, stood, slid open the door hatch and leapt into the snow.

Ignoring the calls from his team Sergio DeCordova plodded back to the ruins of the drilling station. Instead of stopping fifty meters from the object he walked directly to it, dropped his tool kit, and removed a pocket knife, a chisel, and a chipping hammer. His heart was pounded in anticipation of what he was about to do. If this post was an entity, taking a sample of its material could be seen as an act of provocation; he was about to do exactly what the Federation had told him not to.

The entire time in the post’s presence neither he nor any member of his team saw any indication that this mysterious object was anything more than a pillar of some strange substance that managed to thrust up from beneath the ice. A sample would provide far more answers about what this thing was than any picture ever could. Object or entity, a sample would assure his place in history.

These moments don’t come along but once in a lifetime.

Cautiously he removed his left glove and placed his hand on the post. He could feel the objects lack of coldness on his skin. Feeling silly he said, “Hello, I am Professor Sergio DeCordova. I am a scientist from Sao Jos dos Compos, Brazil. I need to take a small sample of the material you are made of so we can learn about you.” Instantly, he realized how barbaric that sounded and quickly added, “If you require a sample of human genetics to learn about us, it would be my privilege to offer some of my hair or perhaps one small finger in exchange.” DeCordova stood silently, eddies of snow swirling all around him, his insides chilled by the impulsive deal he had just made.

DeCordova said as gripped his chipping hammer, “If you are sentient, please do not take this as a provocative act.” Holding his breath he cupped his hand against the object — again feeling its warmth on his skin — and swung firmly downward at a sharp angle. Instead of obtaining a chip or a spark, the steel head of he hammer and several centimeters of its fiberglass passed effortlessly through the flat-black substance and landed in his cupped hand. The object did not react. He took a few seconds to consider what had happened before returning the hammer to his tool kit. Intrigued, he slid his hand over the spot where the hammer had passed — again he felt warmth against his skin, the object was completely solid.

Curious, he flipped-out the pocketknife’s blade and attempted to scrape a sample of the object. Like the hammer, the knife blade passed effortlessly through the substance, halting the instant his finger came into contact with it. DeCordova adjusted his hold on the knife handle so that he was pinching the very end of its handle between his thumb and forefinger. He marveled as the material allowed him to erffortlessly insert and extract the knife, up to where his fingers gripped it, without the slightest resistance.