Майкл Крайтон - The Andromeda Evolution

“Another outbreak,” said Odhiambo, in a thoughtful voice. “But why would it be located here, so far from anything else?”

Kline’s voice came in over the satellite phone: “The Chinese Tiangong-1 space station broke up in the atmosphere over Brazil six months ago. It spread bits of wreckage between here and the Atlantic Ocean. We think . . . ah, the Americans think, the Chinese may have been experimenting with Andromeda.”

Peng seemed to have been waiting for this. The former soldier kept her face blank as the others looked to her. Kline’s accusatory tone had not gone unnoticed, and Peng’s response seemed prepared as she spoke.

“Of course I have no official knowledge of this,” said Peng. “However, it would not be an unprecedented scenario, considering the many international efforts under way to study Andromeda in a microgravity environment.”

Vedala nodded, half smiling. Peng was making a pointed remark about the existence of the Wildfire laboratory module on board the ISS, but she was at least willing to acknowledge the reality—an infected sample from the fallen Chinese space station could have contaminated the jungle.

“Regardless of how the anomaly got here, we are facing the reality of a large structure growing in the middle of the jungle with a chemical composition that matches Andromeda. Our plan is to hike into the quarantine zone and find out what this thing is before it gets any bigger. Thanks to the last Project Wildfire, we know a lot more than the people who tried this in Piedmont. Our respirators and inhibitor spray will protect us, and we have toxin detectors operating constantly.”

“I’m surprised the feds didn’t already nuke it on reflex,” said Stone, venturing a joke.

Vedala only scowled. “And start a world war? We’re not in the United States, Dr. Stone. The contamination didn’t appear in our own backyard this time around. We weren’t that lucky—”

At these words, Vedala noticed a change in Stone’s demeanor. He looked away at once, cheeks flushing with anger. She immediately realized how callous her words must have sounded.

“Obviously, what happened in Piedmont wasn’t lucky . But this incident is happening in one of the most ecologically delicate places on the planet, severely limiting our options. We’re in protected indigenous territory, a place where by Brazilian law uncontacted tribes are meant to be left alone. Harold can elaborate.”

“She’s right,” said Harold Odhiambo, addressing the group. “This is Terra Indigena. The indigenous people who live here are isolated, surviving quite comfortably at a mostly pre–Stone Age level of technology.”

Harold spread his long arms, gesturing at the trees.

“We are standing in Earth’s lungs. These tree species spread their roots wide and shallow, cutting off almost all access to bedrock. The people who have lived here for millennia never had the opportunity to develop stone tools. Even their arrowheads are carved from bamboo, completely biodegradable. They have been spared the never-ending progression of technology.”

“You say that as if progress is a bad thing,” said Peng, quietly.

“It is not a bad thing . . . until we show up. Exposed to superior technology, these tribes are vulnerable to being exploited, killed, or enslaved. In the best-case scenario, they will covet our technology—especially our steel and guns. When they do get hold of it, they forget the traditional ways of living and become dependent on tools they can’t reproduce. Any contact, with good or evil intentions, will destroy them. Outsiders either take their lives, or their way of life.”

Odhiambo’s manner had turned grave.

“Our presence in the jungle is highly dangerous. History has played out the same way across every continent, from the indigenous people of Africa to those of Australia and the Americas. It always ends in death.”

“And that’s why we’re not contacting anybody,” said Vedala, pointing to the tree line where the quasi-military men were waiting. “Those are our guides, and they’re going to keep us far away from the locals.”

The dozen uniformed men had collected in shady spots around the edge of the clearing, standing or squatting and talking quietly to each other. From a distance they looked like soldiers, wearing camouflage, with machetes hanging from their hips and shotguns casually strapped over their shoulders.

But looking closer, Stone could see they were indigenous, their crisp military uniforms complemented by traditional clamshell earrings that stretched their earlobes and stiff bamboo shoots poking from their nostrils like jaguar whiskers. Most of the men had waves of bluish lines tattooed across their upper cheeks and thick black hair chopped in bowl cuts.

“Are they not Indians?” asked Peng.

“Those are Matis frontiersmen,” responded Vedala, “and they know this territory well. Until forty years ago, they were one of the uncontacted tribes.”

Vedala nodded to a large man with a sweat-stained green shirt neatly tucked into military fatigues. Unlike the others, this soldier was Anglo, and he carried a high-tech battle rifle strapped over his chest. The weapon appeared well-used, bristling with after-market attachments.

“And the final item on our agenda,” said Vedala. “Meeting our guides.”

As if on cue, the soldier stood and began to stride toward them, heavily muscled arms swinging. The bearded Brazilian American spit out a toothpick as he approached the group, snapping words at them with a Portuguese accent.

“Listen up, people. My name is Sergeant Eduardo Brink, United States Army Special Forces. I have been instructed by General Stern to handle you with kid gloves. But this is the Amazon wild. This jungle does not care for your credentials. It does not care for your intelligence. Or for your technology. It was here before you and it will be here after you are gone.”

“If we’re lucky,” muttered Stone.

Brink flashed a cold stare down at the roboticist before continuing. “You are already deep into the territory of indios bravos, wild Indians of Brazil. Make no mistake. You are not welcome. It is sheer luck that I was stationed here with FUNAI and available to accompany you. Our rendezvous with command is in forty-eight hours, at the prescribed destination. If we are not there, command will assume we were killed in action and proceed with alternate plans. My job is to get you where you’re going, on time . . . alive.”

Brink’s voice lowered, and he stepped closer to Stone.

“And let me be very clear, amigo . . . without me, you will die here.”

The group of scientists exchanged worried glances, and the sergeant seemed satisfied. Turning, he spoke rapid-fire to the native soldiers, who tossed away cigarettes and rose to their feet. Some pulled tumplines over their foreheads, using the woven straps to carry luggage while leaving their arms free. A few others set off into the jungle without a word. The whistling snaps of machetes were audible as they set about hacking a new path through the dense wall of undergrowth. Brink turned back to the scientists, pulling a toothpick from his shirt pocket and clenching it between his teeth in a wide, menacing smile.

“You don’t have to like me, boys and girls. You just have to obey me. Because the very last thing you want is to end up out here all alone.”

Manifest

DISPATCHED TO THE AMAZON JUNGLE ON AN HOUR’S notice, the Wildfire field team had been as well equipped as possible given the abbreviated logistical timeline. The following partial manifest is technical in nature, but nonetheless illuminating in its content. Previously classified, the full inventory is now stored in the National Archives.