Майкл Крайтон - The Andromeda Evolution

“It is not a question of what,” added Odhiambo, lines of worry creasing his forehead as his watery eyes searched the depths of the jungle. “But who .”

IN CERTAIN DREAMS, we have all experienced an uncanny distortion of the passage of time; experiences in which precious seconds telescope toward infinity, usually in the face of impending catastrophe. Having suffered from such a recurring vision since childhood, James Stone described the next hour as a living version of his worst nightmares. A sense of foreboding had fallen over the jungle and pervaded everything the scientists did with a sense of déjà vu.

Recovered canary video footage effectively conveys the languid atmosphere that fell over the “golden hour”—a period closer to forty-five minutes and occurring just before dusk—of the second day’s march. As the simmering crest of the sun descended ten degrees past the horizon, a suffusion of indirect light imbued every leaf, vine, and flying insect with a radiance that seemed to come from within.

In this golden aura of shifting shadows and faint glimmerings, a feeling of helplessness had settled over the field team. As the light began to fade, their eyes grew wider, trained on the shadowed folds of jungle.

The stillness was shattered by a shrill whistle.

In the newly created clearing, a Matis stood before a thick round tree trunk, holding an unstrung hammock in his hands. His hat cocked back on his head, the man was thoughtfully chewing a bundle of coca leaves, the small lump bulging from his cheek like a tumor. He stared up into the last light with hollow black eyes. Following his gaze, the scientists saw their first Amazonian rubber tree.

A long, wet-looking film of white sap, like candle wax, rolled down the rough, spotted bark.

Colloquially known as “the trees that bleed,” this species had instigated one of the darkest periods of Brazilian history. The Amazon rubber boom, beginning in the late 1800s, brought voracious swarms of prospectors and rubber barons deep into the virgin jungle. Tens of thousands of indigenous people were enslaved, threatened with death, and forced to tap the trees to collect the leaking sap. It was the first, but not the last, systemized plundering of the Amazon by outside colonizers.

The Matis spit the wad of coca leaves to the ground. He spoke quickly to Brink without looking away from the tree. In the fading light, the bamboo shoots embedded in his nostrils gave him an unearthly presence.

“What do you mean, the tree is not supposed to look like that?” said Brink quietly, brushing an ant off his forearm as he turned to the group. “It’s just a rubber tree. It’s supposed to bleed.”

The frontiersman reached out to point and stopped. Vedala had clamped a hand over his wrist. She slowly pulled his arm down, her eyes locked on the surface of the tree.

“No,” cautioned Vedala. “Don’t touch.”

Halfway up the trunk, the weeping sap darkened to a metallic gray. The surface was flecked with luminous green spots. Around the edges, the chitinous coating traced its expansion in six-sided ridges.

As Vedala watched, the scabby layer flattened out, spreading an inch in all directions. A creaking groan came from inside the tree, followed by an ominous splintering sound.

Vedala immediately moved back. Sergeant Brink stood watching with his mouth partly open, a forgotten toothpick dangling from his lip.

The lead scientist spoke to the group, her eyes hard and bright. “Everyone,” said Vedala. “This is a live infection site. We can’t stay here tonight. Get ready to move on.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

The group turned to Brink, who stood breathing hard, his sudden anger masking a rising fear. Dusk would soon give way to night. The evening birds had begun their lonely evening calls.

“I am dead serious,” replied Vedala, scowling at the Matis as they ignored her and watched Brink for orders. Several were looking warily out into the jungle, murmuring to each other in low tones. Brink paused, put a hand to his forehead, and then lowered it.

“I can’t believe this,” he muttered. Then he nodded to Vedala. “All right. Quickly.”

The Matis porters began to move, collecting baggage and preparing to leave.

Stone hastily checked the toxin detectors on his canary drones, finding nothing. Nonetheless, he pulled the respirator from his pocket and slid it over his mouth and nose, feeling the familiar heat of his breath washing over his cheeks.

“It is a rubber tree,” said Odhiambo. “Latex. It makes perfect sense that Andromeda would settle here. My guess is we are looking at AS-2, or some variant. A cousin of the microparticle that consumed the seals of the original Wildfire laboratory.”

“If it only eats rubber, then it’s not a threat,” insisted Brink weakly.

“Ah, but it evolves,” said Odhiambo, his voice almost melancholy. “We are indeed witnessing an Andromeda evolution. And it is impossible to properly gauge the amount of danger we are in.”

“Harold is right,” said Vedala.

Brink slid a headlamp across his forehead and illuminated it. Unsheathing his machete, he motioned the lead scouts forward before stomping off after them. He could be heard muttering as he left, “This is without a doubt the stupidest, most foolhardy expedition I have ever been involved with.”

The hulking soldier disappeared into the foliage, swatting angrily with his machete.

Peng marched past the others, following close behind Brink. Her black eyes shone over the dark blue mask of a respirator. She barely spared a glance at the infection spreading across the deformed tree trunk. Since the conversation with Kline, she had been even quieter than usual—searching for the right moves in what was becoming an unwinnable game.

Stone watched her go.

It struck him that nobody had taken so much as a sample. They were too far in, it was too late in the day, and they had already seen too much. This jungle had been sickened, infected by something, and the disease was clearly coming from the inexplicable anomaly approximately ten miles away.

Up ahead, Stone could hear Brink speaking quietly to a guide.

“Dark soon,” said the Matis.

“I know,” replied Brink. “We cover as much ground as we can. Make camp on the very next ridge. Damn these eggheads.”

And with that, the team marched onward into the night. They left behind a short-lived camp hacked out of the raw jungle, along with its swarms of biting ants and the long, sharpened poles that surrounded it. This last-minute decision to move on, and the subsequent necessity of setting up camp in the dark, with fewer defenses, would prove to be pivotal.

It was a choice that meant not all of the team would survive the night.

Day 3Anomaly

I believe in the future.

—MICHAEL CRICHTON

Night Ambush

APORTABLE INFRASOUND DETECTOR CARRIED BY HAROLD Odhiambo registered gunfire forty-nine minutes before the dawn of the team’s third day in the Amazon, coinciding with the darkest point of the night. With the already faint light of the stars and moon hidden behind a ceiling of thick jungle canopy, the floor of the Amazon jungle would have been ink black.

Eduardo Brink and his men had established the new camp hastily and in the dark the night before. They were in an unfamiliar location, exhausted, and they could see next to nothing. In short, the field team was utterly unprepared to defend themselves from a coordinated onslaught.

The strike came without warning.

The handful of attackers were experts at navigating the jungle. Forensic evidence later collected from the scene indicated that their eyesight had been enhanced by exposure to the juice of the sananga root.* In this way, the assailants were able to maneuver confidently by the first, almost unnoticeable glimmer of dawn.