Майкл Крайтон - The Andromeda Evolution

“These hexagons are smaller versions of the same patterns we have seen in images of the anomaly,” he said. “And on a microscopic level, we know these same patterns form the fundamental cellular structure of the Andromeda Strain.”

Odhiambo snapped the lens shut and returned it to his pocket.

“So, what is our diagnosis?” asked Peng.

“I have to agree with Dr. Kline,” replied Vedala. “We’re not dealing with AS-1 or AS-2, exactly, though properties of both are present. My best hypothesis is that we are witnessing a new evolution of the Andromeda Strain. We can call it AS-3 for simplicity, but there is very little to understand so far, except that it retains the deadly properties of both its predecessors. AS-3 seems to coagulate blood on contact, acts as a plastiphage, and converts those raw materials into some kind of metallic substance.”

Standing in tree shadows, James Stone had managed to calm himself down. Now, he spoke quickly and quietly. “That’s all well and good, Nidhi, but if we want to stay alive out here, the real question is, How was he infected?”

Nidhi Vedala was silent for a moment. She could feel the heat of the jungle growing as the sun rose somewhere beyond the canopy. Finally she spoke, calming herself with a logical, scientific thought process.

“That’s a good question, James,” she said. “The inhibitor barrier is intact on his skin. So it appears that this Andromeda variety is nonreactive with its predecessors. His nostrils and mouth are clear of any residue. It’s unlikely he inhaled it or absorbed it through a mucous membrane. He also appears free from facial deformities, unlike our attackers. In fact, all the damage seems to emanate from this single wound to his shoulder. My suggestion is that we begin looking for a fomite.”

“A nonorganic vector for disease,” clarified Odhiambo. “And I believe the solution is right before us.”

Odhiambo turned his eyes to the curved head of a stone ax, where it rested on the muddy ground. The handmade ax head glimmered grayish-green. Odhiambo grasped it lightly by the wood handle.

“Dr. Odhiambo,” said Peng, her voice rising. “I thought you said the Amazon had no stone?”

“Barely any,” replied Odhiambo, lifting the ax. “Whatever there is has to make a long journey down from the Andes.”

Turning the weapon gingerly in his gloved hands, Odhiambo’s gaze ran along faint hexagonal etches embedded in the surface of the ax head. “But I don’t believe this ax head is made of stone. It is much too light. And much, much too sharp.”

“Well, then, what do you think . . .” Vedala said, trailing off as she realized the obvious.

“Human beings are enterprising, Dr. Vedala. Adaptable. This tool has been crafted from a material that must have appeared only recently.”

“They’ve mined the anomaly,” breathed Peng.

Putting a hand to her forehead in dismay, Peng stepped away. She spoke almost to herself, a flood of words coming out as the realization swept over her. “Of course. Of course they did. They’re human beings, just like us. They would have noticed the anomaly immediately. Recognized it as a potential source of new technology. They would have studied it, mined it, built ax-heads or arrowheads from it. Used it however they could, trying to improve their lives.”

Peng glanced up at the other scientists, an embarrassed look on her face in the wake of the uncharacteristic outburst.

“And yet, one wrong move and AS-3 can kill,” added Stone. “I don’t get it. Why would anyone risk working with such a dangerous material?”

“They probably didn’t know. Or if they did, maybe they saw it as a positive attribute,” responded Peng more quietly. “Not useful for hunting, as the infection would make meat inconsumable. But good for defense . . . killing your enemy with one blow would be a significant advantage, whether it was a man or a jaguar.”

“This could also explain why they were so brave to attack us, despite our arms,” mused Odhiambo. “It was simply a question of superior firepower. And the tables had finally turned.”

“That, or anger,” said Stone. “They may have assumed we were responsible for this . . . thing that’s invaded their world. And there is truth to that assumption.”

The group of scientists stood mulling this for a moment.

Historically, indigenous peoples have often been judged for not having “evolved” the same weapons, religious beliefs, and societal infrastructure as those in the West. Even the word civilization is a loaded term, as its definition is traditionally dictated by self-appointed gatekeepers of progress. These isolated people had found a new material in their midst, and their instinct was not a primitive urge to flee from it, destroy it, or simply ignore it.

Their human instinct was to use it.

The anomaly had already impacted the local population along familiar vectors of curiosity and self-interest—the same qualities that caused the citizens of Piedmont, Arizona, to watch a government satellite fall from the sky and decide to open it to see what was inside. The mistake that led to these deaths in the jungle was human; it had been made before and it would be made again in the near future by others who considered themselves more “civilized.”

In the heart of this still jungle, four of the brightest minds on earth stood ready to take on the greatest threat in human history. The Wildfire field team was armed with two thousand years of iterative scientific progress, backpacks bristling with advanced scientific tools, minds comforted by a total faith in their superior knowledge. Up until this moment, the team had imagined they were infinitely more advanced and prepared than the “wild Indians” of the forest.

Now they were realizing that this was a false assumption.

Cut off from the rest of the world, without guides or the knowledge of how to survive for long in the jungle, the Wildfire team was staring into annihilation.

James Stone was the first to speak.

“We have to communicate with command,” he said. “My drone is lost, and there are no clearings around here. I see no other choice . . .”

“Yes. Back to the mission. We’ll head to the clearing beside the anomaly to get a line to the satellite,” continued Vedala, with growing authority in her voice. “It’s our only hope. Stern can authorize reinforcements, or extract us.”

From her expression, Peng Wu was not so convinced.

In recovered drone footage, she was seen with hands hidden in her pockets, appearing to secretly clasp an unknown object. It was most likely the plastic case containing a lethal nerve agent. She had just opened her mouth to speak—perhaps even to confess to her discovery and warn the others—when she was interrupted by something incredible.

“Everyone,” said Odhiambo. “Please be very still and don’t create a panic.”

“What’s the matter, Harold?” asked Vedala, concern on her face.

The older Kenyan nodded in the direction of the forest before him.

“We have a visitor.”

Turning as one, the group spotted a small red face. Halfway up a leaning tree trunk, a pair of eyes were watching them from behind a splay of leaves. It was the face of a child—a boy. His cheeks were caked in red urucum paint, with clear evidence of tears having streaked ravines through the dried dust.

Counting the Wildfire team, he was now the fifth survivor.

Outcomes

ATHOUSAND MILES TO THE WEST, A CARRIER STRIKE group was still stationed off the coast of Peru. On the flight deck of the USS Carl Vinson , a squadron of four specially selected F/A-18E Super Hornet combat jets were prepped and waiting. In the dead of night, a cargo of mysterious snub-nosed underwing packages had arrived on two unmarked V-22 Osprey transports. The vertical replenishment effort was carried out by an uncommunicative delivery team, none bearing a visible military affiliation.