Майкл Крайтон - The Andromeda Evolution

The robot nodded, an uncannily human movement that Stern found disconcerting.

“Go on,” said Kline.

Clasping his hands tighter, Stern continued.

“The Wildfire team has missed its noon rendezvous. Since you spoke to them, we’ve had no contact.”

“They’re only overdue by a few hours.”

“Nevertheless, we are putting alternate plans in motion.”

“We?”

Stern ignored the question.

“Containment, Kline. A spire has grown half a mile out of the lake, straight up, and the main structure has more than doubled in size. We are moving to suppress the anomaly before it grows any larger. There are several routes along which we could choose to proceed. Some are more . . . egregious than others.”

“You do recall the first Andromeda incident? If you go nuclear, the strain will only feed on the energy. You’ll turn a bad situation into hell on earth.”

“We’re the military. We remember everything. For instance, we remember how the Russians defeated Napoleon and his Grande Armée after he invaded Moscow in 1812 with overwhelming force.”

The robot was silent. It stared into Stern’s eyes without expression. Stern blinked first, necessarily.

“They burned everything, Dr. Kline,” he continued, voice dropping. “They destroyed their own homes to starve out the enemy. Without shelter, the French troops froze. Without anything to eat, they starved.”

“And so did the Russian peasants,” replied Kline. “General, can I assume you are proposing a scorched-earth policy? You mean to burn everything near the anomaly, salt the earth with some form of that Andromeda inhibitor solution, and then push the circle inward and repeat.”

“You catch on quickly,” replied Stern. “Believe it or not, the US Air Force still makes napalm. It works just as well as it ever did.”

“There are people living there, tribes, each of them a civilization unto itself,” replied Kline. “Not to mention that our own team is probably still alive. And you want to decimate the entire area?”

“I don’t want to do this. I have to. Unless there is another way.”

“Is this an international decision? Are all nations in agreement?”

“This is a unilateral decision that was made more than fifty years ago, when the fail-safe protocols were written in the aftermath of the first Andromeda incident. It transcends nationhood. It’s a hard rule, made in hard times, to secure the future of humankind at any cost.”

“Which part of humankind? This will mean the extinction of an unknown number of indigenous cultures with whom we’ve intentionally never made contact. What are their lives worth to you?”

“I wish I were here to argue ethics, Dr. Kline. But I’m not. I am here for your expertise. This is our last chance. Do you see another way to contain the Andromeda Strain?”

Drawing itself up to its full height, the R3A4 trained its two camera lenses on General Stern and regarded him silently. The military man found the gaze of the machine unnerving, but he did not turn away.

“The best way to contain it,” said Kline, “is to leave it alone . Give the Wildfire team another twenty-four hours. Have faith that they’re still alive.”

General Stern let the air out of his lungs slowly.

“I will take that under advisement,” he replied.

The Anomaly

THE WORLD HAD GONE DIM AND CLAUSTROPHOBIC under a seemingly endless ceiling of foliage. Loaded with the extra baggage formerly carried by Matis porters, the Wildfire field team struggled to follow the fleet-footed Tupa. The boy was tracing a path alongside the muddy tangles of a rapidly drying riverbed—or the “river’s corpse,” as the canary translated.

Tupa’s route could not be found on any map, though he led them with the certainty of someone walking across his own town. For nearly eight hours, he had been marching confidently ahead through muted sunlight, accompanied by a whirring swarm of canary drones. The rest of the team stumbled along, machetes flashing as they tried to keep their footing on the spongy edges of the riverbed. Around them, the monolithic columns of tree trunks soared, blocking out the sky. Over the hours, red mud had coated their boots and khaki pants, spatters and smears that soon took on the gruesome appearance of dried blood.

The team did not speak much during the journey, moving too fast for conversation. Their moist, sucking footsteps and the brush of leaves over their legs were punctuated by the occasional splintering crash of a far-off tree falling or the gurgle of water flowing around some half-submerged obstacle.

Odhiambo observed the yellowish water with concern. In the recent past, the river had clearly been much higher. The exposed roots of trees lining the banks were still drying out. Odhiambo was at a loss to understand what had happened. The river seemed to have just disappeared.

It was yet another mystery, among many.

All seemed still and calm in the failing light of day when, unheralded, the jungle broke. There was nothing obvious or momentous to signify the end of their journey. In fact, it was just the opposite.

Peng Wu saw it first.

Maneuvering around the roots of a vine-encrusted wimba tree the size of a fifteen-story building, Peng stepped into what looked like a sudden nightfall. Her machete, which had been in constant motion, wavered in the air with nothing left to slice. Looking to her left and right, she saw a crush of plants, trees, and vines that curled away from a monstrous shadow.

The team had reached the anomaly.

Peng blinked at the emptiness before her, mouth open in wonder. For a moment, she felt as if she were back in orbit within the Tiangong-1, staring into the reeling infinity of space. She turned and saw Tupa watching her with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Snapping her mouth shut, Peng dropped the expression of wonder from her face.

Seconds later, the three other scientists stumbled to a stop at Peng’s side. All were silent as they gazed at the featureless skin of the anomaly.

The structure was darkly menacing. Its color was the black, green, and purple of solar panels, almost oily, reflecting the sporadic sunlight in greasy rainbows. At its base, the structure seemed to have cratered into the ground, leaving waves in the dirt like a rumpled skirt, and a not unpleasant raw-earth smell.

And rising beyond it, barely visible through the upper foliage, was the stark silhouette of a narrow six-sided column. It had risen higher than anyone could believe was possible, like a seam in the sky. Its purpose was utterly inscrutable, and Odhiambo later mused that it reminded him of the spiky crystalline growths found in deep cave systems.

“My god,” someone murmured, but otherwise the scientists were silent as they finally observed the reason for this mission in person.

James Stone rested his hands on his knees, steadying himself. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples, his vision quivering with each beat of his heart. The sight ahead had sparked an instinctive fear that coursed through his body with the fire of pure adrenaline—a fear of something impossible, yet haunting and too familiar. Stone couldn’t help thinking of his recurring dream.

In the diseased vicinity of the structure, he thought he could glimpse the ruby sparkle of congealed blood. The dirt at his feet resembled granules of dried plasma. Stone could feel a fetidly hot breeze coming off the anomaly, sending grains of dust airborne—like a stream of blood evaporating on desert sand.

Stone sensed Vedala standing at his elbow. She was holding out the satellite phone in one hand. He scrambled to check his environmental monitoring.

“I’m not detecting any toxins. The ash must have settled. What now?” Stone asked, swallowing with difficulty.