Майкл Крайтон - The Andromeda Evolution

“We weren’t advised of this,” said Vedala, her shoulders slumping.

Stone stood up, putting his hands to the small of his back and stretching as he observed the anomaly. He squinted as the last rays of sunlight flitted across it in a wavering streak. “Well, it’s gotten bigger since we left. The interference may have only started recently.”

“But why would it be transmitting electricity?” asked Vedala.

A large rucksack hit the dirt nearby.

“Of course it does,” said a voice.

Stone and Vedala turned to see a sweat-soaked Odhiambo. The older man stood with his eyes closed for a moment. Deeper in the jungle, birds screeched from the lower canopy as Odhiambo took great long breaths in through his nose.

“Electrical power,” he said. “Yes.”

“What have you got, Harold?” asked Stone.

Odhiambo opened his eyes, grinning.

“I do not know how this thing came to be here. I do not know why. But I believe I can tell you what it is.”

Peng Wu joined them, listening with curiosity.

“My seismic sensors have been pulling data from the area,” said Odhiambo. “Mostly concentrated near the mouth of the river. They picked up a mechanical vibration under the flow of water. Combined with your observation, I believe I now have a complete hypothesis.”

Odhiambo turned to gaze up at the great anomaly, continuing to speak as he regarded it with wonder.

“This structure is not built of any material known to man. Its construction techniques are a mystery. But its purpose is as clear as day,” he said. “Our anomaly is a simple dam. And a dam exists for one reason. To generate hydroelectric power.”

“Power for what?” asked Vedala.

“We will only find that out, my friends,” said Odhiambo, pointing to the mouth of the tunnel, “when we go inside.”

As the significance of that statement began to sink in, the satellite phone squawked. Holding her arm perfectly still, Vedala turned to the device with a surprised smile of relief. It was an expression that turned quickly to confusion and disappointment.

“Something is wrong,” she said. “It’s not connected to the Iridium satellite constellation. It’s connected to something else . . .”

Vedala was interrupted by a burst of static.

“Wildfire field team,” hissed the satphone. “This is Kline. Do you read me?”

Peering upward into the only slice of blue sky visible from the jungle floor, Vedala’s eyes widened in wonder. Several hundred miles above, the International Space Station was circling the globe. Vedala began to mentally calculate how long this transmission would last. It was probably a maximum of five minutes before the ISS would zip over the horizon and out of range.

“This is Wildfire. We read you. Repeat, we are alive.”

“Roger that,” replied Sophie Kline. “What’s the situation down there?”

“Not good, but the mission is still viable. We’ve had no contact with Northcom and missed our rendezvous. Can you patch us through?”

“We only have a few minutes. I’ll relay your message as soon as I’m over the horizon. Do you have any new data to share?”

“Stand by for a data transfer.”

Stone was already hustling over to Vedala with his portable computer. Plugging the data port into the satphone, he initiated the data transfer.

On board the ISS, the monitors around Kline illuminated with data—the swollen trunk of a rubber tree, its latex sap bleeding into unnatural six-sided shapes. On another screen gruesome images of Machado casualties appeared, faces spattered with blood from gunshot wounds, skin flecked with metallic-looking chunks.

“I see you made contact. It looks like Brink took care of it,” said Kline.

“Yes, he did,” said Vedala.

“These men were infected. Do you know how?” asked Kline.

“We think they made contact with the anomaly.”

Tapping Vedala on the shoulder, Stone whispered, “The rest of the data will have to wait until her next pass.”

Kline saw an image of an indigenous boy—he was clearly alive, his face alert and cautious under a thin sheen of glistening red urucum. She expelled a sharp breath. The machinery of her mind had been processing, searching for clues that tied together the input she was seeing. Now she had seen a connection.

Gray ash . The boy had none of it on him.

“This boy lived, but the others didn’t,” she radioed. “Did he tell you anything? Did he say anything about an explosion?”

“He described a roaring in the jungle,” said Vedala. “Two minutes.”

“Of course,” mused Kline, partially off-mike.

“Say again?”

“The AS-3 substance is harmless unless it’s absorbed into the bloodstream. The men have ash around their nostrils. The boy doesn’t.”

Peng Wu was already calculating the meaning. “He wasn’t allowed to get close to the anomaly. And he described the others as coughing. If an explosion aerosolized the Andromeda substance, it would have lingered as dust or smoke. The portal of entry would have been the respiratory tract, and the hosts were infected when the microparticle transmitted across the blood-air barrier in the upper lung.”

“So if it’s been blasted into smoke, you can breathe it. Otherwise, it only transmits through blood exposure, same as the first Andromeda Strain,” warned Stone, remembering the ax wound in Brink’s shoulder.

“What about the hexagonal scale patterns?” asked Vedala.

“Self-replication,” answered Kline.

Vedala stared at the satphone with a look of confusion. She had one minute left of communication with the ISS.

“How do you know that?” asked Vedala. “Have you seen this before? Is there new data?”

“Retreat to the quarantine perimeter immediately,” replied Kline in a clipped tone.

“Negative,” replied Vedala, stubbornly. “On what basis?”

“I’m warning you,” Kline continued, stumbling over the words in her haste. “Your safety gear is inadequate. Retreat to the perimeter.”

“What are Northcom’s missed rendezvous protocols?” asked Vedala. “Are we in some kind of danger?”

“I don’t know. You’ve—”

“Why won’t you put us through to Northcom?” demanded Vedala.

“I don’t have the right equipment—”

“Bullshit. What’s happening here? Why do you want us to leave this place?”

A solid five seconds of silence elapsed.

“Put Sergeant Brink on,” said Kline with a tone of finality.

Vedala hesitated. She had grown darkly suspicious of Sophie Kline’s behavior. Putting a finger to her lips, she quieted the group. Shaking her head, she mouthed: Something is wrong.

Speaking into the satphone with forced conviction, Vedala lied, “Brink is out hunting with the Matis. He should be back soon. We have fifteen seconds.”

Static hissed over the line as the final seconds of the transmission ticked away, and then Kline spoke quickly: “Tell him . . . tell Brink to be extra careful with the Omega watch I lent him. Tell him it’s very important. It’s an Omega .”

Vedala glanced at her fellow scientists for clarification of Kline’s bizarre statement. Her concerned gaze settled quickly on Peng Wu. The former soldier was biting her lower lip, cheeks flushed and trembling.

“Sophie? We fail to see how—” began Vedala.

Before she could say another word, Peng leaned forward and clicked off the satellite radio. The others stared at her in surprise.

Peng took a deep, shaky breath.

“Peng? What’s wrong?” asked Vedala.

Without speaking, Peng reached into the kit bag hanging high on her slim hip. With shaking fingers, she produced a small black case. Carefully opening it, she slid out a vial full of viscous, amber-colored liquid. As she turned it slowly in the fading daylight, everyone was able to read the text imprinted on its side: OMEGA.