Майкл Крайтон - The Andromeda Evolution

Ahead, the shifting swarm of canary drones flickered and hummed, their ultra-bright LEDs shining like dewdrops suspended in subterranean spiderwebs. The intense light reflected in unpredictable ways against the oily greenish walls—sometimes shimmering brightly, and other times absorbed into a flat blackness. When the milling drones passed near the scientists, their rotors sent down columns of hot, metallic-smelling air.

The team walked in silence, tense and wary, stretching their senses to the limit of perception.

“No airborne toxins, environment is still clean,” murmured Stone every few minutes.

“I’m seeing a lot of residue,” said Vedala, looking at Peng’s bootprints as they appeared in a thin layer of damp ash.

“Yes, but no particulates in the air,” said Stone.

“Even so, respirators stay on,” said Vedala.

Every fifty yards, Odhiambo produced a small greenish-yellow tube from his hip satchel. As he cracked each one in his gnarled fingers, the tubes erupted into an ethereal emerald light. Dropping them on the ground, he left a trail of visual markers behind them—an indication of both elevation and the way out.

The tunnel cut straight into the structure, descending at a slow, nearly imperceptible grade. The walls remained featureless, made of the same uniform substance, its surface seeming to waver like the dark-green glass of an old Coke bottle. The faint hexagon of daylight at the entrance was soon lost to view as the team steadily descended.

Stone provided rearguard, his stubbled face lit from below by the glow of his neck monitor. The hanging screen projected a rapidly expanding map constructed in real time by the canary swarm. So far it had depicted a very simple straight line, cutting into the anomaly for at least a quarter mile.

After approximately twenty minutes of slow progress, Vedala called a huddle.

“Status report?” she asked Stone.

“The corridor slopes down at a constant angle. It hasn’t varied yet,” Stone replied in an unintentional whisper. “Surface material seems totally consistent. The ash residue has solidified, and it’s coating every surface, like the inside of a chimney. I’m not seeing any other passages, and the temperature is rising as we go deeper.”

“The temperature change is consistent with the geothermal gradient,” said Odhiambo. “This is essentially a hole in the ground. Like a cave, but made of exotic material and with totally unnatural, nongeological features.”

A sense of wonder had settled into Odhiambo’s voice.

“I never thought I would see it,” he mused. “A xenogeologist studies pictures, data collected across billions of kilometers of space. And here I am. Standing inside a piece of extraterrestrial architecture.”

“Frightening, isn’t it?” asked Peng.

“It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” said Odhiambo.

“And what exactly makes you so certain this is alien?” asked Stone.

“My assumption is based on the unique geological attributes of this environment. This substrate appears perfectly uniform. The interior void exhibits a six-sided configuration that perfectly mirrors the underlying structure of the microparticle. And I didn’t say ‘alien,’ Dr. Stone. I said ‘extraterrestrial.’ You will recall that the first evolution of this incredible material was found lingering in the upper limits of Earth’s atmosphere by the Scoop VII satellite.”

“And it killed forty-six innocent people on first contact, followed by two soldiers, one pilot, one patrol officer, and five more in a nearby town,” added Stone, his voice grave. “Men, women, and children.”

“Before evolving into a benign expression,” said Odhiambo.

“I wouldn’t call the AS-2 plastiphage benign. Not if I were friends with the pilot who lost his life over Piedmont when every polymer in his jet was dechained and dissolved in under two minutes.”

“Fair enough, Dr. Stone. You are right,” said Odhiambo. “It is easy for me to forget that your father was there, on the original Wildfire mission. This must all feel very personal to you.”

Vedala was watching Stone closely.

“I believe it is alien,” said Peng. “For my part.”

“And why is that?” asked Vedala. “Intuition?”

“It is a microparticle found on the edge of space. No amino acids, no waste products, and a unique cellular structure. More machine than biological. Designed to survive in a low-oxygen, ultraviolet-rich environment. Every indication is that it was designed for a purpose.”

“That, or it’s an exotic terrestrial particle ejected into the atmosphere by a volcanic eruption or asteroid impact,” replied Vedala. “Far from having come from outer space, it could have evolved deep under the earth’s crust.”

Peng said nothing more, staring at Vedala without expression. A clear wedge had appeared between the two, based on a simple miscommunication.

Specifically, the closest Chinese parallel to the word intuition —on the mainland, zhijue —does not directly translate into the Western understanding of the term. The notion of zhijue does not exist within the Confucian classics or in the traditional development of Chinese history, either, having been spawned after its introduction by Western philosophers in the 1800s.

The main difference between an Eastern and Western understanding of intuition, as laid out by Liang An in his work Etymology: A Clash of East and West , lies in its placement somewhere between instinct and intellect. In the West, the idea of intuition is ontologically identical to that of instinct. In the East, and from Peng Wu’s understanding, the notion of intuition is based on lixing , i.e., the intellect. To her mind, intuition was a leap of faith made from a bedrock of fact.

The two scientists stared at each other without speaking. Their stalemate was broken only by an exclamation by Dr. Stone.

“Oh my god,” he whispered hoarsely.

Stone’s horrified face was outlined in light from his monitor. It disappeared as he flipped the glowing screen around to show the others. A flickering video feed was playing, gathered by a canary drone approximately two hundred yards ahead. The drone was hovering over an object sprawled on the ground.

It was a body, that much was clear.

The corpse was on its stomach, facedown. The limbs were curiously elongated. It didn’t seem to be wearing clothes, though some parts of the skin were mottled darker than others. The remaining flesh was pale in the strafing light of the drone. Most disturbing, the body appeared to have sunk partially into the floor.

“It was crawling. Whatever it was, it looks like it was trying to crawl—” muttered Stone, before Vedala shushed him with a wave of her hand.

“Make no assumptions,” she said. “Move the drone closer.”

As the canary drew nearer to the corpse, the horrific image became clearer.

“What is it?” asked Stone, afraid to state the obvious.

“I don’t know,” said Odhiambo, “but it doesn’t look human to me.”

Evolutions

IN THE CUPOLA WINDOWS OF THE ISS, A RED LIGHT BEGAN to blink. Kline watched it, hesitating. A call was incoming from NORTHCOM at Peterson AFB.

Kline’s interactions with General Stern had grown more aloof as the hours mounted postrendezvous. She was not sure that communicating with him would further her aims. Ultimately, however, she decided to take the call.

[initiating satellite uplink—link established—connect]

ISS-KLINE

Kline here.

PAFB-STERN

Has there been any word from the team?

ISS-KLINE

Negative, Northcom.

PAFB-STERN

We have an indication they are alive. Were you aware?

ISS-KLINE