Майкл Крайтон - The Andromeda Evolution

The robot pressed the dormant end of the ribbon against the bare metal wall and painted it with another dab of accelerant.

In seconds, the AS-3 material seemed to sink into the module hull structure. The smooth wall near this mating point began to shimmer a familiar gray-green color. The materials were combining as the accelerant was consumed, the aluminum of the hull interlacing with the AS-3 microparticle. In a subsequent temporary chain reaction, metallic tendrils spread through the hull. The other end of the ribbon hovered weightlessly, growing longer, rippling like a swimming snake.

A shrill alarm began to whine.

Kline’s monitor flashed the following warning message:

ARGON LEVELS 10%, NITROGEN 22%, COMBINATORIAL GASES OVERCOMPENSATING—PLEASE REFILL CANISTER—CANISTER EMPTY—ALERT

The carefully balanced atmospheric levels inside the module—designed to be inert and nonreactive—were changing rapidly. The leading edge of the expanding ribbon was consuming the air itself. Sustained by a steady appetite of atmosphere, the ribbon kept growing as the infinitely adaptable microparticle searched for any available fuel to continue its self-replication.

Kline ignored the blaring alarm, and the sound soon faded to nothing as the atmosphere was further consumed.

The ribbon began to spit and twist, like a downed electrical wire. The leading edge brushed over the carapace of the R3A4. On contact, it sent up a roil of smoke that was itself consumed by the swiftly growing material. The inhibitor seemed to have prevented the ribbon from fusing with the robot’s fabric skin.

In any case, the machine did not react. There were no pain sensors built in for Sophie Kline to feel.

Instead, the machine’s black lenses were focused on a small point in the deckside hull. Pausing as if to take a deep breath—an action that was actually occurring in the module occupied by Sophie Kline—the R3A4 flexed its multijointed legs and launched itself across the cylindrical module.

As it soared, the machine pulled back its fist. On contact with the far wall, it unleashed a punch with all the force it could muster. The servo motors in the punching wrist shattered on impact as its gold-anodized aluminum knuckles dented into solid hull. The blow wrenched several fingers into awkward angles, snapping beige-white Vectran tendons like moist cartilage, creating a grisly semblance to human injury.

Drawing back the mangled endoskeleton of its hand, the Robonaut punched the same spot again.

And again.

On the fourth blow, the hull of the Wildfire module breached. What little atmosphere still remained was explosively evacuated through the fist-size hole in the side of the module.

Designed to withstand depressurization events up to 15 PSI per second, the Robonaut was not harmed, although its bearings emitted tiny particles of lubricating grease as the air evacuated from them.

Ignoring its damaged hand, the machine eagerly leaned forward. Through the new hole, the R3A4 gazed upon the blue face of planet Earth, shining thousands of miles below.

Inundation

BASED ON INTERVIEWS AND DATA RECOVERED FROM the last canary drone, the flood began with a groaning that could be heard somewhere deep in the guts of the anomaly, growing into a rumbling bass that resonated everywhere. A wet-pavement aroma of moisture filled the air. By this time, a thin carpet of cold water had already swept past. Tupa was a dim shape in the distance, sprinting after the light of the lone surviving canary, his bare feet smacking the tunnel floor.

The field team looked at each other in dismay for a split second, headlamps illuminating a haze of water vapor rising into the air. Then, without speaking, they broke into a measured trot. Vedala led, with Stone and Odhiambo following in single file. With a swipe of his finger, Stone set the canary’s LED to full illumination. The tunnel ahead erupted in stark white light.

“Odhiambo?” called Vedala, panting. “That sounds seismic. Is the anomaly growing again?”

“Doubtful. This is definitely a hydrological feature,” said Odhiambo. “Feel the pressure in your ears? That is from a lot of water filling an empty void.”

Moving with a slight limp, Odhiambo fished a fresh chemlight from his kit pocket and cracked it. The eerie light swung back and forth in his fist as he clambered forward. The exhausted scientists were moving with growing panic, boots thumping into a skim of water darkening the metallic floor.

The disturbing roar was building all around them.

“This tunnel is a tiny volume compared to the lake,” said Odhiambo. “And I’m afraid it will flood very, very quickly.”

Tupa sprinted in easy strides. Navigating by the light of the drone, the boy had pulled out far ahead of the others. As he ran, his feet dipped deeper into the water. Farther back, Stone and Vedala now ran side by side, panting but keeping the same pace. The surging water was seeping into their boots now, igniting a panic that drove them forward faster.

Odhiambo, older by nearly two decades, kept up for a few minutes. Then he began to slow, grimacing and holding his side. Though the roar of water was deafening and the chilly liquid clearly rising, his body simply would not allow him to keep pace with the others, adrenaline or not.

As the water rose to his calves, however, the lifelong spelunker understood innately that his life depended on reaching an exit on the other end of the tunnel.

If, indeed, one existed.

When Stone turned to check on him, Odhiambo raised a hand to shoo him forward.

“Go!” he panted. “I’ll catch up.”

Stone ignored Odhiambo’s advice and stopped. Reaching an arm around the older man’s shoulders, he ushered him ahead. Vedala had not slowed, trying to catch up with Tupa. Stone could glimpse her eyes occasionally as she glanced back over her shoulder to check on his progress.

Nearly two feet of frigid brown water had already risen around the team’s legs, nearly up to their thighs. They stampeded forward in a chaos of panting and splashing and metallic echoes. Every scattered droplet was shadowed and lit by the flickering, dancing light of their headlamps.

A scream came from up ahead.

“Tupa!” shouted Stone, torn between helping the old man beside him and the young boy up ahead.

“Jahmays!” came an echoing reply from somewhere in the distance.

Struggling through the splashing turmoil with one arm around the sagging shoulders of Odhiambo, Stone thought to check the monitor hanging around his neck. From the canary camera feed, he saw why Tupa was shouting. The boy had reached the end of the tunnel.

On the far wall, a metal ladder rose into darkness.

Odhiambo had been right about the speed of the flood. The lower rungs were already submerged in sloshing river water. Tupa had climbed the ladder to get above it. And at the top, he’d found another hatchway.

Tupa punched and clawed at the closed portal, to no avail.

Still pulling Odhiambo along, Stone shouted to Vedala ahead in the darkness: “Nidhi! There’s a locked hatchway ahead! Tupa can’t get through!”

The nimble woman increased her speed, calling over her shoulder, “Got it!”

As the ice-cold water rose to his waist, Stone slogged forward, helping Odhiambo along as fast as he could. The old man was shaking violently now, wheezing with each breath. He had pushed his body well beyond its limits. And yet he held on to Stone with a grim strength, forging stiffly ahead.

It was quieter now. The roaring had hushed, along with the splashing.

Both men tossed away their backpacks. Now they were moving through what felt like cold lead, pushing forward on numb feet, their clothing soaked and heavy. The only warmth was their arms around each other, and even that heat was fading.