Майкл Крайтон - The Andromeda Evolution

PAFB-STERN

It’s too high.

HOU-CAPCOM

Record is twenty-five miles. Technically, it’s feasible . . .

ISS-STONE

How about cutting the tether? Can we mix something together? Make some kind of a bomb?

HOU-CAPCOM

Uh, no . . . no way. [nervous laughter] The tether is much too strong . . . and it will regenerate. To blow that thing, he’ll need a focused [off-mike whispering] . . . well, he will! [scuffling sounds]

ISS-STONE

Hello? Are you there?

HOU-CAPCOM

Dr. Stone, you’ll need a modular shaped-charge explosive, designed specifically to cut metal.

ISS-STONE

Well, that’s impossible.

. . .

ISS-STONE

Houston?

. . .

HOU-CAPCOM

Tell him, sir. You’ve got to tell him.

. . .

PAFB-STERN

I can neither confirm nor deny details of certain, uh, orbital experiments, but I can say . . . that item is available.

ISS-STONE

You’ve got to be kidding me.

HOU-CAPCOM

Komarov, can you collect the ASAT package—

ISS-KOMAROV

Already on it, Houston.

HOU-CAPCOM

Then it’s a plan.

ISS-STONE

It’s a plan.

ISS-KOMAROV

Dr. Stone, I wish we could toast your voyage home properly. But it must suffice to say udachi. Good luck. You are a brave man.

[communication terminated]

Stern looked down from the front screens to find a room full of ashen-faced analysts staring at him. He stared back, blinking slowly. Finally, the comms operator cleared his throat and spoke.

“Sir, if this fails . . . should we prep Zulu?”

Stern let his gaze settle on the analyst’s face. He noted the circles under the man’s eyes and the stubble on his chin. There was a coffee stain on his shirt pocket, two days old at least.

“No,” said General Stern. “No, I’m afraid it’s already too late for Zulu. This is either going to work, or it’s not. In fact, all nonessential personnel . . . go home to your families.”

Stern turned and walked toward his back office, adding, “That’s an order.”

Super-Terminal Velocity

HURRY,” URGED NIDHI VEDALA, HER FACE PRESSED TO a dark porthole window of the Zvezda module. “The new infection is contained, but not for long.”

Outside, organic strands of infected material had webbed between the Wildfire and Leonardo modules like gristle between lobes of meat.

“Hush,” said Jin Hamanaka, inspecting a carbon-fiber splint strapped to Vedala’s right leg. The splint had been preceded by an intramuscular injection of twenty milligrams of morphine. “You’re going to feel tired and nauseous now. It’s okay to rest.”

“Uh, no,” said Vedala, turning to the backup remote workstation. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Blinking to focus, Vedala accessed the computer. She pecked at the keyboard, scanning through Kline’s programs. Finally, she reached a simple screen with the words: “ DESCENT PROFILE.”

“Here we go.”

Vedala’s urgent voice echoed in stereo inside the headsets of Komarov and Stone. Back to back, the two were deep inside the Destiny laboratory module. The white walls of the module, one of the largest pieces of the ISS, sprouted metallic blue handrails and neatly packed express racks full of equipment, experiments, and no small amount of redundant junk. Stone’s suit was connected to the module’s service and cooling panel via a universal umbilical line. As they spoke, it recharged batteries and replenished oxygen and water supplies. The battered suit had already been inspected head to toe for damage and hastily approved by the crew.

Komarov had retrieved the bright orange ACES survival suit, stripped out the parachute, and roughly affixed it to Stone’s back. The Russian had assured Stone that the old chute was designed for high-velocity emergencies just like this—except that the person wearing it usually didn’t know the danger was coming ahead of time.

“So it is even better for you, right?” Komarov had asked.

Now the Russian had his arms buried in an experimental tray, rummaging with bright eyes and humming a tuneless song.

“Do you see it?” Stone asked. “Houston says it’s in there. Payload rack number two, portside.”

“Yes, yes,” said Komarov. “It is a delicate situation. Have patience.”

The Russian hauled out a long golden canister. Then he lifted a bright steel ax that had been floating by his side. The muscles in Komarov’s forearms bulged as he began using the ax head to pry the end off the canister.

“I would go myself, you know,” said Komarov, voice straining as he worked at the canister. “But I have been up here for six months already. My legs are like rubber, and besides, Houston wouldn’t trust me.”

“Where did you get an ax?” asked Stone.

Komarov shook his head dismissively. “All Russian modules have a little ax by the door. Waste of money to run utility lines outside the module, like the Americans do. Instead, if we have an emergency and the door needs to close all the way—you have the ax.”

“The ax? For what?”

“For the utility line. Chop, chop. Then close the door.”

Stone was left speechless, and glad the fight with Kline had occurred on an American module.

Komarov finished prying open the canister. From inside, he gently extracted a smaller canister the size of a flower vase. A hollow copper cone was mounted to the front, giving it the look of a missile or a huge bullet. A thick golden pin was attached to a dangling O-ring jutting from the back of the device.

“There,” said Komarov. “Simple as that.”

The weapon had clearly come out of a hunter-seeker satellite. And it was obviously something nobody wanted to talk about. Stone frowned.

Seeing Stone’s expression, the Russian shrugged.

“Chinese do it all the time. At least we are more discreet.”

“How does it work?” asked Stone.

“Secure the device with this end pointed at the tether,” said Komarov, holding up the metal cone. “Detach the pin, and two seconds later, kaboom. Got it?”

Stone nodded.

“I’m ready. Open the airlock.”

“Ah, one more thing, my friend.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you want to put on a functioning helmet?”

Stone touched his face with a gloved hand, feeling blood rushing to his cheeks. Komarov laughed loudly, clinging to a handrail to keep himself from floating away in his mirth. The Russian astronaut was soon securing Nidhi’s old helmet over Stone’s head and face, locking it securely with a few expert movements.

“Americans, bozhe moi ,” he muttered, shaking his head. “And you think we are the reckless ones.”

Moments later, Stone had maneuvered himself and the shaped-charge canister into the Quest airlock.

With a last thumbs-up, Komarov closed the hatchway and activated the depress pump. Stone felt the odd shivering sensation of evacuating atmosphere. A coolness crept over him, and the recharged interior heaters began warming his thighs and chest. Over the last few hours, Stone had gotten used to wearing the Z-3 space suit. After his taxing ordeal with Kline, however, it had begun to feel like iron armor hanging over his already fatigued muscles.

As Stone waited, he spoke into his collar mike.

“Nidhi? How are the controls looking?”

“No . . .” came a soft reply.

“No? Nidhi? What’s wrong?”

“Puh-roblem,” finished Vedala, words slurring despite a clear attempt to concentrate. “No problem. I have got it covered.”

“How much morphine did they give you?”

“A medically necessary amount. But James, here’s what I want to say. I wanted to say . . . you don’t have to do this.”