Virus

by S. D. Perry

  IT IS AWARE

  Somewhere in the South Pacific, a fierce typhoon strikes an American tug and its desperate crew. Barely surviving the storm, the crew comes upon the Volkov, a high-tech Russian research vessel that appears to be strangely deserted. Exploring the abandoned vessel, they find all of the Russian crew dead or missing.

  The Volkov is ripe for salvage, a tempting prospect, if they can claim it before any of the Russians return. But more than a potential fortune is at stake, for the ship is not as empty as it seems. There is something aboard the Volkov. Something far from human . . .

  VIRUS

  Copyright © 1998 by Universal Studios Publishing Rights, a Division of Universal Studios Licensing, Inc. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  Tor Books on the World Wide Web: http://www.tor.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  ISBN: 0-812-54158-8

  First Tor edition: August 1998

  Printed in the United States of America

  • Introduction •

  Virus is a science fiction story. And science fiction stories are best when based closely on facts or possibilities. How well these type of stories work is in how well they can blur the line between fact and fiction.

  My first “literary” introduction to science fiction was the book, 2001: A Space Odyssey. I grew up in the late Fifties in northern California, during the heyday of science fiction and horror B movies. I loved those movies. Aliens would come to Earth outside a small town and terrorize the residents, possessing them, torturing them. I must confess that at that time, I was not a great reader of books. The books I received the most enjoyment from were comic books, which I had to hide from my parents, who greatly disapproved of them.

  In the novel 2001, the Monolith was a teacher, sent by alien caretakers responsible for the success of life in our solar system. If the protohumans in the beginning of the story survived on Earth, they would prosper, eventually discovering another Monolith on the moon. Neat idea. In the film 2001, none of this was explained. But because I had read the book, I understood all of it—the harmony of novel and film working together to immerse me in the total story. This type of book had value to me. “You’ve read the book, now see the movie” suddenly made sense. The only danger would be if the movie didn’t live up to my own expectations of the book.

  On September 20, 1995, I dove 12,378 feet to the final resting place of the RMS Titanic. Two and a half miles beneath the surface of the North Atlantic, one of thirty-five people to have ever done so.

  I was in a twenty-two-foot orange-and-white Russian submersible called Mir II. James Cameron was in Mir I. It was his dive and his expedition and it was at his pleasure that I was there. I was part of the crew that was filming what would later become the opening sequence of the movie Titanic.

  The 1995 expedition spent thirty-one days in the North Atlantic, 600 plus miles south-southeast of Saint John’s, Newfoundland. We were for two weeks stationed above the Titanic.

  Our home away from home for those weeks was the Russian research vessel Akademik Mstislav Keldysh out of Kaliningrad. Gleaming white, her only other colors were the dark green of her upper decks and the bright orange of her two seventy-man lifeboats. At 450 feet, Keldysh was the largest vessel of her kind in the world and the pride of the Shirshov Oceanographic Institute. She carried a crew of 130, had eighteen science labs, complete machine shops, and was a totally self-contained floating condominium complex. A city of Russians with a few Canadians and Americans thrown into the mix.

  During those four long weeks, the crew of the Keldysh launched and recovered the Mir I and Mir II submersibles twelve times, did oceanographic studies (plus atmospheric tests, involving the Mir space station as it passed overhead), aided a ship at sea, and experienced two hurricanes on site: Hurricanes Louis and Marilyn. Louis being the most memorable, with forty-foot seas and ninety-knot winds. A kickass storm that seemed to go on forever. An experience I would never forget.

  What does this have to do with Virus? Everything.

  A month earlier I had been given a script by Universal to consider directing. It was based on the Dark Horse graphic novel created by Chuck Pfarrer. Mike Richardson from Dark Horse was an old friend. The producer would be Gale Anne Hurd, also a good friend. Gale had produced The Abyss, whose visual effects I had supervised. I was intrigued by this idea, but at the time I was already set to supervise the visual effects on Titanic. I was just awaiting word of a start date. If Virus was real, I would have to choose between supervising visual effects on Titanic and directing a major studio picture.

  But at that point, I wasn’t completely satisfied with the story of Virus. It was a very dense and complicated story involving a state-of-the-art Chinese spy ship and lots of grotesquely modified humans. The concept didn’t excite me at first. The Chinese had no such ships. Only the Russians and Americans did. The studio wanted an answer.

  I received word the next day from Lightstorm. I was to be on a plane headed for Halifax that coming weekend. I would be part of the 1995 Titanic expedition, but under one condition—I couldn’t tell a soul. Not the studio, not Gale Hurd—no one.

  We were two weeks at sea before Jim brought Virus up in casual conversation. He had talked to Gale before we left Halifax and he wanted to know if I had made up my mind about doing it. I hadn’t. I told him I wasn’t happy with the story.

  Jim’s advice to me was make Virus my own. Bring my real-life experiences to it. Be a director. Directing a major motion picture was a gift and should be taken seriously. He was kicking me out of the nest.

  The following weeks I thought hard about it. After all, half of my relatives were fishermen. The crew of Virus could be a compilation of the numerous people I had crossed paths with over the years. The tug crew I had worked with in the Northern Pacific, on The Abyss, could be assimilated into the story along with the Russians of the Keldysh crew. And there was the Keldysh itself.

  Hell, the whole story could take place in a hurricane.

  Between dive operations I took copious notes. Upon our return Dennis Feldman (Species) was hired to help me create the story that I wanted to tell. That was the fun part of the process. Directing it would be a more difficult path. Reality would collide with concept. The budget, locations, time, and people would influence the grand scheme of things and—in the final completed harsh reality of film—pace.

  In the editing process pace and performance are the key to a successful film. Sometimes your favorite scenes end up on the cutting room floor in order to enhance the flow of the narrative. It’s part of the creative struggle between art and commerce. Time is money.

  But that is not the case with the written word. It will always be there, the way you always imagined it. As many words as you want.

  The film was completed by the time I read the final novelization of Virus. I was ecstatic. Here was the story as I had always imagined it. Through all the various drafts of the screenplays. A seafaring tale with all the ideas (all the best ideas) completed as a continuous story, right there on the page. I could take my time to savor the moments. Taste them. I could spend time with Foster, Steve, or the Captain at my own pace. Have another cup of coffee if I wanted. That is why I’m so happy with the way Danelle Perry finished the story, expanding on the original idea. Filling in the gaps. She made it her own. The way I hoped it would be.

  John Bruno

  Director, Virus, 1998

  As always, Mÿk, who takes care of me very well.

  And for Sera, who loves the movies.

&
nbsp; O friend, never strike sail to a fear!

  Come into port greatly,

  or sail with God the seas.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  • Prologue •

  It was just past dawn and the ocean was calm and smooth beneath the Volkov, the South Pacific waters lapping gently against the metal hull. It was typhoon season, but uneasy seas were a hundred miles away; the giant vessel carefully held its lonely position in the brilliant early light, gleaming white upon a vast blanket of deep and quiet blue.

  The second of the three parabolic dish antennas that dominated her main deck rotated skyward, the hum of machinery at work lost to the gentle winds high above. It was a magnificent ship and a glorious day, the kind of day that made one long to lounge in the sun and breathe in the salt, read a book, perhaps take a nap in the open air . . .

  Dr. Nadia Vinogradova scowled at the pleasant images, wishing that she could do these things and vaguely irritated that there was not a chance in hell; as it was, the day that she had scheduled probably wouldn’t allow her to set foot outside until well after dark. She generally enjoyed her job, but early morning was not her best time; Alexi was fond of telling her that she was a pouty little girl until noon, and she had to admit (at least to herself, anyway) that he was right.

  Nadia sighed inwardly and focused her attention on the task at hand; it was time. The overly bright C deck communications room was stuffy and she felt a little crowded by the men that sat with her at the video console—but she could also feel their anticipation and was proud to lead such an eager team.

  She tapped a few keys and cleared her throat, facing the monitor. As always, she felt a small thrill when contacting the station; she’d worked long and hard to make senior science officer, years of proving herself to be coolly competent and worthy of respect—but she was also still secretly delighted by this aspect of her position. It never failed to impress upon her the importance of her work.

  “MIR Station, MIR Station, this is the Akademic Research Vessel Vladislav Volkov. Do you read, over?”

  She looked up at the screen and into the pleasantly squinting face of Colonel Kominski. He was wearing a Houston Rockets T-shirt, a well-worn gift from one of the American astronauts, and looked as tired as she felt.

  “Loud and clear, Volkov. Nadia, is that you? Over.”

  Nadia smiled. “Good morning, Colonel. Is your disk array in position?”

  “That depends. It’s early yet, I haven’t had my tea.”

  Nadia heard Alexi chuckle behind her; the captain of the Volkov was a notorious tea drinker, always a cup in hand.

  Nadia rolled her eyes, still smiling. “Very funny, Colonel. Your data, please?”

  The cosmonaut reached overhead and flipped switches, then sighed dramatically in mock resignation. “Finalizing coordinates as we speak; preparing for data downlink in—thirty seconds.”

  He pointed to his second-in-command, Captain Lonya Rostov, who tapped at another switch on his console. “Yes, sir.”

  Nadia grinned at the two cosmonauts, 150 miles above the Volkov in the core module of the MIR. The data about to be sent was of particular interest to her, the first of a series of tests on cell factories performed in Kvant 1; she looked forward to studying the results and adding to her research on bioprocesses.

  But right now . . .

  “Lonya?” she asked sweetly.

  The captain arched his eyebrows. “Yes, Nadia?”

  “Bishop to king six.”

  Lonya Rostov frowned and looked up at the chessboard mounted over his console, studying it intently. Nadia had to suppress an urge to gloat; it was a strong move and she could tell that he hadn’t considered it.

  Put that in your belly, Rostov! He wasn’t going to win this one.

  Behind the frowning captain, Nadia saw one of the visiting female cosmonauts at an observation port—Kostoev, Nadia thought, but she couldn’t remember the woman’s first name. Ludmila? She held a camera and had raised it suddenly to take a picture of whatever she saw.

  Colonel Kominski interrupted Rostov’s chess musings abruptly. “We are twenty seconds from downlink corridor. Mark . . ."

  Rostov sighed and took it up. “Mark. Starting automatic sequencing, now . . . eighteen . . . seventeen . . .”

  The woman, Kostoev, broke in urgently, her voice high and anxious. “Lonya, out your starboard portal—something is coming straight at us.”

  Rostov stopped the verbal count and turned, peered at something offscreen. Nadia saw something like fear pass over his even features and felt her own muscles tense—Lonya Rostov was not an easily frightened man.

  “What is that? Colonel, you’d better look at this. Something’s approaching and we just got in its way—”

  Nadia waited, suddenly filled with a deep sense of foreboding. “Something” approaching? Though highly improbable, perhaps a meteor, an unscheduled shuttle—but what could be headed for the MIR that Rostov wouldn’t know?

  Alarmed, she leaned closer to the monitor, watching carefully—and although she had a clear view, the next few seconds were a confused blur of motion and sound.

  There was a crackle of sharp static and the screen flashed a vivid blue, overlaying the interior of the module in a lightning-fast series of brilliant shocks. The cosmonauts were suddenly outlined by what looked like giant bolts of electricity, arcing and snapping through the air. There was an eerie, high-pitched electronic squeal like nothing Nadia had ever heard—

  —and the picture on her console distorted and turned to dark snow. Over the blaring static, Nadia clearly heard screams and shouts of mortal terror.

  Horrified and bewildered, Nadia punched at the relay keys, her heart pounding. And then everything went out, the screams cut off abruptly as the monitor died.

  “MIR Station? MIR Station—?”

  Only silence and a blank screen; nothing. Nadia turned to the captain, met his stunned gaze with her own. “Alexi, all audio and visual links are gone, something is very wrong—”

  The transmission!

  Nadia looked back at her console, at the smaller screen set next to the video receiver. The numbers flashed, green against black, and suddenly she wanted to scream, unreasonably frightened as the MIR completed the countdown.

  3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

  The soft beep from the machine seemed incredibly loud in the shocked silence of the room. Nothing happened, and Nadia looked back at Alexi, opened her mouth to say something, ask him what to do—

  —when a strange and terrible light erupted into the control room.

  Huge, blue electrical arcs snapped across the chamber, crackling with power and heat. Nadia leapt to her feet, saw and heard the other crew members do the same, shouting and stumbling to get away from the surging bolts of brilliant light.

  Nadia spun, searched wildly for the source of the energy, terrified—and stopped, stared at the console computer screens in the chaos of the invading radiance.

  Information scrolled across the monitors so rapidly that she could hardly make any of it out. Numbers, lines of flashing icons, layout prints, and pages upon pages of stored data whipped up and were gone as she watched, frozen in disbelief.

  What—

  A string of letters and numbers suddenly appeared alone on one screen, followed by another and then a third. Nadia’s mouth went dry as she realized what they were.

  “Captain, someone’s accessing the main computer!”

  Alexi followed her wide-eyed gaze, stared at the monitor in pure astonishment. “Impossible! I’m the only one who knows the access code—”

  There was a jolting flash of blue light and they were both knocked to the floor. Static screamed from everywhere and the electronic squeal that she’d heard from the MIR filled the room, shrill and insane. Papers and readouts flew through the air.

  “Shut the power off!” Alexi screamed.

  Nadia looked up, saw her research immunologist still on his feet. “Shut it down! Shut it all down!”

 
She saw the terror on Yandiev’s face, but he didn’t hesitate. The scientist lunged for the power switch—

  —and Nadia saw a bolt of the crackling blue light strike him, rip through his chest like an electrical sword. The brilliance seared his flesh, enveloped him, and Nadia screamed then, all semblance of control, of rational thought, torn away.

  Anatoly Yandiev had burst into flame, every part of his staggering body consumed by raging fire. He crumpled, burning, to the deck.

  Nadia was still screaming as everything swirled away, that horrible high-pitched sound chasing her into a blackness that crackled and spat with a dark and unknown purpose.

  • 1 •

  Seven hundred forty nautical miles south of Fiji, Leiah had grown from a petulant child into a serious bitch in a matter of hours—an insane, terrible, class four screamer that had churned the seas into forty-plus-foot swells, raging beneath an ominous, boiling night sky!

  Kelly Foster sat on the heaving, humid bridge of the Sea Star and studied the typhoon, pulsing spirals of innocuous-looking light on the radar when it wasn’t obscured by surges of violent static. The tug rocked wildly, thrown into the storming night on heaving waters and plunged back down into deep valleys of ocean. Foster was scared, and more than a little pissed off.

  She’d warned Everton as soon as the system had organized into a tropical depression; he’d had hours, listening to her increasingly urgent reports of convections on the rise. Had he heard any of it, let her change course to give the storm a safely wide berth? “We’ll clear it, she won’t turn, I know these waters,” he’d said.

  The typhoon had made the upgrade to light magenta at just after 0300, and by the looks of it, Leiah would hit white before she was through.

  And here we are in the midst, here I am like a goddamn fool on a ship run by an even bigger fool. What the hell was I thinking, signing up for this?

  The ship bucked and moaned against the turbulent waters and Foster winced as another giant wave crashed against their tow. The heavy container barge was going to drag them down, if the aft winch actually held out, and the captain still wouldn’t listen to reason. He’d let their options run out with each decision put off, and now they were all going to pay for it.