The Andromeda Evolution

by Michael Crichton

  Vedala nodded, swallowing tears.

  Stone cleared his throat. He forced himself to speak without emotion.

  “I am proceeding to close the hatch, Dr. Vedala.”

  “James, no . . . there has to be another way—”

  “I wish there was,” he said, tightening his grip on the hatch.

  Vedala’s genius intellect was racing now, sprinting desperately through scenarios in which James Stone lived. She felt something in the back of her mind, the tickle of a thought struggling to reveal itself. But time was up.

  There was no happy solution.

  “Thank you, Nidhi,” said Stone, as he lowered the hatch the first few inches. His voice was clear and haunting in her helmet radio. “Thank you for everything. I would have liked it . . . if we could have had more time together.”

  Over Stone’s shoulder, Vedala could see the Andromeda infection spreading molecularly through the infrastructure of the module—traveling relentlessly closer to the rest of the ISS. The remains of the Robonaut floated in a slow circle, half its golden face revealed.

  “Goodbye, James,” said Vedala. “Godspeed.”

  Reluctantly letting go, she began to float backward. Stone tugged on the hatchway and began to slide it down. Through its circular porthole, Vedala watched his determined face and tried to ignore the pain pulsing in her damaged knee. Braced against the wall, he dragged the hatchway closed inch by inch.

  As he worked, Vedala made a final confession over the radio link. “When you joined this mission, I thought you’d been chosen because of who your father was. That’s why I hated you, even though we’d never met. But I was wrong, James. I want you to know that. It doesn’t matter who your father was—you were the right choice.”

  Stone paused briefly, before making a confession of his own.

  “Don’t feel too bad. I had my own reasons for coming. And Jeremy Stone was actually my adoptive father,” he said. “All of it was classified, but Stern must have known. My birth name was Jamie Ritter. Fifty years ago, I was one of two survivors of the first Andromeda incident. I was the baby.”

  Stone could feel the vibration of the infection through the soles of his boots. The time for goodbyes was over. Wincing, he hauled on the lever to close and lock the hatchway.

  It jammed.

  Vedala had shoved the dented fire extinguisher into the gap. She planted her feet against the wall and hauled the hatchway open with both hands. Before Stone could react, she had grabbed him by the chest and yanked him into the Unity node.

  “Nidhi!” he shouted, but it was too late.

  A rippling swell of infected material was closing in on the hatchway, expanding in serpentine paths. Stone had no choice but to help Nidhi close and seal the hatch. Then he turned and shouted, “What the hell do you think you’re doing—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. Nidhi had pulled him to her, pressing the cool surface of her half-mirrored visor against his broken helmet. Inches away, she was grinning, her eyes bright and wet.

  Vedala spoke with the calm confidence of a person who has been the smartest person in the room for her entire life, with no exceptions made for this room, thousands of miles above planet Earth.

  “James, the only scenario in which you can be infected this long without symptoms is that you’re not infected. Understand?”

  “I breathed it in. And I can’t have formed an immunity. It’s impossible.”

  “True. But when you were a baby, your lungs were infected with AS-1. It couldn’t kill you then because your blood pH was too alkalotic-basic, from crying. But when it evolved into the AS-2 variety, your lungs remained coated with benign microparticles.”

  “And . . . the Strains ignore each other,” added Stone.

  “It’s the basis of how my inhibitor spray works.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Exactly. Your past exposure renders you effectively immune to infection via the lungs. This is why you’re here. This is why Stern picked you at the last minute. On a damned hunch.”

  Intercepted Transmission

  IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER NOON AT NORTHCOM CONTROL center at Peterson AFB. General Rand Stern was thinking to himself that it was lucky his four daughters had grown accustomed to his occasional unexplained absences. They were good kids and had always been very understanding.

  The general stood at the head of the room with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. A scrap of paper with an authorization code number was clenched in his fingers. He was pondering whether he would survive to make this particular absence up to his wife and children.

  Stern had never felt more helpless in his life.

  On the front screens, footage from various orbital telescopes—some military or government, and others seized from private institutions—showed multiple angles of the International Space Station. It was growing increasingly distant, still running dark. The bizarre ribbonlike tether stretched away from it, barely visible, like the thread of a spiderweb floating on the wind.

  Whatever had been happening inside for the last hour was invisible from the ground. After the fiasco with the robotic arm, there had been no sign of the field team. In near total silence, a cloud of tension had settled over the control room.

  Stern knew a life-or-death fight had occurred. He just didn’t know who had won.

  “Sir,” said Stern’s lead analyst. “There’s no sign of them. Perhaps it’s time?”

  “Not yet,” replied Stern, his voice quiet and commanding. “When it’s time for that . . . if it’s time, I will advise.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For now,” ordered Stern, “keep Felix and King squadrons on rotating assignment. All fighters are weapons hot and authorized to protect the tether at all costs.”

  Stern looked dumbly at the paper in his hands. Spoken out loud, the authorization code would activate Operation Zulu.

  Two hours and sixteen minutes earlier, the general had asked for and received presidential authorization for the operation—a secret action plan that, in a single word, would trigger a waterfall of thousands of alerts disseminating down to local municipalities across the United States and its territories and possessions. The unprecedented call would first evacuate members of the upper government to predetermined safe areas. Second, it would declare martial law nationwide.

  In addition, Zulu would summon the entire half-million-person force of the US National Guard to their local stations; activate all police and fire department personnel to their command stations; and alert a grassroots network of church leaders and city shelters to begin making preparation for mass casualties. All doctors and nurses would be dispatched to emergency shifts at major metropolitan hospitals.

  In military scenario planning, Operation Zulu had been designed for a single unlikely purpose—as a last-ditch response to a full-scale surprise ground invasion from a combined coalition of enemy nations.

  Incredibly, an even worse scenario was unfolding.

  Stern was considering the activation of Operation Zulu as a response to the high probability of ground and water contamination by a self-replicating extraterrestrial microparticle, which would likely progress northward from infection sites around the equator. First, a wave of refugees would arrive from Mexico and Central America—tens of millions, fleeing reports of a boiling sea of infection. Next, the nation would face an unstoppable chain reaction that would consume soil, air, and water.

  The end of the world, in not so many words.

  Most of the analysts flinched when the room erupted in a snakelike hiss of radio static.

  “Houston says ISS comms are back online, sir,” called an analyst, two fingers pressed to his earpiece radio. The room erupted in murmuring and a sudden burst of applause that Stern silenced with a glance.

  “Put the loop room-wide,” responded the general. Seeing the surprise on his analyst’s face, he added, “Mission Control in Houston can hear this, and so can Moscow. We’re all in it together now, good news or bad.”

&
nbsp; The analysts shot each other grave looks as speakers around the room crackled with static. Stern’s fingers were locked together behind his back in a painfully tight grip around the damp authorization code. His face was calm.

  Standing at the head of the room, Stern looked like a captain about to go down with his ship.

  “We’re getting activity on the line, sir,” reported the analyst, as static began to resolve into words. “These comms are between ISS modules. Not directed to us. Audio is patchy. Putting up a real-time transcription.”

  < . . . >

  ISS-HAMANAKA

  . . . tell us what to do.

  ISS-STONE

  My colleague has a lower leg injury. She’s barely mobile. Do you have medical facilities?

  ISS-HAMANAKA

  I can treat her. I’m coming out now.

  ISS-STONE

  Thank you. The hatchway is cleared. Komarov, can you stabilize life support systems and contact Mission Control? Tell them . . . the infection has almost spread to the tether. Once it does, Vedala estimates it’ll reach the planet’s surface in an hour, maybe a lot less.

  ISS-KOMAROV

  They can hear us now, Stone, if I’m not mistaken.

  HOU-CAPCOM

  This is Houston. Proceed.

  ISS-STONE

  Right, okay. Hi. I need every brilliant brain down there in Mission Control. First, confirm what happens if we sever the ribbon Earthside.

  HOU-CAPCOM

  One minute . . . Stone, we calculate that if we sever that ribbon Earthside, the weight of it will slowly pull the ISS into destructive reentry. That outcome won’t change until the ISS is well beyond geosynch . . . at least thirty-five thousand miles.

  ISS-STONE

  Then it’s not an option.

  HOU-CAPCOM

  Right. And we’ve got more bad news. If the ISS decouples from the infected modules up there, the weight of the ribbon will drag them back to Earth. So I’m afraid we’re not seeing a solution from down here.

  ISS-STONE

  What if . . . what if the ribbon could be severed at a midpoint?

  HOU-CAPCOM

  That’s interesting. [urgent off-mike whispering] Based on mass calcs, it could work. Earthside tether is subject to the most gravitational pull, so it’s by far the heaviest. We need to separate the ribbon at . . . around thirty miles up. That removes enough weight to send the ISS and upper tether into escape velocity. The lower portion will be short enough to fall to Earth without reentry burn. The ISS will need to decouple from the infected modules immediately afterward, then hit a full deceleration profile to avoid being ejected into deep space.

  ISS-STONE

  So you’re saying it is possible—

  PAFB-STERN

  Stone, this is General Stern. It won’t work. Thirty miles is too damn high. An ICBM would aerosolize the ribbon material and defeat our purpose. Likewise, our surface-to-air missiles have a max vertical range of twenty miles. The maximum service ceiling for our aircraft in the area is thirteen miles, not even half of what we need.

  ISS-STONE

  There is one way.

  PAFB-STERN

  . . . you’re not seriously—

  ISS-STONE

  I’ll go back down the climber. If I can sever the ribbon at thirty miles, I could parachute down. . . . Houston, what do you think?

  HOU-CAPCOM

  Jesus. Uh, yeah, yes. Hold one second. . . . Master inventory shows an old pumpkin suit from the Shuttle days. Stored in Zarya. It’s . . . an advanced crew escape suit, ACES, with a parachute. There’s a drogue and a main stage. Hopefully still functional.

  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.