The Swarm: A Novel

by Frank Schätzing

  ‘Neither.’

  Olsen stared at him. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You’re talking about…the devil? Forces of evil? Little green men? The X-Files?’

  ‘It’s only a theory. But, there has to be a connection somewhere. Lots of different phenomena happening all at once - does that sound like coincidence to you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘There you go. You don’t know. And I don’t either.’

  ‘What kind of connection did you have in mind?’

  Johanson made an evasive gesture. ‘It depends on what you’ve found.’

  ‘Very clever.’ Olsen curled his lip.

  ‘Just tell me what you’ve got and we’ll take it from there.’

  Olsen bent down to open a drawer and pulled out a stack of paper. ‘My Internet pickings,’ he said. ‘You nearly had me with that nonsense you were spouting.’

  ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘The beaches in Central and South America are closed. No one’s going into the water, and jellies are clogging the fishermen’s nets. In Costa Rica, Chile and Peru, they’re descending on the coastline in apocalyptic swarms. Portuguese men-of-war, plus a second species, very small, with extremely long, toxic tentacles. At first they thought they were box jellies, but now they suspect something else, perhaps a new species.’

  Another new species, mused Johanson. First unidentifiable worms, now unidentifiable jellyfish…

  ‘And the box jellyfish in Australia?’

  ‘Similar problem.’ Olsen riffled through his stack of paper. ‘Increasing numbers. Fishing industry in chaos. Tourist industry on its knees…’

  ‘What about the fish? Are they bothered by the jellies?’

  ‘Too late - they’ve gone. The big shoals have abandoned the coast-lines. Reports from fishing trawlers say they’ve left their normal range and headed out to sea.’

  ‘But they won’t find any food there. What’s the official take on it?’

  ‘All the affected areas have emergency committees,’ said Olsen, ‘but they won’t tell you anything. I’ve tried.’

  ‘So they’re keeping the really bad stuff to themselves.’

  ‘Quite likely.’ Olsen pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Take a look at this. It’s a list of stories that hit the press with a fanfare and haven’t been heard of since. Jellies off the west coast of Africa. A probable jelly plague in Japan. Confirmation of a jelly invasion in the Philippines. People listed as missing, then a retraction, then not another peep. But that’s nothing compared to this. For a few years now there’s been talk of a particular kind of algae. Pfiesteria piscicida. A microscopic killer. Targets animals and humans. It’s almost impossible to get rid of. Until recently it’d stuck to the other side of the Atlantic, but now France is affected. It’s not looking pretty.’

  ‘Any deaths?’

  ‘You can bet on it. The French are fairly tight-lipped about it, but it seems they found the algae in contaminated lobster. I printed out all the key stuff.’

  He pushed one section of the documentation towards Johanson. ‘Then we’ve got the disappearing boats. Some of the distress calls have been recorded, but they don’t make any sense - they break off too early. Whatever happened to those vessels happened quickly.’ Olsen waved another piece of paper at him. ‘Three of the distress calls ended up on the web.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The boats were attacked.’

  ‘Attacked?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Olsen rubbed his nose. ‘Now there’s a conspiracy theory for you. More grist to your mill, I suppose. The sea rises up and takes on mankind…About time too, after all the rubbish we’ve dumped in it. Not to mention the fish and the whales. Which reminds me, the last I heard was that ships in the east Pacific were being set upon by whales. Now everyone’s too scared to venture out, apparently.’

  ‘Does anyone know—’

  ‘Of course not. No one knows anything. I tried bloody hard to get something for you. There was nothing on the collisions or the tankers either. A total news embargo. You’re right about one thing: the minute anyone starts reporting the incidents, a veil of silence descends. Maybe this is The X-Files, after all.’ Olsen frowned. ‘In any case, there are too many jellyfish. Too much of everything, really - it’s all happening in excess.’

  ‘And no one knows why.’

  ‘They’re not rash enough to claim it’s all interconnected if that’s what you mean. They’ll probably blame El Niño or global warming. There’ll be a sudden interest in invasion biology, and all kinds of theories will be published.’

  ‘The usual suspects, then.’

  ‘Yes, but it makes no sense. Algae and jellies have been shipped around the world for years. It’s not a new phenomenon.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Johanson. ‘But that’s what I’m suggesting. An invasion of box jellies is one thing, a worldwide outbreak of extraordinary phenomena is another.’

  Olsen pressed his fingertips together. ‘Well, if you really want to make connections. I don’t think biological invasions are the right place to start. I’d go for behavioural anomalies. We’re seeing attacks of a kind we’ve never seen before.’

  ‘Did you come across any other new species?’

  ‘Have you anything in mind?’ asked Olsen, deliberately.

  If I ask about worms, thought Johanson, he’ll guess right away. ‘Not really,’ he said.

  Olsen handed over the rest of the papers. ‘So when are you planning to tell me whatever it is you’re not prepared to say now?’

  Johanson picked up the printouts and stood up. ‘I’ll buy you a drink someday.’

  ‘Sure, you know, if I can ever find time.’

  ‘Thanks, Knut.’ Johanson stepped out into the corridor. Students streamed past from a lecture hall. Some were laughing and chatting, others more serious.

  He stood still and watched them. Suddenly the idea of a master-plan didn’t seem so far-fetched.

  Greenland Sea, near Spitsbergen, Svalbard Archipelago

  That night, in the moonlight, the ocean of ice looked so spectacularly beautiful that the crew came out on deck. Lukas Bauer missed it: sitting in his cabin, bent over his work, he was searching for a needle in a haystack - but the haystack was the size of two seas.

  Karen Weaver had helped him enormously, but two days ago she’d disembarked in Longyearbyen, the capital of Spitsbergen, to pursue her research there. She led a turbulent life, thought Bauer, whose own was scarcely more ordered. Since starting out in journalism, she had specialised in marine-related topics. As far as Bauer could tell, she had chosen her career because it allowed her to visit the world’s most inhospitable places. Weaver loved extremes, unlike Bauer, who hated them but was so committed to his work that he was prepared to give up comfort for the sake of understanding. It was the same for many scientists: people took them for adventurers, but adventure was the price they paid for knowledge.

  Bauer missed comfy armchairs, trees, birds and German beer. Now he missed Weaver. He’d grown fond of the determined young woman, and he’d begun to see the point of what she did. Getting the public interested in your work meant using a vocabulary that wasn’t a hundred per cent accurate, but that everyone could follow. Weaver had made him realise that all his work on the Gulf Stream would be lost on people if he couldn’t explain how the current started or where it flowed. At first he hadn’t believed her. Just as he’d refused to believe that no one had heard of drifting profilers, until Weaver had convinced him that they were too new and specialised. But not knowing about the Gulf Stream? Weren’t children taught anything at school?

  Weaver was right that his work needed public exposure: he could broadcast his anxiety and put pressure on the culprits.

  And Bauer was worried.

  The source of his troubles lay in the Gulf of Mexico, where temperate surface water flowed from Africa along the coast of South America. Warmed by the sun in the Caribbean basin, it contin
ued northwards, an inviting stream of salty water that remained on the surface because of its heat. The Gulf Stream, Europe’s mobile heater, wound its way north, carrying a billion megawatts of warmth, equivalent in energy to 250,000 nuclear power stations. It travelled as far as Newfoundland where it mingled with the cold waters of the Labrador Current and dispersed. Some pinched off to form eddies, swirling rings of warm water that meandered northwards as the North Atlantic Drift. Prevailing westerlies saw to it that plenty evaporated, conferring ample rain on Europe and causing the water’s salinity to soar. Dubbed the Norwegian Current, the water continued along the coast of Norway through the North Atlantic, staying warm enough to allow ships to dock in south-west Spitsbergen even in mid-winter. It was only when it reached Greenland and northernmost Norway that the stream of heat was halted. There, it hit the Arctic, where the icy ocean and chill winds cooled it rapidly. The Gulf Stream had always been very salty; now it was immensely cold too. The heavy water fell, sinking vertically - not as a front but in channels of water called chimneys, which were difficult to pinpoint since they moved with the swell. Convective chimneys measured twenty to fifty metres across, with ten or so clustered in the space of a square kilometre; but their exact position varied daily, depending on the wind and waves. The critical point about them was the suction effect the sinking water caused. This was the Gulf Stream’s real secret: it didn’t flow north but was drawn there, sucked onwards by the powerful pump at the bottom of the Arctic. When the icy water reached a depth of between 2000 and 3000 metres, it started on the return leg. It was a journey that would take it once round the world.

  Bauer had released a batch of floats in the hope they would follow the path of the current, but trying to find the chimneys in the first place was difficult enough. They should have been everywhere. Instead the giant pump seemed to have packed up entirely or begun its work elsewhere.

  Bauer had come here because he was aware of the problem and he knew what would follow. He hadn’t expected to find things working perfectly, but he wasn’t prepared to find nothing at all.

  It was seriously worrying.

  He’d confided his concerns to Weaver, before she’d left him. Since then he’d been updating her and entrusting her with his innermost fears. Several days ago his team had detected a dramatic rise in the methane content of the water. Now he was considering the possibility that it was linked to the disappearance of the chimneys. He was almost sure of the connection. Hunched over his data, Bauer examined stacks of calculations, diagrams and charts. Every now and then he emailed Karen Weaver to tell her of his latest findings.

  He was so caught up in his work that he was oblivious to the shaking. His teacup made its way to the edge of the table and toppled over, pouring its contents on to his lap. ‘Oh, blast,’ he muttered. Hot tea soaked through his trousers and down his legs. He got up to examine the extent of the damage.

  Suddenly he stiffened, straining to hear the noises outside.

  Screams. Someone was screaming. Heavy boots pounded the deck and the ship vibrated furiously, throwing him off balance. Groaning, he collided with his desk. The ground fell away beneath him, as though the vessel had fallen into a hole. Bauer sprawled backwards and fear took hold of him. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled into the passageway. The shouts were louder now, and the engine started up. A man was yelling in Icelandic. Bauer couldn’t understand the words, but he could hear the terror, which was echoed and amplified in the voice that replied.

  Had there been an underwater earthquake?

  He hurried along the passageway and down the stairs to the deck. Fierce vibrations rocked the ship, making it hard to stay upright. He pushed his way unsteadily to the hatch, and was hit by the stench. All of a sudden Lukas Bauer knew what was wrong.

  Struggling to the rail, he looked out. The water was seething with bubbles.

  There was no swell. No sign of a storm. Just thousands of giant bubbles, surging to the surface.

  The boat plummeted again and Bauer toppled over, crashing face first on to the deck. Pain exploded in his skull. When he raised his head, his glasses were broken. Without them he was blind, but he didn’t need lenses to know what happened next. The sea rose up and closed over the vessel.

  Oh, God, he thought. Oh, dear God, no.

  30 April

  Vancouver Island, Canada

  The night was resplendent in deep shades of green. It was a while since Anawak had first started to fall through the shadowy universe, but now a rush of euphoria swept through him, and he stretched out his arms, plummeting downwards like an Icarus of the depths, weightless and elated. He sank deeper and deeper. Something shimmered in the distance below him, a frozen white landscape, and all at once the sombre ocean became a dark night sky.

  He was standing at the edge of an icefield, gazing at the deep, still water, with a wealth of stars above him.

  He was at peace.

  How wonderful it felt to be standing there. In time, an ice floe would form, detaching itself from the frozen water and drifting through the seas, carrying him north to a place where he would be free from the burden of questions. Anawak’s chest swelled with longing and tears came into his eyes, dazzling him. He shook his head, dispersing the drops, which scattered over the sea, lighting up its darkness. Something rose towards him from the depths, and the towering water became a figure. It waited for him at a distance, too far for him to follow. Shiny and motionless it stood there, starlight trapped within its surface.

  I found them, it said.

  The figure had no face and no mouth, but the voice was familiar. He took a step towards it, but he was at the water’s edge. A vast and terrifying presence lurked beneath him in the darkness.

  What did you find? he asked.

  The sound of his voice made him start. The words dropped heavily from his mouth. What the figure had said or maybe thought had sounded noiseless; now his voice shattered the silence that had filled the landscape of ice. Biting cold took hold of him. He looked for the thing in the water, but it was gone.

  Surely you don’t need to ask? a voice said beside him.

  He turned his head and saw the delicate figure of Samantha Crowe, the SETI researcher.

  You sound awful, she said. You’re fine at everything else, but you need to practise talking.

  Sorry, he stammered.

  I’ve found my aliens. Do you remember? We finally made contact. Isn’t that great?

  Anawak shivered. It didn’t seem great to him; in fact, without knowing why, he felt clammy with fear at the thought of Crowe’s aliens.

  So…who are they? What are they?

  The SETI researcher gestured towards the dark water beyond the ice. They’re out there, she said. And I think they want to meet you. They like making contact. But you’ll have to go and find them.

  I can’t, said Anawak.

  Why ever not?

  Anawak stared at the dark, powerful bodies ploughing through the water. There were dozens of them, maybe hundreds. He knew they were there because of him, and realised all at once that they were feeding on his fear.

  I-I just can’t.

  Don’t be a coward. Just take a step, Crowe teased him. It’s the easiest thing in the world. Think how hard it was for us. We searched the universe to find them.

  Anawak’s shivering redoubled. He walked up to the edge and looked out. On the horizon, where the black water embraced the sky, a light shone in the distance.

  Just go, said Crowe.

  I flew here, thought Anawak, through a dark green ocean full of life, and I wasn’t afraid. Nothing can happen to me now. The water will bear my weight like solid ground, and I’ll reach the light on the strength of my will. Sam’s right. It’s easy. There’s no need to be afraid.

  An enormous creature plunged through the water in front of him, and a colossal two-pronged tail tilted up to the stars.

  No need to be afraid.

  But he had hesitated a moment too long, and he faltered again at the sight of the
tail. His will couldn’t carry him, and the power of dreams gave way to the force of gravity. Stepping forward, he sank into the sea. Water washed over his head, engulfing him in darkness. He tried to cry out and his mouth filled with water, rushing painfully into his lungs. It pulled him under, although he fought it. His heart was beating wildly, and there was a noise in his head, a droning or hammering…

  Anawak sat up and banged his head against the ceiling. ‘Damn.’ He groaned.

  The banging was there again. No droning this time, just a gentle tapping, like knuckles on wood. He rolled on to his side and saw Alicia Delaware. She was stooping, peering into his berth. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you’d shoot up like that.’

  Anawak stared at her. Delaware?

  Slowly the memory came back. He knew where he was. Clutching his head, he slumped back on to the bed.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nine thirty.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘You look terrible. Were you having a nightmare?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘How about some coffee?’

  ‘Good idea.’ He fingered the spot where he’d hit his head and winced. ‘Where’s the alarm? I set it for seven.’

  ‘You slept through it - and no wonder, after everything that’s happened.’ She went through to the kitchenette. ‘Where’s the—’

  ‘Cupboard on the wall. Left-hand side. Coffee, filter paper, milk and sugar.’

  ‘Are you hungry? I do a great breakfast.’

  ‘No.’

  She filled the percolator with water. Anawak dragged himself out of his bunk. ‘Don’t look round. I’ve got to get changed.’

  ‘Chill, Leon. I’ve seen it all before.’

  Grimacing, he glanced around for his jeans. They were screwed up in a heap on the bench by the table. Putting them on wasn’t easy. He felt dizzy, and his injured leg hurt when he bent it.

  ‘Did John Ford call?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. A while ago.’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud…’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘A pensioner could get dressed faster than I can. And why the hell didn’t I hear the alarm? I wanted to—’