The Swarm

by Frank Schätzing

  'Evidently,' said Greywolf, sarcastically. 'You didn't join the world of the living until your old man died.'

  'Hey…'

  'Calm down, buddy, you know I'm right. Why don't you chase after her? She obviously wants you to.'

  'I came down here to see you, not because of Karen.'

  'I appreciate it. Now, go.'

  'For God's sake, Jack. Stop shutting yourself away. Let's take a walk before your feet turn into fins.'

  'Fins would suit me fine.'

  Anawak glanced at the tunnel, unsure what to do. Of course he was impatient to go after Weaver – and not only because he had feelings for her, as he'd just admitted to Greywolf and himself No, he was sure that something was bothering her. She'd seemed agitated and tense. He couldn't help thinking of what she'd told him about Johanson.

  'OK, you moulder away by yourself, then,' he said to Greywolf, 'but feel free to come and find me if you change your mind.'

  He left the well deck and walked past the lab. The door was closed. He thought about popping in. Maybe Johanson would be there. Then he decided against it and carried on up the ramp towards the hangar deck to look at the mysterious wall.

  As he entered the bay he caught sight of Vanderbilt and Anderson disappearing on to the elevator platform.

  Suddenly he felt uneasy. What were they doing there?

  And where had Weaver got to?

  THE ABYSS

  A strong westerly howled through the air. It was blowing in from the polar ice caps, sending white-crested waves crashing into the Independence's hull and drawing what was left of the warmth from the sea.

  Beneath its turbulent surface the ocean was swirling and raging, but as the depth increased, the storm died down. It was here that, only a few months previously, icy cascades of salt-laden water had poured into the depths. It was still bitterly cold, but now the salt was being diluted as fresh water streamed in from the ice caps, which were melting rapidly because of an influx of warmth. The North Atlantic pump, which drew oxygen-rich water into the depths like an underwater lung, was slowly coming to a halt. The ocean conveyor slowed, and the warmth-giving current from the tropics dried up.

  But it hadn't stopped yet. Even though the chimneys could no longer be detected, small quantities of cold water were still trickling into the depths. Through the lightless calm of the ocean they fell towards the bottom of the Greenland basin, metre by metre, till they were hundreds, then thousands of metres down.

  At a depth of 3.5 kilometres, just above the silty seabed, the darkness gave way to a blue glow.

  It covered a vast expanse, not as a cloud of light, but as a long tube of jelly with thin walls. It was anchored to the seabed by countless tiny feet. Inside the tube millions of tentacular protuberances were rising and falling in rhythmical waves, a meadow of feelers moving in synchrony. They were conveying big lumps of a whitish substance towards a large object. The blue glow was barely strong enough to illuminate its contours, so all that was visible were two open pods. The Deepflight stuck out of the silt at an angle, but most of the submersible was hidden in the gloom.

  For some time now, the organism had been loading it with frozen white lumps, and the boat was nearly full. The supply chain ceased. One section of the tube separated off, sank towards the boat and began to encase it. The transparent substance around the hull contracted, closing the pods as it compressed. Shimmering layers of blue spread out and merged until the vessel was sealed with jelly. A long thin tube moved towards it and began to pulsate. Water was being pumped through it. Water that didn't belong there. The delicate tube of jelly was drawing it from an enormous organic balloon suspended over the boat and filled with warm water originating from the mud volcano near the Norwegian continental shelf. By all rights, the balloon should have risen to the surface, propelled by the warmer – and lighter – water inside, but its weight kept it stable.

  Warmth streamed into the sac of jelly that was wrapped round the boat.

  The white lumps reacted immediately. In a matter of seconds the frozen cages trapping the gas had melted. The compressed methane expanded to 164 times its former volume, filling the Deepflight with gas and inflating the sack of jelly until it was taut and swollen. It detached from the tube and sealed itself off Unable to escape, the gas rose upwards, slowly at first, but then, as the pressure around it decreased, picking up speed. The gas, the cocoon, and the submersible shot towards the surface.

  LAB

  With one arm clamped round Rubin and the other hand holding the scalpel to his throat, Weaver shuffled forward. She didn't get far. The door to the lab slid open. Three heavily armed soldiers stormed inside and took aim. She heard Oliviera cry out in horror. Weaver stopped in her tracks, but held on to Rubin.

  Li walked into the lab, followed by Peak. 'You're not going anywhere, Karen.'

  'Jude,' croaked Rubin, 'about time too. Get this lunatic off me.'

  'Quiet,' Peak barked at him. 'We wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for you.'

  Li smiled. 'Karen,' she said, 'don't you think you're taking this a little too far?'

  'Given what Mick has been saying… No.'

  'And what has he been saying?'

  'Oh, he was very helpful. Weren't you, Mick? Told us everything we need to know.'

  'She's lying,' hissed Rubin.

  'Hmm… Chain reactions, torpedoes full of toxins and Deepflight 3. Oh, and he mentioned that the two of you were planning an excursion – in the next few hours.'

  'Tsk.' Li took a step forward. Weaver grabbed Rubin and pulled him back towards Oliviera, who was standing motionless beside the bench. She still had the test-tube rack containing the pheromone samples in her hand.

  'Mick Rubin is probably one of the best biologists in the world,' said Li. 'The trouble is, he always has to prove himself. He'd give anything to be famous. That's why he finds it so hard to keep his mouth shut. You'll have to excuse him. Mick would sell his own grandmother for a taste of fame.' She came to a halt. 'But no matter. You know what we're planning so you'll understand our reasons. I've done my best to stop the situation escalating, but now everyone seems to know the secret, so you've left me no choice.'

  'Don't do anything stupid, Karen,' Peak implored her. 'Let him go.'

  'I'll do no such thing.'

  'He's still got work to do. If you let him go, we'll talk later.'

  'There's been more than enough talking already.' Li pulled out her pistol and took aim at Weaver. 'Let go of him, Karen, or I'll shoot. I'm not going to warn you again.'

  Weaver looked into the small round barrel of the gun. 'You wouldn't,' she said.

  'Really?'

  'There's no need.'

  'You're making a mistake, Jude,' Oliviera said hoarsely. 'You can't use the toxin. I was just telling Mick how…'

  Li wheeled around, took aim at Oliviera and pulled the trigger. The scientist was tossed back against the bench and slid slowly to the floor. The case of test-tubes dropped from her hand. For a second she looked, surprised, at the first-sized hole in her chest, then her eyes glazed.

  'What the hell are you playing at?' shrieked Peak.

  The gun was pointing at Weaver. 'Now let him go,' said Li.

  DECK ELEVATOR

  'Dr Johanson!'

  Johanson swivelled. Vanderbilt and Anderson were heading towards him across the platform. Anderson looked impassive and detached. His black button eyes were fixed on something in the distance.

  Vanderbilt was beaming. 'I guess you're pretty pissed at us,' he said.

  There was something chummy and casual about his demeanour. Johanson frowned as he watched them approach. He was standing at the far end of the platform, only metres from the edge. Hefty gusts of wind buffeted his face. The waves were crashing beneath him. He'd been thinking about going inside. 'What brings you here, Jack?'

  'Nothing in particular.' Vanderbilt made an apologetic gesture. 'I just wanted to say I'm sorry. It's all so unnecessary. We shouldn't be arguing. The whole darned thin
g is ridiculous.'

  Johanson didn't reply. Vanderbilt and Anderson were getting closer. He took a step to the side. They stopped.

  'Is there something you wanted to discuss?' asked Johanson.

  'I was rude to you earlier,' said Vanderbilt. 'I apologise.'

  Johanson raised his eyebrows.

  'That's very noble of you, Jack. Apology accepted. Can I help you with anything else?'

  Vanderbilt faced into the gale. His thinning pale blond hair quivered in the wind like beach grass. 'Pretty darned cold out here,' he said, moving forward. Anderson followed his lead. A distance opened between them. It looked as though they were trying to close in on Johanson. There was no longer any room for him to slip between them or dodge to either side.

  What they were intending was so obvious that he didn't even feel surprised. He was gripped by fear, – fear, mixed with desperate fury. Without thinking he took a step backwards, and knew he had made a mistake. He was very close to the edge now. Their job was almost done for them. A sudden gust could knock him into the nets or over the top and into the water. Jack,' he said slowly, 'you wouldn't be planning to kill me, would you?'

  'Whatever gave you that idea?' Vanderbilt assumed a look of mock-amazement. 'I only want to talk.'

  'Then why bring Anderson?'

  'Oh, he was just passing. Pure coincidence. We thought-'

  Johanson rushed towards Vanderbilt, ducked and darted to the right. He was away from the edge. Anderson leaped towards him. For a moment it looked as though the improvised tactic had worked, then Johanson felt himself grabbed and dragged backwards. Anderson's fist flew towards him and landed in his face.

  He fell and skidded across the platform.

  The first officer moved towards him without any urgency. His powerful hands disappeared beneath Johanson's armpits and hauled him up. Johanson tried to prise his fingers under Anderson's grip and loosen it, but it was like grappling with concrete. His feet left the ground. He kicked out wildly as Anderson carried him towards the edge where Vanderbilt was waiting, peering down at the sea.

  'Quite a swell today,' said the CIA agent. 'I hope you won't mind if we cast you off now, Dr Johanson. I'm afraid you'll have to swim.' His teeth flashed. 'But don't worry, you won't be going any great distance. The water's pretty chilly – two degrees at most. It will be quite relaxing. The body just slows down, the senses go numb, the heart packs up, and-'

  Johanson started to shout. 'Help!' he screamed. 'Help!'

  His feet were dangling over the side. The net was beneath him. It only extended two metres beyond the platform. Not far enough. Anderson could easily throw him over the top.

  'Help!'

  He heard Anderson groan as suddenly he was yanked towards the safety of the platform. The sky came into view as Anderson thudded on to his back, pulling Johanson with him, then letting go. Johanson rolled to the side and jumped up. 'Leon!' he gasped.

  A grotesque scene was unfolding before him. Anderson was trying to clamber to his feet. Anawak had fastened himself on to him from behind and was clutching his jacket. They'd fallen to the ground together. Now Anawak was attempting to free himself from the man's weight without releasing his grip.

  Johanson was about to intervene.

  'Stop!'

  Vanderbilt barred his path. He was holding a gun. Slowly he walked round the bodies on the floor until he was standing with his back to the exit.

  'Nice try,' he said. 'But that's enough now. Dr Anawak, please be so kind as to allow Mr. Anderson here to get up. He's only doing his job.'

  Reluctantly Anawak let go of Anderson's hood. The first officer shot up. He didn't wait until his adversary was on his feet, but hoisted him into the air like a sack of coal. The next instant Anawak's body was flying towards the edge.

  'No!' roared Johanson.

  Anawak slammed down on to the deck then slid to the edge of the platform.

  Anderson's head turned towards Johanson. One arm shot out, grabbed him, and a fist rammed into his stomach. Johanson gasped for air. A wave of pain spread through his guts. He folded like a penknife and fell to his knees.

  The pain was almost unbearable.

  He crouched there, retching, as the wind whipped through his hair, waiting for Anderson to punch him again.

  PART FOUR

  SINKING

  Research shows that human beings are incapable of discerning intelligence beyond a certain micro or meta-threshold. For us to perceive intelligence, it has to fit within our behavioural framework. If we were to encounter intelligence operating outside that framework – on a micro-level, for instance – we would fail to see it. Similarly, if we were to come into contact with a far higher intelligence, a mind vastly superior to our own, we would see only chaos, as its reasoning would elude us. Decisions taken by a higher instance of intelligence would prove inscrutable to our intellect, having been made within parameters beyond the reach of human understanding. Imagine a dog's view of us. To the dog, a person appears not as a mind, but as a force to be obeyed. From its perspective, human behaviour is arbitrary: our actions are based on considerations that canine perception fails to grasp. It follows therefore that, should God exist, we would be incapable of recognising him or her as an intelligent being, since divine thought would encompass a totality of factors too complex for us to comprehend. Consequently, God would appear as a force of chaos, and therefore scarcely the entity that we would like to see governing the outcome of a football match, let alone a war. A being of that kind would exist beyond the limits of human perception. And that in turn prompts the question as to whether the meta-being God would be capable of perceiving intelligence on the sub-level of the human. Maybe we are an experiment in a petri-dish after all…

  Samantha Crowe, Diaries

  DEEPFLIGHT

  Anderson's punch never came.

  A few seconds earlier the crew of the Independence had been thrown into a state of red alert: the dolphins had reported an unknown object. Now the sonar systems detected it too. Something of unspecified size and shape was approaching at speed. It didn't sound like a torpedo, and there was nothing on the sonar to show what could have launched it. What made the crew on the bridge and at the consoles particularly nervous wasn't merely its silent and rapid ascent, but that it was coming at them vertically. They stared at the monitors and watched as a round, bluish patch emerged from the darkness. A rippling orb was rushing towards them, at least ten metres in diameter, gaining in size and detail on their screens.

  By the time Buchanan had given the order to shoot it down, it was already too late.

  The sphere exploded directly beneath the hull. Over the last few minutes of its journey, the gas inside it had continued to expand, accelerating its ascent. As it raced upwards, the cocoon's thin skin of jelly had stretched to bursting point, then ripped open from top to bottom. The scraps hung in the water. The gas continued upwards, surging towards the surface, carrying a large rectangular object.

  Spinning on its axis, the lost Deepflight raced towards the Independence, striking it bow-first and ramming its torpedoes through the hull.

  An eternity elapsed.

  And then the explosion.

  BRIDGE

  The enormous vessel quaked.

  Buchanan, who had seen the disaster coming, narrowly succeeded in staying upright by clinging to the chart table. Others weren't so lucky and crashed to the floor. In the control rooms beneath the island the vessel shook so violently that the monitors cracked and pieces of equipment flew through the air. In the CIC Crowe and Shankar were thrown from their chairs. In a matter of seconds chaos had broken out all over the ship. The harsh buzz of the alarm had kicked in, mixed with shouting, running footsteps, and jangling, droning, clunking noises, as the rumblings spread through the passageways, along the compartments and from level to level.

  Seconds after impact the majority of the engine and boiler-room technicians were dead. A vast crater had been torn in the hull amidships, where the ammunition magazines and t
he engine room, with its two LM 2500 gas turbines, were located. The gaping tear was twenty metres long. Water blasted in with the force of a sledge-hammer, killing everyone who had survived the explosion. Anyone trying to escape was confronted by locked doors. The only way to save the Independence was to sacrifice those in the catacombs of the vessel, locking them in with the raging water to prevent the torrent swamping the vessel.

  DECK ELEVATOR

  The platform shuddered violently, then catapulted Floyd Anderson over Johanson's head. The first officer flung out his arms, fingers clutching at the air, then fell face down, flipped over and lay motionless, eyes open and empty.

  Vanderbilt was almost knocked off his feet. He let go of the gun, which slid across the platform, stopping centimetres from the edge. He caught sight of Johanson trying to drag himself upright, darted over and kicked him in the ribs. The scientist toppled sideways with a muffled cry. Vanderbilt had no idea what had happened to the vessel, only that it must have been disastrous. But his brief was to eliminate Johanson and he intended to fulfill it. He was bending down to drag the groaning, bleeding man across the platform, intending to throw him over the nets, when someone cannoned into him from the side.

  'Vanderbilt, you bastard!' screamed Anawak.

  Suddenly he found himself under attack. Anawak's fists were battering him with frenzied violence. Vanderbilt retreated. He raised his arms to shield his head, ducked to the side and kicked his assailant in the kneecap.

  Anawak swayed and his legs gave way. Vanderbilt transferred his weight to the other foot. Most people who met Jack Vanderbilt misjudged his strength and agility. They saw only his girth. But he was fully trained in self-defence and martial arts and, despite his hundred or so kilos, could still perform some serious moves. He ran forward, threw himself into the air and rammed his boot against Anawak's sternum. Anawak thumped on to his back. His mouth opened in an O, but no sound came out. Good, thought Vanderbilt. He'd winded him. Bending down, he pulled Anawak up by the hair and shoved his elbow into the man's solar plexus.