Relic (Pendergast, Book 1)

by Preston, Douglas

  It had proven to be a perversely attractive type of lily pad, blooming almost continuously, big deep-purple blossoms with venous appendages and bright yellow stamens. The virus was concentrated in the tough, fibrous stem. He was harvesting two pounds a week, and poised to increase his yield exponentially.

  The Kothoga knew all about this plant, thought Kawakita. What appeared to be a blessing turned out for them to be a curse. They had tried to control its power, but failed. The legend told it best: the devil failed to keep his bargain, and the child of the devil, the Mbwun, had run wild. It had turned on its masters. It could not be controlled.

  But Kawakita would not fail. The rabbit serum tests proved that he would succeed.

  The final piece of the puzzle fell into place when he remembered what that cop, D’Agosta, had mentioned at the going-away party for the FBI agent: that they had found a double-arrow pendant belonging to John Whittlesey in the creature’s lair. Proof, they said, that the monster had killed Whittlesey. Proof. What a joke.

  Proof, rather, that the monster was Whittlesey.

  Kawakita remembered clearly the day everything came together for him. It was an apotheosis, a revelation. It explained everything. The creature, the Museum Beast, He Who Walks On All Fours, was Whittlesey. And the proof lay within his grasp: his extrapolation program. Kawakita had placed human DNA on one side and the reovirus DNA on the other. And then he had asked for the intermediate form.

  The computer gave the creature: He Who Walks On All Fours.

  The reovirus in the plant was astonishing. Chances are, it had existed relatively unchanged since the Mesozoic era. In sufficient quantities, it had the power to induce morphological change of an astonishing nature. Everyone knew that the darkest, most isolated areas of rain forest held undiscovered plants of almost inconceivable importance to science. But Kawakita had already discovered his miracle. By eating the fibers and becoming infected with the reovirus, Whittlesey had turned into Mbwun.

  Mbwun—the word the Kothoga used for the wonderful, terrible plant, and for the creatures those who ate it became. Kawakita could now visualize parts of the Kothoga’s secret religion. The plants were a curse that was simultaneously hated and needed. The creatures kept the enemies of the Kothoga at bay—yet they themselves were a constant threat to their masters. Chances are, the Kothoga only kept one of the creatures around at a time—more than that would be too dangerous. The cult would have centered around the plant itself, its cultivation and harvesting. The climax of their ceremonials was undoubtedly the induction of a new creature—the force-feeding of the plant to the unwilling human victim. Initially, large quantities of the plant would be needed to ensure sufficient reovirus to effect the bodily change. Once the transformation was complete, the plant need be consumed only in small quantities, supplemented of course by other proteins. But it was critical that the dose be maintained. Otherwise, intense pain, even madness, would result as the body tried to revert. Of course, death would intervene before that happened. And the desperate creature would, if at all possible, find a substitute for the plant—the human hypothalamus being by far the most satisfactory.

  In the close, comforting darkness, listening to the tranquil humming of the aquaria, Kawakita could guess at the drama that had played itself out in the jungle. The Kothoga, laying eyes on a white man for the first time. Whittlesey’s accomplice, Crocker, had no doubt been found first. Perhaps the creature had been old, or enfeebled. Perhaps Crocker had killed the creature with the expedition’s gun as the creature disembowelled him. Or perhaps not. But when the Kothoga found Whittlesey, Kawakita knew there was only one possible outcome.

  He wondered what Whittlesey must have felt: bound, perhaps ceremonially, being force-fed the reovirus from the strange plant he himself had collected just days earlier. Perhaps they brewed him a liquor from the plant’s leaves, or perhaps they simply forced him to eat the dried fibers. They must have attempted to do with this white man what they had failed to do with their own kind: create a monster they could control. A monster that would keep out the road builders and the prospectors and the miners that were poised to invade the tepui from the south and destroy them. A monster that would terrorize the surrounding tribes without terrorizing its masters; that would ensure the security and isolation of the Kothoga forever.

  But then civilization came anyway, with all its terrors. Kawakita imagined the day it happened: the Whittleseything, crouched in the jungle, seeing the fire come falling from the sky, burning the tepui, the Kothoga, the precious plants. He alone escaped. And he alone knew where the life-giving fibers could still be found after the jungle was destroyed: He knew, because he had sent them there.

  Or perhaps Whittlesey was already gone when the tepui was burned. Perhaps the Kothoga had been unable to control, once again, the creature they had created. Maybe Whittlesey, in his pitiful, terrible condition, had set his own agenda, which hadn’t included sticking around as the Kothoga’s avenging angel. Perhaps he’d simply wanted to go home. So he had abandoned the Kothoga, and the Kothoga had been destroyed by progress.

  But, for the most part, Kawakita was indifferent to the anthropological details. He was interested in the power inherent in the plant, and the harnessing of such power.

  You needed to control the source before you could control the creature.

  And that, thought Kawakita, is exactly why I’m going to succeed where the Kothoga failed. He was controlling the source. Only he knew how to grow this difficult and delicate swamp lily from the depths of the Amazon jungle. Only he knew the proper pH of the water, the right temperature, the proper light, the correct mix of nutrients. Only he knew how to inoculate the plant with the reovirus.

  They would be dependent on him. And, with the genetic splicing he had done through the rabbit serum, he’d been able to purify the essential strength of the virus, engineering it to be cleaner while diminishing some of the more unpleasant side effects.

  At least, he was fairly sure he had.

  These were revolutionary discoveries. Everyone knew that viruses inserted their own DNA into the cells of their victim. Normally, that DNA would simply instruct the victim’s cells to make more viruses. That’s what happened in every virus known to man: from the flu to AIDS.

  This virus was different. It inserted a whole array of genes into its victim: reptile genes. Ancient reptile genes; sixty-five-million-year-old genes. Found today in the lowly gecko and a few other species. And it had apparently borrowed primate genes—no doubt human genes—over time, as well. A virus that stole genes from its host, and incorporated those genes into its victims.

  Those genes, instead of making more viruses, remade the victim. Reshaped the victim, bit by bit, into a monster. The viruses instructed the body’s own machinery to change the bone structure, the endocrine system, the limbs and skin and hair and internal organs. It changed the behavior, the weight, speed, and cunning of the victim. Gave the victim uncanny senses of smell and hearing, but diminished its eyesight and voice. Gave it immense power, and bulk, and speed, while leaving its wonderful hominid brain relatively intact. In short, the drug—the virus—turned a human victim into a terrible killing machine. No, the word victim did not fairly describe one infected with the virus. A better word might be symbiont. Because it was a privilege to receive the virus. A gift. A gift from Greg Kawakita.

  It was beautiful. In fact, it was sublime.

  The possibilities for genetic engineering were endless. And already, Kawakita had ideas for improvements. New genes the reovirus could insert into its host. Human genes as well as animal genes. He controlled what genes the reovirus would insert into its host. He controlled what the host would become. Unlike the primitive, superstitious Kothoga, he was in control—through science.

  An interesting side effect of the plant was its narcotic effect: a wonderful, “clean” rush, without the unpleasant down of so many other drugs. Perhaps that was how the plant had originally ensured its own ingestion and, thus, its propagation. But f
or Kawakita, this side effect had provided cash from which to finance his research. He hadn’t wanted to sell the drug originally, but the financial pressures he’d experienced had made it inevitable. He smiled as he thought of how easy it had been. The drug had already been given a name by the select coterie of eager users: glaze. The market was avid, and Kawakita could sell as much as he could make. Too bad it seemed to go so quickly.

  Night had fallen. Kawakita removed his dark glasses and inhaled the rich fragrance of the warehouse, the subtle odor of the fibers, the smell of water and dust and internal combustion from the ambient air, mingled with mold and sulphur dioxide and a multitude of other smells. His chronic allergies had all but vanished. Must be the clean Long Island air, he thought wryly. He removed his tight shoes and curled his toes with pleasure.

  He had made the most stunning advancement in genetics since the discovery of the double helix. It would have won him a Nobel Prize, he thought with an ironic smile.

  Had he chosen that route.

  But who needed a Nobel Prize, when the whole world was suddenly there for the plucking?

  There came another knock at the door.

  Some call it the greatest scientific discovery of all time …

  Others call it …

  BLASPHEMY

  DOUGLAS PRESTON

  Science and religion go head-to-head in the latest science-based thriller from the New York Times bestselling author of Tyrannosaur Canyon and coauthor of The Wheel of Darkness.

  Available from Forge in Hardcover in January 2008.

  July

  Ken Dolby stood before his workstation, his smooth, polished fingers caressing the controls of Isabella. He waited, savoring the moment, and then he unlocked a cage on the panel and pulled down a small red bar.

  There was no hum, no sound, nothing to indicate that the most expensive scientific instrument on earth had been turned on. Except that, two hundred miles away, the lights of Las Vegas dimmed ever so slightly.

  As Isabella warmed up, Dolby began to feel the fine vibration of her through the floor. He thought of the machine as a woman, and in his more imaginative moments he even had imagined what she looked like—tall and slender, with a muscular back, black as the desert night, beaded with sweat. Isabella. He had shared these feelings with no one—no point in attracting ridicule. To the rest of the scientists on the project, Isabella was an “it,” a dead machine built for a specific purpose. But Dolby had always felt a deep affection for the machines he created—from when he was ten years old and constructed his first radio from a kit. Fred. That was the radio’s name. And when he thought of Fred, he saw a fat carroty-haired white man. The first computer he had built was Betty—who looked in his head like a brisk and efficient secretary. He couldn’t explain why his machines took on the personalities they did—it just happened.

  And now this, the world’s most powerful particle accelerator … Isabella.

  “How’s it look?” asked Hazelius, the team leader, coming over and placing an affectionate hand on his shoulder.

  “Purring like a cat,” said Dolby.

  “Good.” Hazelius straightened up and spoke to the team. “Gather round, I have an announcement to make.”

  Silence fell as the team members straightened up from their workstations and waited. Hazelius strode across the small room and positioned himself in front of the biggest of the plasma screens. Small, slight, as sleek and restless as a caged mink, he paced in front of the screen for a moment before turning to them with a brilliant smile. It never ceased to amaze Dolby what a charismatic presence the man had.

  “My dear friends,” he began, scanning the group with turquoise eyes. “It’s 1492. We’re at the bow of the Santa Maria, gazing at the sea horizon, moments before the coastline of the New World comes into view. Today is the day we sail over that unknown horizon and land upon the shores of our very own New World.”

  He reached down into the Chapman bag he always carried and pulled out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. He held it up like a trophy, his eyes sparkling, and then thumped it down on the table. “This is for later tonight, when we set foot on the beach. Because tonight, we bring Isabella to one hundred percent full power.”

  Silence greeted the announcement. Finally Kate Mercer, the assistant director of the project, spoke. “What happened to the plan to do three runs at ninety-five percent?”

  Hazelius returned her look with a smile. “I’m impatient. Aren’t you?”

  Mercer brushed back her glossy black hair. “What if we hit an unknown resonance or generate a miniature black hole?”

  “Your own calculations show a one in quadrillion chance of that particular downside.”

  “My calculations might be wrong.”

  “Your calculations are never wrong.” Hazelius smiled and turned to Dolby. “What do you think? Is she ready?”

  “You’re damn right she’s ready.”

  Hazelius spread his hands. “Well?”

  Everyone looked at each other. Should they risk it? Volkonsky, the Russian programmer, suddenly broke the ice. “Yes, we go for it!” He high-fived a startled Hazelius, and then everyone began slapping each other on the back, shaking hands, and hugging, like a basketball team before a game.

  * * *

  Five hours and as many bad coffees later, Dolby stood before the huge flat-panel screen. It was still dark—the matter–antimatter proton beams had not been brought into contact. It took forever to power up the machine, increasing it by increments of 5 percent, focusing and collimating the beams, checking the superconducting magnets, running various test programs, before going up to the next 5 percent.

  “Power at ninety percent,” Dolby intoned.

  “Christ damn,” said Volkonsky somewhere behind him, giving the Sunbeam coffeemaker a blow that made it rattle like the Tin Man. “Empty already!”

  Dolby repressed a smile. During the two weeks they’d been up on the mesa, Volkonsky had revealed himself as a wiseass, a slouching, mangy specimen of Eurotrash with long greasy hair, ripped T-shirts, and a pubic clump of beard clinging to his chin. He looked more like a drug addict than a brilliant software engineer. But then, a lot of them were like that.

  Another measured ticking of the clock.

  “Beams aligned and focused,” said Rae Chen. “Luminosity fourteen TeV.”

  “Isabella work fine,” said Volkonsky.

  “My systems are all green,” said Checchini, the particle physicist.

  “Security, Mr. Wardlaw?”

  The senior intelligence officer, Wardlaw, spoke from his security station. “Just cactus and coyotes, sir.”

  “All right,” said Hazelius. “It’s time.” He paused dramatically. “Ken? Bring the beams into collision.”

  Dolby felt a quickening of his heart. He touched the dials with his spiderlike fingers, adjusting them with a pianist’s lightness of touch. He followed with a series of commands rapped into the keyboard.

  “Contact.”

  The huge flat-panel screens all around suddenly woke up. A sudden singing noise seemed to float in the air, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

  “What’s that?” Mercer asked, alarmed.

  “A trillion particles blowing through the detectors,” said Dolby. “Sets up a high vibration.”

  “Jesus, it sounds like the monolith in 2001.”

  Volkonsky hooted like an ape. Everyone ignored him.

  An image appeared on the central panel, the Visualizer. Dolby stared at it, entranced. It was like an enormous flower—flickering jets of color radiating from a single point, twisting and writhing as if trying to tear free of the screen. He stood in awe at the intense beauty of it.

  “Contact successful,” said Rae Chen. “Beams are focused collimated. God, it’s a perfect alignment!”

  Cheers and some ragged clapping.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Hazelius, “welcome to the shores of the New World.” He gestured to the Visualizer. “You’re looking at an energy density not se
en in the universe since the Big Bang.” He turned to Dolby. “Ken, please increase power in increments of tenths to ninety-nine.”

  Copyright © 2008 by Douglas Preston

  BY DOUGLAS PRESTON AND LINCOLN CHILD

  Relic*

  Mount Dragon*

  Reliquary*

  Riptide

  Thunderhead

  The Ice Limit

  The Cabinet of Curiosities

  Still Life with Crows

  Brimstone

  Dance of Death

  Book of the Dead

  The Wheel of Darkness

  BY DOUGLAS PRESTON

  Dinosaurs in the Attic**

  Jennie*

  Talking to the Ground

  The Royal Road

  Cities of Gold

  The Codex*

  Tyrannosaur Canyon*

  Blasphemy*

  Ribbons of Time

  Monster of Florence

  BY LINCOLN CHILD

  Utopia

  Death Match

  Deep Storm

  *Published by Tom Doherty Associates

  **Published by St. Martin’s Press

  The authors welcome visitors to their Web site,

  www.prestonchild.com.

  “Preston and Child’s refreshing penchant for realistic detail elevates their tale far above Crichton’s.… Containing just the right blend of gripping suspense, colorful characters, and credible science, Relic has all the ingredients for well-deserved bestseller status.”

  —Booklist

  “Superbly exciting.”

  —The Record (Bergen County, New Jersey)

  “This is a real page-turner, part Jaws, part Poseidon Adventure.”

  —Library Journal

  “Jaws takes Manhattan.”

  —San Francisco Examiner and Chronicle

  “Want to pick up a thriller that arrives with the kinetic energy of a meteor smacking the earth? Read Relic.”