The Swarm: A Novel

by Frank Schätzing

  ‘Hardly,’ said Vanderbilt. ‘More like fish-fingers.’

  Crowe gestured for silence. ‘I agree with Dr Johanson,’ she said. ‘And if we’re right, it would seem that the yrr have taken a collective decision to fight us, and that ethics and empathy aren’t part of the deal. I know in the movies you can melt the heart of even the nastiest alien by looking at it with puppy-dog eyes, but that isn’t going to work. No, we need to make communication seem more intriguing than violence. The yrr would never have been able to accomplish half of what they’ve done if they weren’t au fait with physics and math, so let’s challenge them to a mathematical duel. Hopefully, at some point their logic - or maybe even some kind of moral code - will kick in and persuade them to rethink their behaviour.’

  ‘They must know we’re intelligent,’ Rubin insisted. ‘If any species stands out because of its superior understanding of physics and maths, it has to be us.’

  ‘Yes, but are we intelligent and conscious?’

  Rubin blinked in confusion. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Are we aware of our intelligence?’

  ‘Well, obviously.’

  ‘Or maybe we’re computers with an inbuilt learning capacity? Of course we know the truth, but do they? Theoretically it would be possible to replace the entire brain with an electronic equivalent, and then you’d get AI. Your artificial brain would be capable of doing everything that you can do. It could build you a spaceship and outsmart Einstein. But would it be aware of its achievements? In 1997 the world chess champion Garry Kasparov was defeated by an IBM computer, Deep Blue. Does that mean Deep Blue was conscious? Or did it win without seeing the point? Does the fact that we build cities and lay underwater cables prove that we’re intelligent, conscious beings? SETI has never excluded the possibility that one day we might come across a machine civilisation; computer intelligence that has outlived its creators and continued to develop over millennia by itself.’

  ‘And the creatures down there? If what you’re saying is true, maybe the yrr are just ants with fins. A species without any ethics, without even any—’

  ‘Exactly. And that’s why we’re proceeding in stages.’ Crowe smiled. ‘Stage one, I want to find out if there’s anything down there; stage two, I want to establish whether dialogue is possible; and stage three, I want to know if the yrr are consciously responding to our messages - if their intelligence is conscious at all. Only then - once we’ve reason to believe that in addition to their evident knowledge and skill they’re able to conceptualise and understand - will I be prepared to consider them as intelligent beings. And only then would it be worthwhile reflecting on their values - but even then we shouldn’t expect those values to bear the slightest resemblance to our own.’

  For a while there was silence.

  ‘I don’t want to interfere in a scientific debate,’ Li said finally, ‘but pure intelligence is unfeeling. Intelligence connected to consciousness is an entirely different matter. In my opinion, an intelligent conscious being would necessarily have values. If the yrr represent conscious intelligence, they’d have to recognise at least one value: the value of life. And since they’re trying to defend themselves, that would seem to be the case. I’d say they’ve got values. What we need to find out is whether those values coincide in any way with our own. Maybe there’s the tiniest overlap.’

  Crowe nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Maybe there is.’

  Late that afternoon they bundled the first sound wave and sent it into the depths. Shankar had chosen a frequency to match the spectrum of the unidentified noises that his SOSUS colleagues had christened Scratch.

  The modem set about modulating the signal. The sound wave was subject to a certain amount of reflection, so Crowe and Shankar sat in the CIC, modulating the modulations until the distortion was gone. An hour after the signal had been broadcast, Crowe felt confident that any creature capable of detecting acoustic signals would have no trouble receiving it. Whether the yrr would make sense of it remained to be seen.

  They might not bother to reply.

  Perched on the edge of her chair in the half-light of the CIC, Crowe felt a wave of elation at the thought of how close they were to the moment she’d always longed for: contact. But, more than anything, she was afraid. She could feel the burden of responsibility weighing on her and the rest of the team. This wasn’t an adventure like Arecibo and Project Phoenix: it was up to them to avert a catastrophe and save mankind from destruction. The SETI researcher’s dream had turned into a nightmare.

  Friends

  Anawak made his way up through the vessel, then strode along the narrow passageways in the island and emerged on the flight deck. Over the course of the voyage, the roof had turned into a kind of promenade. Anyone with a few moments to spare could be found strolling along it, deep in thought or deliberating in groups. In an unlikely twist of fate, the roof of the largest helicopter-carrier in the world, usually the site of innumerable take-offs and landings, had developed into a place of contemplation and scientific debate. The six Super Stallions and two Super Cobras waited forlornly on the vast expanse of tarmac.

  On board the Independence, Greywolf continued to lead his exotic life, although Delaware was ever more a part of it. The two were growing steadily closer. Delaware wisely gave him space, which meant that Greywolf sought out her company. In public, they never let slip that they were more than friends, but Anawak could see that their bond was growing. The signs were unmistakable. Delaware rarely worked with him now: she spent all her time looking after the dolphins with Greywolf.

  Anawak found Greywolf sitting cross-legged at the bow, looking out across the ocean. As he started to sit down, he realised Greywolf was carving.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Greywolf passed it to him. It was a large object, skilfully carved from cedarwood. It looked almost finished. One end finished in a handle, while the larger section showed a number of intertwined figures. Anawak could make out a bird, two animals with powerful jaws, then a man, who seemed to be at their mercy. He ran his fingers along the surface. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a copy.’ Greywolf grinned. ‘I only ever make replicas. I don’t have it in me to come up with an original.’

  ‘I get it.’ Anawak smiled. ‘You’re not Indian enough.’

  ‘You don’t get anything - you never do.’

  ‘OK, calm down. So, what is it?’

  ‘It’s a ceremonial hand-club. From the Tla-o-qui-aht. The original was made of whalebone, in a private collection from the late nineteenth century. The figures tell a story from the time of the ancestors. One day a man came across a mysterious cage with all kinds of creatures inside it. He took it back to his village. Soon afterwards he fell ill and no one could cure him. There didn’t seem to be any explanation for his illness, but then the answer came to the sick man in a dream. The creatures in the cage were to blame. They weren’t just animals, they were transformers, shapeshifters, and they attacked him in his sleep.’ Greywolf pointed to a squat creature. ‘This one’s a wolf-whale. In the dream it attacked the man and closed its jaws round his head. Then Thunderbird tried to save him. You can see how it’s digging its claws into the wolf-whale’s flank. While they were fighting, a bear-whale joined them and grabbed the man by his feet. The man woke, told his son the dream and died. The son carved this club and used it to kill six thousand shapeshifters to avenge his father’s death.’

  ‘And what’s the hidden meaning?’

  ‘Does everything have a hidden meaning?’

  ‘A story like that is bound to have a hidden meaning. It’s the eternal struggle, isn’t it? The battle between good and evil.’

  ‘No.’ Greywolf pushed the hair out of his eyes. ‘The story tells of life and death. In the end you die, but until then your life is in flux. You can live a good life or a bad life, but you don’t control what happens to you - that’s for higher powers to decide. If you live in harmony with Nature, she will heal you; if you fight her, she wi
ll destroy you. But the important point is that you don’t control Nature - she controls you.’

  ‘The man’s son doesn’t seem to have shared that insight,’ said Anawak. ‘Otherwise why would he have sought vengeance for his father?’

  ‘The story doesn’t say he was right.’

  Anawak handed the club to Greywolf, reached into his anorak and pulled out the bird spirit. ‘Can you tell me anything about this?’

  Greywolf turned it in his hands. ‘It doesn’t come from the west coast,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Marble. Does it come from your homeland?’

  ‘Cape Dorset.’ Anawak hesitated. ‘A shaman gave it to me.’

  ‘You, of all people, accepted a gift from a shaman?’

  ‘He’s my uncle.’

  ‘And what did he tell you about it?’

  ‘Not much. He said the bird spirit would guide my thoughts when it was time. And that I may need someone to tell me what it sees.’

  Greywolf was silent for a while. Then he said, ‘There are bird spirits in almost every culture. Thunderbird is an ancient mythological figure. It’s part of creation, one of the spirits of Nature, a higher being. But bird spirits have other meanings too.’

  ‘They’re linked to heads, aren’t they?’

  ‘In ancient Egyptian art you often see bird-like headdresses. For the ancient Egyptians, the bird represented man’s consciousness. It was trapped inside the head, like in a cage. If your head was open, the bird would fly away, but you could still entice it back. Then your consciousness would return.’

  ‘So whilst I’m asleep my consciousness is soaring.’

  ‘Your dreams are more than stories: they show you what your consciousness is seeing in higher worlds that are otherwise closed. Have you ever seen an Indian chief’s feather headdress?’

  ‘Only in Westerns.’

  ‘Well, the headdress signifies that the chief’s spirit is inscribing stories in his head. That’s what the feathers are for. In other words, his head is full of good ideas, and that’s why he’s chief.’

  ‘His mind soars.’

  ‘With the help of the feathers. Most tribes have a single feather, but it means the same thing. The bird spirit represents consciousness. That’s why the worst thing that can happen to an Indian is to lose their scalp, or headdress. It means being separated from their consciousness - possibly for good.’ Greywolf frowned. ‘If you were given this sculpture by a shaman, he must have been alluding to your consciousness, the power of your ideas. You should use your mind but you have to open it first. Your spirit needs to go on a journey, and that means it has to join with your unconscious.’

  ‘Why don’t you wear feathers in your hair?’

  Greywolf grimaced. ‘Because, as you pointed out, I’m not a true Indian.’

  Anawak was silent.

  ‘I had a dream in Nunavut…,’ he said eventually.

  Greywolf listened intently to the story of the iceberg. ‘I knew I’d end up sinking into the sea,’ Anawak concluded ‘but the thought of drowning didn’t scare me,’ he concluded.

  ‘What did you expect to find down there?’

  ‘Life,’ Anawak said.

  Greywolf looked at the green marble figurine resting on the palm of his enormous hand. ‘Tell me honestly, Leon, why did they ask me and Licia to come on board?’ he asked abruptly.

  Anawak gazed out at the ocean. ‘Because we need you here.’

  ‘No, you don’t, not really. I’m pretty good with dolphins, but there’s no shortage of dolphin-handlers in the US Navy. And Licia doesn’t have any particular role.’

  ‘She’s an excellent assistant.’

  ‘Have you asked her to help you? Do you need her?’

  ‘No.’ Anawak stared up at the sky. ‘You’re here because I wanted you.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘You’re my friends.’

  For a while there was silence again.

  ‘I guess we are.’ Greywolf nodded.

  Anawak smiled. ‘I’ve always rubbed along fine with everyone, but I can’t remember having proper friends. And you can bet I never thought I’d be friends with an argumentative smart ass student - or with someone twice my size and full of crackpot ideas, whom I practically came to blows with.’

  ‘That argumentative student did exactly what friends do.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Took an interest in your life. You and I have always been friends though. If you ask me…’ Greywolf lifted the sculpture and grinned. ‘…our heads were just closed for a while.’

  ‘What do you suppose made me dream all that stuff? It keeps coming back to me, and it’s not as though anyone could accuse me of having mystical tendencies. But something happened in Nunavut, and I can’t explain it. By the time we were out there on the land and I had that dream, something had changed.’

  ‘What do you think it means’

  ‘Well, we’re being threatened by deep-sea creatures, aren’t we? Maybe it’s my job to go down there and—’

  ‘Save the planet.’

  ‘OK, forget it.’

  ‘Do you want to know what I think?’

  Anawak nodded.

  ‘I think you couldn’t be more wrong. For years you retreated into yourself, dragging around all your baggage. That iceberg you were floating on - it was you. An icy, unapproachable block. But out there the block began to melt. The ocean you’re sinking into isn’t the kingdom of the yrr. It’s our world. That’s where you belong. That’s the adventure in store for you. Friendship, love, hostility, hatred and anger. Your role isn’t to play the hero. Those roles were handed out a long time ago, and they’re for dead men. You belong in the world of the living.’

  Night

  They all rested in different ways. Crowe’s small, delicate form was swaddled in blankets, with just her steel-grey hair protruding at the top. Weaver lay naked on top of the sheets, sprawled on her front, head to one side, pillowed on a forearm. Her chestnut hair covered her face, so that only her parted lips could be seen. Shankar was a restless sleeper who couldn’t stop rearranging his bedclothes, muttering and giving the occasional muffled snore.

  Rubin was mostly awake.

  Greywolf and Delaware didn’t sleep much either, but that was mainly because they were otherwise engaged. Two cabins further along, Anawak was asleep on his side in a T-shirt. There was nothing remarkable about Oliviera’s sleeping patterns.

  Johanson lay on his back, arms outstretched. Only the beds in flag and officer accommodation allowed an expansive position like that. It suited the Norwegian so well that a former lover had once woken him to tell him that he’d been sleeping like the lord of the manor. He slept like that every night - a man who looked as though he wanted to embrace life, even when his eyes were closed.

  The sleeping or waking bodies filled a row of brightly lit screens. Each monitor showed an individual cabin. Two men in uniform were watching them, while Li and Vanderbilt hovered in the background.

  ‘Regular angels, wouldn’t you say?’ said Vanderbilt.

  Li’s expression didn’t flicker as she watched Delaware and Greywolf. The volume was turned down, but faint sounds of their love-making penetrated the cool air of the control room.

  ‘I’d go for that little beauty,’ said Vanderbilt, pointing at Weaver. ‘Nice ass.’

  ‘Fallen for her, have you?’

  Vanderbilt grinned. ‘Oh, please.’

  ‘You should turn on the charm,’ said Li. ‘You’re carrying around at least two tonnes of it.’

  The CIA agent mopped the sweat from his forehead. They watched for a while longer. Li didn’t care if the people on the screens were snoring or turning cartwheels. They could hang upside-down from the ceiling for all she cared.

  The main thing was that she knew where they were, what they were doing and everything they said.

  ‘Carry on,’ she said. On her way out she added, ‘Remember to keep looking in all of the cabins.’

  13 A
ugust

  Visitors

  The message had been beamed non-stop into the depths - as yet to no avail. At seven o’clock they’d been jolted out of bed by the alarm call, but almost no one felt properly rested. Most nights the gentle rocking motion of the enormous vessel lulled them to sleep. The air-conditioning hummed softly in the cabins, keeping the temperature agreeably constant, and the beds were comfortable. They might have slept soundly, but for the suspense. Instead they’d dozed fitfully. Johanson had lain awake imagining the effect of the message on the Greenland Sea, until nightmare visions haunted him.

  That they were in the Greenland Sea at all, and not thousands of kilometres further to the south, was due only to his intervention, with the support of Bohrmann and Weaver. If it had been up to Rubin, Anawak and some of the others, the attempt to make contact would have been launched over the site of the volcanoes in the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Rubin’s reasoning was based on similarities between the crabs of that region and those that had invaded New York and Washington. Besides, it was one of the few places in the depths that provided the right conditions for sophisticated life-forms to flourish. In that respect, the habitat in the hydrothermal vents was ideal. Hot water rose up from huge chimneys of rock on the seabed, drawing with it minerals and life-giving nutrients from the heart of the volcanoes. Worms, mussels, fish and crabs inhabited the vents in conditions not dissimilar to those of an alien planet. Why shouldn’t the yrr live there too?

  Johanson had accepted most of their arguments, but two factors prevented him backing their conclusion. First, although the hydrothermal vents were the most favourable place for life in the deep sea, they were also the most lethal. Molten rock was regularly cast out of the volcanoes as the ocean plates shifted apart. During such eruptions the deep-sea biotope could be wiped out entirely, although it didn’t take long for new life to establish itself. All the same, it was hardly an environment that a complex, intelligent civilisation would choose as its home.

  Second, the chance of making contact with the yrr was greater, the closer they got to them. Exactly where that might be was a matter for debate. All the various theories were probably right to a degree. There was reason to believe, for example, that they might live in the benthic zone at the very bottom of the ocean. Many of the recent anomalies had occurred in the immediate vicinity of deep-sea trenches. Yet there was also evidence to suggest that they resided in the vast ocean basins of the abyssal plains. And Rubin’s suggestion that they might inhabit the oases of life in the middle of the Atlantic couldn’t be rejected. In the end Johanson had proposed that they shouldn’t focus on where the yrr might live, but on places where they had to be present.