Virus

IT  IS  AWARE

Somewhere in the South Pacific, a fierce typhoon strikes an American tug and its desperate crew. Barely surviving the storm, the crew comes upon the
Volkov,
a high-tech Russian research vessel that appears to be strangely deserted. Exploring the abandoned vessel, they find all of the Russian crew dead or missing.

The
Volkov
is ripe for salvage, a tempting prospect, if they can claim it before any of the Russians return. But more than a potential fortune is at stake, for the ship is not as empty as it seems. There is something aboard the
Volkov.
Something far from human . . .

VIRUS

Copyright © 1998 by Universal Studios Publishing Rights, a Division of Universal Studios Licensing, Inc. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010

Tor Books on the World Wide Web:
http://www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

ISBN: 0-812-54158-8

First Tor edition: August 1998

Printed in the United States of America

• Introduction •

Virus
is a science fiction story. And science fiction stories are best when based closely on facts or possibilities. How well these type of stories work is in how well they can blur the line between fact and fiction.

My first “literary” introduction to science fiction was the book,
2001: A Space Odyssey.
I grew up in the late Fifties in northern California, during the heyday of science fiction and horror B movies. I loved those movies. Aliens would come to Earth outside a small town and terrorize the residents, possessing them, torturing them. I must confess that at that time, I was not a great reader of books. The books I received the most enjoyment from were comic books, which I had to hide from my parents, who greatly disapproved of them.

In the novel
2001,
the Monolith was a teacher, sent by alien caretakers responsible for the success of life in our solar system. If the protohumans in the beginning of the story survived on Earth, they would prosper, eventually discovering another Monolith on the moon. Neat idea. In the film
2001,
none of this was explained. But because I had read the book, I understood all of it—the harmony of novel and film working together to immerse me in the total story. This type of book had value to me. “You’ve read the book, now see the movie” suddenly made sense. The only danger would be if the movie didn’t live up to my own expectations of the book.

On September 20, 1995, I dove 12,378 feet to the final resting place of the RMS
Titanic.
Two and a half miles beneath the surface of the North Atlantic, one of thirty-five people to have ever done so.

I was in a twenty-two-foot orange-and-white Russian submersible called
Mir II.
James Cameron was in
Mir I.
It was his dive and his expedition and it was at his pleasure that I was there. I was part of the crew that was filming what would later become the opening sequence of the movie
Titanic.

The 1995 expedition spent thirty-one days in the North Atlantic, 600 plus miles south-southeast of Saint John’s, Newfoundland. We were for two weeks stationed above the
Titanic.

Our home away from home for those weeks was the Russian research vessel
Akademik Mstislav Keldysh
out of Kaliningrad. Gleaming white, her only other colors were the dark green of her upper decks and the bright orange of her two seventy-man lifeboats. At 450 feet,
Keldysh
was the largest vessel of her kind in the world and the pride of the Shirshov Oceanographic Institute. She carried a crew of 130, had eighteen science labs, complete machine shops, and was a totally self-contained floating condominium complex. A city of Russians with a few Canadians and Americans thrown into the mix.

During those four long weeks, the crew of the
Keldysh
launched and recovered the
Mir I
and
Mir II
submersibles twelve times, did oceanographic studies (plus atmospheric tests, involving the Mir space station as it passed overhead), aided a ship at sea, and experienced two hurricanes on site: Hurricanes Louis and Marilyn. Louis being the most memorable, with forty-foot seas and ninety-knot winds. A kickass storm that seemed to go on forever. An experience I would never forget.

What does this have to do with
Virus?
Everything.

A month earlier I had been given a script by Universal to consider directing. It was based on the Dark Horse graphic novel created by Chuck Pfarrer. Mike Richardson from Dark Horse was an old friend. The producer would be Gale Anne Hurd, also a good friend. Gale had produced
The Abyss,
whose visual effects I had supervised. I was intrigued by this idea, but at the time I was already set to supervise the visual effects on
Titanic.
I was just awaiting word of a start date. If
Virus
was real, I would have to choose between supervising visual effects on
Titanic
and directing a major studio picture.

But at that point, I wasn’t completely satisfied with the story of
Virus.
It was a very dense and complicated story involving a state-of-the-art Chinese spy ship and lots of grotesquely modified humans. The concept didn’t excite me at first. The Chinese had no such ships. Only the Russians and Americans did. The studio wanted an answer.

I received word the next day from Lightstorm. I was to be on a plane headed for Halifax that coming weekend. I would be part of the 1995
Titanic
expedition, but under one condition—I couldn’t tell a soul. Not the studio, not Gale Hurd—no one.

We were two weeks at sea before Jim brought
Virus
up in casual conversation. He had talked to Gale before we left Halifax and he wanted to know if I had made up my mind about doing it. I hadn’t. I told him I wasn’t happy with the story.

Jim’s advice to me was make
Virus
my own. Bring my real-life experiences to it. Be a director. Directing a major motion picture was a gift and should be taken seriously. He was kicking me out of the nest.

The following weeks I thought hard about it. After all, half of my relatives were fishermen. The crew of
Virus
could be a compilation of the numerous people I had crossed paths with over the years. The tug crew I had worked with in the Northern Pacific, on
The Abyss,
could be assimilated into the story along with the Russians of the
Keldysh
crew. And there was the
Keldysh
itself.

Hell, the whole story could take place in a hurricane.

Between dive operations I took copious notes. Upon our return Dennis Feldman (
Species
) was hired to help me create the story that I wanted to tell. That was the fun part of the process. Directing it would be a more difficult path. Reality would collide with concept. The budget, locations, time, and people would influence the grand scheme of things and—in the final completed harsh reality of film—pace.

In the editing process pace and performance are the key to a successful film. Sometimes your favorite scenes end up on the cutting room floor in order to enhance the flow of the narrative. It’s part of the creative struggle between art and commerce. Time is money.

But that is not the case with the written word. It will always be there, the way you always imagined it. As many words as you want.

The film was completed by the time I read the final novelization of
Virus.
I was ecstatic. Here was the story as I had always imagined it. Through all the various drafts of the screenplays. A seafaring tale with all the ideas (all the best ideas) completed as a continuous story, right there on the page. I could take my time to savor the moments. Taste them. I could spend time with Foster, Steve, or the Captain at my own pace. Have another cup of coffee if I wanted. That is why I’m so happy with the way Danelle Perry finished the story, expanding on the original idea. Filling in the gaps. She made it her own. The way I hoped it would be.

John Bruno
Director,
Virus,
1998

As always, Mÿk, who takes care of me very well.

And for Sera, who loves the movies.

O friend, never strike sail to a fear!

Come into port greatly,

or sail with God the seas.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

• Prologue •

I
t was just past dawn and the ocean was calm and smooth beneath the
Volkov,
the South Pacific waters lapping gently against the metal hull. It was typhoon season, but uneasy seas were a hundred miles away; the giant vessel carefully held its lonely position in the brilliant early light, gleaming white upon a vast blanket of deep and quiet blue.

The second of the three parabolic dish antennas that dominated her main deck rotated skyward, the hum of machinery at work lost to the gentle winds high above. It was a magnificent ship and a glorious day, the kind of day that made one long to lounge in the sun and breathe in the salt, read a book, perhaps take a nap in the open air . . .

Dr. Nadia Vinogradova scowled at the pleasant images, wishing that she could do these things and vaguely irritated that there was not a chance in hell; as it was, the day that she had scheduled probably wouldn’t allow her to set foot outside until well after dark. She generally enjoyed her job, but early morning was not her best time; Alexi was fond of telling her that she was a pouty little girl until noon, and she had to admit (at least to herself, anyway) that he was right.

Nadia sighed inwardly and focused her attention on the task at hand; it was time. The overly bright C deck communications room was stuffy and she felt a little crowded by the men that sat with her at the video console—but she could also feel their anticipation and was proud to lead such an eager team.

She tapped a few keys and cleared her throat, facing the monitor. As always, she felt a small thrill when contacting the station; she’d worked long and hard to make senior science officer, years of proving herself to be coolly competent and worthy of respect—but she was also still secretly delighted by this aspect of her position. It never failed to impress upon her the importance of her work.