Chapter Text
09:00, Friday 11 June 1993
San José, Costa Rica
Ian Malcolm is bored.
This is nothing new, of course. Ian is the kind of person who is always thinking, always moving, always doing, well, something. But there is nothing to distract him in this bland airport waiting room, so instead he kicks his heels against the floor and sighs, checking his watch constantly. He’s waiting on John Hammond, entrepreneur and stinking rich capitalist, and as usual the elderly gentleman is late. Whoever set up the room didn’t even put down any magazines for him to flip through and then ignore.
It’s, uh, terrible customer service, really.
Ian drums his fingers on his thigh and thinks about the weekend before him. He’s on a consultancy job for Hammond’s investors, who want him to visit Hammond’s island and investigate the safety of his grand venture, ‘Jurassic Park’. At first glance, it’s an easy job: a rich corporation pays a famous mathematician to endorse their project; they get a publicity bump and his daughter’s education is set.
But this isn’t just any corporation, oh no. It’s InGen, and he has worked with them before. Five years ago, John Hammond approached Ian to consult on his new project: an amusement park populated not by rides and animatronics, but by real, living, breathing dinosaurs. Ian found the whole idea intriguing, if a bit insane, so he took the job and did what he was hired to do: he assessed the park through the lens of his specialty, chaos theory. He spoke with InGen’s engineers and geneticists, modelled scenarios and studied zoos, and at the end of it all he came back to Hammond with a thoroughly researched paper that in essence said one thing: Jurassic Park was an impossible dream that could never, ever work. It was doomed to fail.
Outside the terminal, a plane touches down lightly on the runway. Ian watches it glide to a stop.
At the time, Hammond had dismissed his findings out right, calling it a ‘bunch of numerical nonsense’, seemingly forgetting the fact he was the one who requested Ian’s consultancy in the first place. Ian tried very hard to explain the mathematics to him. What Hammond and his team all assumed to be a simple, predictable system– animals within a natural, park-like environment – was so much more complicated than they ever thought. There were too many variables, from the computer systems they wanted to put in to the animals themselves. Sooner or later, Ian had told them, the whole project will begin to deviate from their expectations. Sooner or later, something will go wrong.
Of course, the prospect of profit trumps everything, and Ian was ignored. Construction on Jurassic Park went ahead. Ian heard little from InGen for five years, until two weeks ago, when they called asking him to assess the park. Ian knew instantly that at least one of his warnings had come to pass. He told them not to waste their time – theory is enough to tell him that the island will only continue to behave unpredictably.
They insisted he visit the park itself, however, and then they offered enough money to cover Kelly’s college tuition, and, uh, well, he couldn’t say no.
So, here Ian is, waiting to fly to an island that might just be full of dinosaurs, an island where something serious has gone wrong. Nothing to it. If he dies, at least his ex-wives can file one hell of a wrongful death claim. He huffs a laugh at the thought.
The door clicks open.
A middle-aged, balding white man bustles in, carrying a soft leather briefcase. Ian recognises him instantly: Donald Gennaro, InGen’s sycophantic lawyer and the man who invited Ian to Jurassic Park. He’s also a man with deplorable fashion sense. Today he wears his usual ugly suit coupled with a truly embarrassing pair of suit shorts that barely reach partway down his thighs.
“Uh, hello there,” Ian says, and Gennaro jumps, clearly surprised. He recovers quickly and puts his briefcase down precisely on the nearest table.
“Ah, Dr Malcolm. I trust your flight was pleasant?”
“About as pleasant as a five hour flight can be,” Ian replies, twisting the ring on his finger unconsciously. “So, uh, how did John take the news I was coming along for the ride?”
Gennaro bland, pleasant smile breaks just a little. “Mr. Hammond took it just fine,” he says. It’s a clear lie, and Ian rolls his eyes.
“Uh, sure. Sure. And, uh, you said last time we talked there were other consultants? Who, who are they again?”
Gennaro looks uncomfortable. “A pair of palaeontologists – Alan Grant and Ellie Sattler. The investors wanted Grant specifically.”
Ian hums. He’s heard of both of them – top of their fields, most recently working in the Badlands of Montana. “So, uh, do they know? About the dinosaurs?”
“I’m not sure. Hammond arranged everything.”
Ian whistles. Knowing Hammond, the pair of them think they’re being sent to some amusement park inhabited by animatronic dinosaurs. Hammond won’t be able to resist surprising them with the reality of what he’s attempting.
Gennaro gives another bland smile and sits down. Ian watches him go through the documents in his briefcase carefully, and then settles back in his chair with a sigh. He turns back to plane watching, fidgeting as the minutes tick away.
The door crashes open, and an elderly gentleman bursts in, arms wide. “Hello, hello!” He exclaims, and Gennaro flinches. Ian grins.
Leave it to John Hammond to make a dramatic entrance.
Gennaro closes his briefcase and stands. “You’re late,” he tells the man, but Hammond’s smile doesn’t waver a bit.
“Donald, Donald, it’s fine. The helicopter won’t leave without us – I own it, after all!” He steps out of the doorway and ushers in a dazed pair – presumably the palaeontologists. They both carry duffle bags and seem unaccustomed to Hammond’s usual theatrics.
“Dr Grant, Dr Sattler, I’d like you to meet Donald Gennaro. He’s the lawyer representing InGen’s investors.” He winks at the pair, and they both shuffle uncomfortably for a moment, until the woman steps forward. She’s in her mid-thirties perhaps, with blond hair and a sort of impatience about her.
She shakes Gennaro’s hand, and then pushes the man – Dr Grant – forward, who looks a little older and is wearing a palm leaf straw hat. He appears to be the kind of man you’d expect to survive in the wilderness – innately practical, a real ‘man of the land.’
“Uh, hello,” he says, shaking Gennaro’s hand quickly. He steps to the side, glancing about the waiting room. Ian notes the red bandana around his neck with amusement. It’s an interesting match to the man’s denim polo shirt, and yet somehow it works on the man. It helps that he’s handsome.
Gennaro returns their greetings cordially enough, and then Hammond turns to Ian with a great sense of reluctance. “Ah, Dr Malcolm,” he says, smiling with forced graciousness. Clearly, he still hasn’t forgotten Ian’s paper.
“Hello, John,” Ian grins and gets to his feet, dwarfing everyone but Grant. “Yes, I am afraid your old nemesis is here.”
Hammond ignores his remark pointedly and turns to Gennaro with a small shake of his head. Ian laughs under his breath and steps past him to the palaeontologists, shaking hands with them quickly. “Ian Malcolm, how do you do? I do maths.”
“Ellie Sattler, he’s Alan Grant,” she says, and glances at Hammond. “Do you know Mr Hammond?” she asks, clearly curious.
“Well, uh, I was one of the original consultants brought in to assess his park,” Ian explains.
“He doesn’t seem to like you very much,” Grant observes, watching him carefully.
Ian shrugs. “My paper, uh, wasn’t particularly optimistic.”
Grant frowns at that, but they are interrupted by an InGen employee at the door who gives Hammond the thumbs up. Hammond reacts instantly, rubbing his hands together like an excited child. “Look at that! Our ride is ready!” he says. He gathers them all together and pushes them after the employee, who leads them out of the terminal and onto the outskirts of an occupied helipad. Another employee swoops in and takes their luggage. Gennaro holds tight to his briefcase.
Ian raises an eyebrow at Hammond’s enthusiasm. It’s almost as if the man thinks they’re on some sort of vacation, not a serious trip forced upon him by Gennaro’s law firm. Hammond bounces from person to person, ushering them forward with a smile. “Come on, come on, here we go!”
Ian settles by the window, opposite Hammond, and watches the others climb aboard. Gennaro slides in next to him, still clutching his briefcase, a frown etched into his face. He stares sourly at Hammond as the capitalist jovially points the palaeontologists to the seats beside him, clearly bothered by the man’s flippant attitude.
The rotors begin to pick up speed, flashing shadows onto the pale concrete, and Ian watches the ground drop away as they soar up and forward into the sky. Soon the view of the airport is subsumed by the larger picture of the city, gleaming in the morning light. They turn west then, toward the rugged mountains, and the urban sprawl slips behind them. The helicopter rises up above the mountains, mingling with the thick, fluffy clouds. Ian smiles at the sight. Each cloud is a masterpiece, constantly changing behemoths of water vapour, twisted and pulled into magnificent sculptures. All of them are unique and unpredictable. The clouds swallow them up completely until it as if they are travelling through some other dimension, surrounded by whites and greys and the glow of the sun above.
They descend on the other side of the mountains, and the Pacific coast comes into view. Ian sees long, perfect sandy beaches and rich green water, and directly below them lush forests pass by, teeming with life. They pass over a small fishing village that Sattler remarks on, and then head straight over the ocean, the water changing to a deep aquamarine as they leave Costa Rica behind.
Ian watches the ocean for a time, enchanted by the constant rise and fall of the swells and by the sparkle of sunlight over the surface. He imagines the depths beneath, and then he turns away, for there is something much more interesting to ponder: the two palaeontologists.
Sattler and Grant lean comfortably against each other, neither noticing his stare. Sattler is lost in thought, her mouth pulled in a fine line. She’s very pretty, with intelligent eyes and a strong, long nose. Ian has heard about her – a brilliant palaeobotanist who achieved her PhD in her twenties. She’s well known for her contributions to paleoecology, and for her extensive research on Mesozoic angiosperms and their pollen. She’s even done work on Podocarpus.
And then there’s Dr Grant, turning some sort of wicked claw, perhaps from a dromaeosaur, over and over in his hands. The man is ruggedly handsome in his own way and carries a look of thoughtful concentration. It’s his single-minded focus that led him to be the top of his field – the man is a key figure in the debate on whether dinosaurs were warm-blooded animals and a strong proponent of the idea that birds are descended from dinosaurs, a theory he championed in his book Dinosaurs Detectives. Ian read it one lazy winter afternoon and very much enjoyed it, particularly the chapters on group behaviour of certain species of dinosaurs. Grant’s illustrations were, uh, quite amusing as well.
Ian sneaks a candy from his jacket, wondering how the pair of them will react to Hammond’s island. If Hammond has been truly successful – created living, accurate dinosaurs – then they might very well find themselves in a world that doesn’t need them anymore.
He sits forward in his seat, eager to find out more about the pair. “So, you two, um, dig up, dig up dinosaurs?”
Sattler looks up. “Well.…” She looks to Grant, who gives a small smile.
“We try to,” he says.
Ian finds this hilarious. They’re headed to a place where scientists are trying to create dinosaurs, creatures they have dedicated their lives to understanding through fossils and theory, and they have no idea. No idea at all. Ian laughs at the absurdity of it all.
Sattler turns to Grant with suppressed giggle, entertained by Ian’s bizarre laugh. Grant simply looks between her and Ian with a mixture of concern and bewilderment.
Gennaro frowns at Ian.
“You’ll have to get used to Dr. Malcolm,” Hammond tells them conspiratorially. “He suffers from a deplorable excess of personality, especially for a mathematician.”
Grant tucks the claw away and Sattler keeps grinning.
Ian snorts. Mathematician. He’s not just a mathematician, he’s a chaotician – one of the most famous of the new generation of mathematicians who are openly interested in ‘how the real world works.’ He and his colleagues use computers constantly to study non-linear equations instead of fearing new technology like, uh, like traditional mathematicians, and they care that their mathematics describe something that actually exists in the real world.
He corrects Hammond vehemently. “Chaotician, chaotician, actually!” He turns to the others. “John doesn’t subscribe to chaos, particularly about what it has to say about his little science project.”
“Codswallop, Ian. You’ve never been able to sufficiently explain your concerns -”
Ian tucks the candy back in his jacket and leans forward. “Oh John, John, John, because of the behaviour of the system in phase space?”
Hammond snaps back, “A load of, if I may say so, fashionable number crunching.”
Ian pokes his knee, enjoying firing the old man up. He’s been waiting five years to prove Hammond wrong and he’s going to relish every second of it.
“Don’t!” Hammond slaps his hand away. “I wish you wouldn’t do that!”
Ian ignores his protests and turns to the palaeontologists. “Dr Sattler, Dr Grant, you’ve heard, you’ve heard of chaos theory?”
Grant seems uninterested, but Sattler shakes her head. “No.”
“No? Non-linear equations? Strange attractors?”
Sattler’s face is blank, while Grant simply focuses on the view. Ian leans forward further. “Dr Sattler, I, I refuse to believe that you aren’t familiar with the concept of attraction,” he says and is rewarded by a deep blush across Sattler’s cheeks. She looks down and away to Grant, who is no longer listening.
Hammond snorts and turns to Gennaro. “I bring scientists, you bring a rock star.”
Gennaro tries to protest, but Hammond looks out the far window and his face lights up. He points. “There it is!”
This catches Grant’s attention. They all turn to look out the window and see Isla Nublar suddenly before them. It rises sharply from the sea in craggy peaks and steep cliffs, blanketed with thick tropical vegetation. Fog crouches over the island possessively, blocking them from seeing the full extent of the island. The helicopter’s shadow flickers over the rugged shore, and Ian marvels at the sheer power of the waves crashing against the rocks. The pilot takes them over the coast and into a long ravine.
“Isla Nublar is volcanic in origin,” Hammond tells them, “there are steam vents in many places on the island, and because of this – and prevailing currents – it’s often quite foggy, as you can see. It gives the island quite a mysterious air, doesn’t it!”
Ian flicks a glance at the man. He remembers this from the original reports he was given for his consultancy paper. Isla Nublar isn’t even a true island, he recalls, but a seamount, a volcanic upthrusting of rock from the ocean floor. There was even talk of using geothermal power to run the park.
They sail past a thundering waterfall and hover precariously in place. The helicopter jerks and wobbles from side to side, and then drops a few metres. Ian feels like his stomach has been left behind.
Hammond holds up a hand. “Bad wind shears. We have to drop pretty fast, so hold on, as this can be just a little thrilling.” The helicopter falls further and Hammond laughs. Everyone else chuckles nervously.
Ian sees Gennaro put on his seatbelt and does the same, and then watches Grant puzzle over the two female ends of his seatbelt. Ian shoots a glance at Hammond’s embarrassed face and smiles.
Sattler tries to help Grant. “No, no, no,” she says, batting at his hand as he tries to match a wrong pair.
Hammond leans over her, pointing. “You need that piece over here, and that piece...look, we’ll have landed by the time you get it right!” He leans back in frustration, apparently giving up. Grant raises his eyebrows behind his sunglasses and ties the two ends firmly together over his hips. He looks at Ian with a half-smile, and Ian grins. He likes this man.
They drop further, the wind buffeting them side to side, and finally touch down. Beside Ian, Gennaro sighs noisily in relief, and undoes his seatbelt with shaking hands. Hammond stands and pats his shoulder reassuringly, then moves to the door. The co-pilot opens it, and Hammond climbs out first, clicking his cane on the concrete with a wide smile. Ian rolls his eyes and lets the others exit before trying to unfold his long limbs enough to leave the cramped helicopter.
Hammond pounces on the palaeontologists as soon as they are away from the rotorcraft, linking his arms with theirs and chatting a mile a minute as he leads them to the waiting jeeps. Gennaro hangs back for a moment, a pinched, frustrated expression on his face.
“Remember, Dr Malcolm, that despite appearances this isn’t some weekend excursion. This is a serious investigation.”
Ian suppresses the urge to laugh at the man. He’s well aware of his job, thank you very much. It’s Hammond that is running around like a showman. “There’s, uh, no need to tell me,” he says to Gennaro, and with that he hurries after the palaeontologists, long legs eating up the distance easily.
Hammond spots Ian and pastes on a jovial smile. “How about you join Drs Sattler and Grant, Ian?”
“Sure.” Ian hops into the back of the first jeep, beside Grant. Hammond speaks with the driver quietly and then marches to the second jeep, where Gennaro waits. Ian’s glad he’s not sitting with them.
The driver starts the jeep and takes them along a well-worn trail, away from the helipad. They turn a corner and approach an astonishingly high fence of steel and cable. Blank-faced park employees swing open a series of gates for them to drive through.
Grant seems astonished by the sheer size of the fence. “What kind of park is this?” he mutters beside Ian.
The gates close behind them, and Ian sees a warning sign reading: 10,000 volts on the fence. He hopes that’s enough, but he doubts it. Complex systems always find a way to surprise you.
In the distance, the helicopter takes off.