Ice Moon 4 Return to Enceladus

by Brandon Q Morris

  “Shostakovich? You mean like the composer?”

  “Yes. It’s a common last name in Russia.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Very little, I have to admit. This is surprising—we don’t even have a photo of him. He must have lived in Akademgorodok for a while, the research town near Novosibirsk. There he used borrowed money to start an IT company. It is unclear how he made it to the top of RB.”

  “But this Shostakovich has a spaceship?”

  “Just one, you say? The RB Group owns the largest private space fleet in the world. It is larger than SpaceX. It controls the complete value chain, which is its great advantage. It does not just launch rockets, but also constructs their payloads and determines their usage. Everything is focused on asteroid mining. This is the future, Amy. SpaceX went the wrong way with its Martian ventures. They wasted a lot of money there, while Shostakovich is making money hand over fist.”

  “Sounds very clever.”

  “Yes, he is. And from what we know, he doesn’t even spend his money on fast yachts and beautiful women, as expected of someone in his position, he invests it in research.”

  “That’s commendable. He seems to be some kind of saint.”

  “Not completely, Amy. None of his research institutes have ever published anything in any of the well-known journals. They are strictly working behind closed doors.”

  “That helps. Thanks, Sandy, thanks a lot. Now I think I am able to better judge the offer we received.”

  December 21, 2048, San Francisco

  Francesca turned off her computer. She had attempted to find out what her former crewmates were up to these days. The last time they had all seen each other was in May, more than half a year ago. Having had to put up with each other for two years in a cramped spaceship, the pairs seemed for now to be staying as far away from the rest of the crewmembers as possible, and she’d heard nothing of Martin.

  “I couldn’t find out much about Amy and Hayato. Amy sometimes speaks at scientific conferences, about problems during long space journeys,” Francesca said.

  “She has probably retreated into family life. Their visit to Hayato’s parents would indicate it,” Marchenko said from the loudspeaker.

  “But did you know Jiaying just finished a bona fide world tour? In Nairobi, a soccer stadium full of people cheered her.”

  “Yes, the Chinese want to appear as benefactors who bring wealth to Africa. Having a space heroine fits into their plan,” he said.

  “In Brazil the president received her, and in Cuba she was driven along the Malecón in a motorcade.”

  “Yes, she really gets around. I could give you all...” Marchenko fell silent, and Francesca noticed the pause. He must have remembered what they had talked about recently—her having issues with him being omniscient. It just happened so often. When Francesca would excitedly tell him a piece of news, he would already know about it through his numerous feelers on the internet. He even seemed to know more about her friends than she did, not that she had all that many friends after spending two years in space.

  Francesca knew he could not help it. Marchenko convincingly argued he was not going out of his way to acquire this information, it simply was there. It was difficult for her to imagine her consciousness being constantly connected with all of humanity’s news sources and social networks, and all without much effort. To Francesca this sounded like a full-scale nightmare, but for her boyfriend, this was everyday existence. She did not want him to change because this would be unfair. He would not demand her to upload her consciousness to the cloud, if it were possible—would he?

  “How is Martin handling this. What do you think?” asked Francesca.

  “Neumaier? According to what I know of him, he should be happy to be back in his office. He has not been seen in public since May.”

  “Do you think they are still together?”

  “I am pretty sure. Not sharing your boring everyday life with each other keeps love fresh. They would be celebrating each time they see each other again.”

  And what about us? We see each other, and then again we don’t. Dimitri is always with me, but at the same time he is as far away as can be. Francesca kept her thoughts to herself.

  “You... are so quiet. Francesca, I love you, and you should always know it.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said. But she was not completely convinced it worked on her side. Could she love someone who was with her only virtually?

  She was actually pretty lucky, she thought later, after she got undressed and ready for bed. They had a beautiful and incredibly expensive ground floor apartment in an old house downtown. The streetcars were running just outside the windows. She did not have to work. Well, a bit of bookkeeping for the company marketing Marchenko’s skills. The clients came by themselves, and they had more work requests than they could handle. Whenever she wanted, she could take her car to a private airfield out in the Valley and fly her own little plane. She had a man who loved her and was always there for her. She might not be able to hug him, and he could not repair the mechanism of the automatic roller blinds, but that she could do herself. But something was lacking, and she was not sure exactly what it was.

  Before turning off the reading light, she gave it a try.

  “Dimitri, are you there?” she whispered.

  “Yes, darling. Are you going to sleep now?”

  “I am in the mood.”

  Her boyfriend did not say anything. She imagined him lying next to her, smiling.

  “Shhhh,” Marchenko said softly. “I am sliding downward. Please open your legs. You know what I am doing now?”

  He whispered into her ear how he was arousing her—which spots he touched, where he kissed her, how his fingers moved. Francesca closed her eyes. She felt warm. She gave in to his touches, slid her hand between her legs, where his mouth now was—or might be. The feelings grew stronger. She was lying on soft sand, while waves of a warm sea splashed against her lower body. The waves would come and go and always left some moisture behind. She touched herself more firmly now, and Dimitri moved more forcefully. The rhythm increased. From far away she saw the wave coming toward her and she was unable to stop it anymore. The water swept over her. Francesca was breathing heavily… and then she relaxed.

  She was back to the reality of a dark and silent room. Now and then the beams of car headlights moved across the ceiling and the walls.

  “That was wonderful,” Marchenko whispered.

  Yes, it was wonderful. She smelled her fingers—yes, it was real, and not a dream—but she was alone in her bed. It would be so nice now if Dimitri could actually hug and hold her. She could imagine it all she wanted, but it was still not the same. And how did her boyfriend experience what had just happened? He could neither smell nor feel, so what really went on in his consciousness? Francesca did not dare ask, because she was afraid of the answers. She was alone, and she had to admit it once and for all. There was just no way around it—it would not end right away, but she would not be able to stand this relationship forever.

  December 26, 2048, Tokyo

  Ready, set, go! When the pedestrian traffic light switched to ‘Walk,’ Martin and Jiaying pushed through the deluge of thousands as they strode across the large intersection on the western side of Shibuya Station. Among them were men in typical business suits, young Japanese women in colorful dresses, older ladies clad in blouses and skirts, and lots of tourists, who could be easily recognized because they stopped, right in the middle of the street, to take panoramic photos. Martin stood there gaping, while his girlfriend looked at him with amusement. Yesterday, she had explained to him that Tokyo seemed almost quaint compared to the much more modern Shanghai.

  Jiaying was right in a certain way. The neon signs on the buildings across the street flashed in many colors, but they were not as elegant as their counterparts in Shanghai. The ones in Tokyo exuded a certain 2000’s charm. They actually might not be that old, or even from the previous millennium, but
they seemed to be. In any case, they definitely were not new anymore. Martin liked this aspect, since he felt the same way about himself. He cinched his coat even tighter. Tokyo was wet and cold. The fact that the commuter train was heated only increased the feeling, since it made you sweat for a short time and then the cold seemed colder.

  Why did Amy select this place for the meeting? Shibuya was fascinating, but there were definitely nicer districts of the city. They were staying at a cute little hotel in Ueno. From their window they could see a large park with a lake. Perhaps, he realized, Amy had not had anything to do with selecting the meeting place. She had told them yesterday they would be meeting a Russian who would make an offer to all of them.

  All during the previous evening, Martin and Jiaying had wondered what this meeting could be about, without arriving at any agreed-upon conclusion. In the end, no matter what it was all about, it offered an opportunity to meet their former crewmates again, and Martin was looking forward to that. He could hardly believe it! Jiaying pulled on his right hand to move him forward, but he had stopped again, and turned around without acknowledging her gesture.

  “But we are not in a rush, are we?” he asked.

  “The traffic signal just turned red, and we have to get out of the intersection.”

  He nodded and walked faster, even though they were not the last ones blocking the intersection.

  “Over there,” Jiaying pointed, “we have to follow that street.”

  A comparatively narrow pedestrian zone lay ahead of them. In the middle there were trees, which gave the area an almost European appearance. However, Martin did not recognize most of the fast food chains and clothing stores that covered three, sometimes even four floors. The rest of the seven-to-eight floor buildings were occupied by offices. They were looking for the building numbered 4776. In Japan, address numbers were not assigned by street, they were distributed across the entire district. Luckily, the navigation app on Martin’s phone knew all the addresses. It should be the fifth entrance on the left, he assumed. Amy had sent them a digital image of the signs they should find next to the doorbell.

  They reached number 4776. Next to the shabby front door there was a panel with about 50 buzzers, almost all of which were labeled in Japanese. It’s good we have Amy’s photo, he thought. The buttons looked as if they had been installed here sometime during the 1950s. Martin pressed the one matching their photo and imagined an old-fashioned bell ringing upstairs. A short time later there was a distinct humming at the door, and Jiaying reacted immediately by pushing against the door to open it. Amy had told them to take the elevator to the sixth floor where someone would be waiting for them.

  The pair entered the elevator, and it started moving upward with a creaking sound. Inside it smelled of stale urine, and the walls were smeared with paint. There was definitely no sign of the much-praised Japanese cleanliness here. When they reached the sixth floor they had to manually push the inner metal grating open in order to open the outer door. A manual elevator was something Martin had not seen in a long time. In the hallway outside the elevator, a person was looking out the small window. Once the door opened, she turned around. It was Amy. She first hugged Jiaying and then Martin, both of whom were really glad to see their former commander.

  “Welcome,” Amy said. “The others are already inside.”

  Martin gave her a puzzled look.

  “No, you are quite punctual—even a bit early. But the others arrived even earlier than you.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Martin said. He hated being late. He let the two women go first, and they all walked through a dark corridor. A fluorescent light flickered on the ceiling, revealing dull, yellowish paint that was peeling off the walls. Their steps were loud on the worn out linoleum floor. Amy stopped in front of a door at the end of the corridor and knocked in an unusual rhythm. Martin could not see a retina scanner or a keypad to enter an access code. The door had a metal handle, and below it was a huge keyhole. Amy noticed his curiosity.

  “Our host is very concerned about security.”

  He only understood what she meant after they had entered the room. It was about 6 by 6 meters and windowless, but one literally could not see the walls. The place resembled a computer nerd’s rec room. Ceiling-high computer cabinets completely obscured the walls and displayed their activities via thousands of colored LEDs. In the center of the room there was a round table, where Hayato, Francesca, and two unknown men were sitting. All of them got up when they noticed the newcomers.

  The men stayed inconspicuously in the background while the five friends happily greeted each other.

  “Where did you leave Sol?” asked Jiaying, sounding disappointed.

  “He is at Hayato’s parents,” Amy answered. “He would quickly get bored here.”

  “Too bad. I would love to see him. He must have grown so much.”

  “Why don’t you come over to Ishinomaki later, where Hayato’s parents live? We have enough room in our car.”

  “That is a great idea, right, Martin?” Jiaying looked at him. He was not too excited about meeting more new people, but he could not refuse her wish.

  “Certainly,” he replied, “but let’s listen to what these men have to say first. Everything might change afterward.”

  The older of the two men approached them. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Nikolai Shostakovich. I originally planned to have my business partner, Yuri Dushek, speak with you here first, but as dear Ms. Michaels,” he said, pointing at Amy, “left no stone unturned to find out my identity, and was even partially successful in her research, with the aid of a friend at NASA, I decided to participate in our first meeting.”

  “Excuse me,” said Amy, “my name is Ms. Masukoshi now.”

  Shostakovich gave a dismissive flick of his hand. “We’ll stick with ‘Ms. Michaels’ for the present.”

  Amy held her tongue, but her former crewmembers knew she was not happy.

  “Shostakovich—you mean like the composer?” asked Jiaying, changing the subject and defusing the tension.

  The man smiled. “In my country, this Shostakovich is a common name. However, I am indeed a distant relative of Dmitri Dmitriyevich.”

  “What is this all about?” interjected Martin, waving his hand in a circle that took in all of the computer cabinets. “Those things must be quite powerful,” he said. “And then there’s this inconspicuous building, even though you surely could afford something better.”

  “I will be quite frank,” Shostakovich said, “so you will realize you can trust me completely. We deliberately chose this low-tech environment to hide from curious eyes. This is an AI-free zone, without a connection to the internet—except for a radio link to another building under our control. This room is shielded against any electronic transmissions going out or coming in—a Faraday cage. You understand?”

  “AI free? Then what do you need all this computing power for?” asked Martin skeptically.

  “That does not include our own AIs, of course. As you might know, my partner Yuri here is a top AI researcher.”

  Martin had never heard of Dushek. This could only mean the man did his own research, or worked for an intelligence service.

  “This is a small branch office of the company we own. Here we plan our move into new markets, but so far we haven’t been very active in Japan. I have to admit we encountered difficulties in this country,” he said, now looking at Jiaying, “as our Chinese friends have almost complete control of the local market. But please, do sit down. We do not want to waste your valuable time.”

  The five of them sat around the table. Beside Francesca there was a large suitcase. One of the computer cabinets suddenly moved backward. Through the opening this created came a waiter dressed in livery. He carried a round tray with champagne glasses and two bulbous bottles. Dushek signaled him to come closer.

  “Let us drink a toast to the success of this meeting. This is genuine Crimean champagne, ladies and gentlemen!”

  Fra
ncesca raised her brows, knowing that ‘champagne,’ by international agreement, can only originate from the Champagne wine region of France.

  The waiter distributed the glasses, deftly opened the first bottle, and poured the bubbling liquid into each. Dushek signaled him again and the waiter left, the cabinet moving back into position.

  “Sa Uspekh! To success!” Dushek raised his glass in a toast to everyone. “Too bad Tovarish Marchenko cannot raise a glass with us. At least place him on the table. His being on the floor is so humiliating,” The Russian pointed at the suitcase.

  Martin noticed Francesca gasp, but then she regained control. She smiled.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, gentlemen.”

  “You can end the cat and mouse game, Francesca,” Amy said quietly. “These men know about Marchenko.”

  The Italian astronaut turned visibly pale.

  “No reason to panic, dear guests, we do not intend to harm you. Quite the opposite!” said Dushek.

  Francesca still looked tense, and Martin could understand this. She held the handle of the suitcase so firmly that the muscles in her arm bulged out.

  “Amy, why didn’t you mention this to me?” Francesca’s gaze moved back and forth between the former commander and Dushek.

  “I did not want to worry you.”

  Francesca opened her mouth but did not answer Amy.

  “You were correct, Ms. Michaels, there really is no reason for concern. We would like to suggest a deal from which everyone profits.”

  “I am curious to hear it,” Martin blurted out. He wasn’t usually so abrupt.

  Now Shostakovich was speaking. “Let me first give you a brief overview of my activities. Just so you are confident I will be able to fulfill my side of the deal.”

  A screen slid downward directly in front of one wall of computers, descending from a slot in the ceiling none of the five had noticed. On the other side of the room a projector turned on, and the logo of the RB Group appeared instantaneously.