The Enceladus Mission: Hard Science Fiction

by Brandon Q Morris

  Loud applause interrupted Martin’s musings. He pushed the monitor’s power button. The video feed from the cockpit was still off, but Valkyrie’s status indicators were active. The drill jets were working again. The vehicle had turned and now was working its way toward the surface. It would break through the ice about 90 meters east of his location. At that moment, the helicopter with the emergency physician flew over the camp. Martin got up and grabbed his jacket from a hook on the wall. His scarf still was inside a sleeve, so he simply wrapped it around his neck. Cap and gloves, too. All that takes way too long, he thought, but I know how cold it is outside.

  The wind hit him with full force when he left the protection of his cabin. Ice crystals felt like small nails someone threw at his skin. Nevertheless, he was not the only one who had ventured outside. A spontaneous welcoming committee was on its way. The area where the vehicle would emerge was already cordoned off with colored tape. It looked like a carnival was about to begin, but the people were not filled with joyous anticipation. Martin wondered how Devendra would be doing. Since the reactivation of the jets, the communication with the crew had occurred on a private channel.

  Martin shifted his weight from one foot to another and tried to somehow stay warm. The ice crunched beneath his feet. The crunching sound became louder, until he realized it was not being caused by his efforts to warm up, but came from deep below. He looked toward the flag markers. There, the ice became much brighter. It now seemed to be less white, more like a mirror. This was the heat from below, which first turned the ice glassy, and then completely liquified it. First, there were only two small, dark spots—liquid, bubbling water. The spots grew, merging into a lake with a boiling content that resembled a geyser. Then a dark, shiny sea monster emerged. Its iron body moved at a slant from below to reach the surface of the ice, which at first broke below it until Valkyrie reached stable solid ice.

  Still at a slight angle, it rested on the ice like a stranded whale with its head raised. The exit was at a height of about two meters. Three men brought a ladder and anchored it at the respective slots on Valkyrie. Two other men used it to get on board. A few seconds later, one of them emerged from the hatch and called out something Martin could not understand from a distance. Another man brought a stretcher that he passed to the rescue worker at the hatch, who maneuvered it inside. Two minutes later he reemerged, feet first this time. He pulled the now noticeably heavier stretcher behind him, the first rescuer probably pushing from inside. Something or someone was strapped to the stretcher, and the two men managed to move their burden down the ladder. There the third man started to help and they all took off, almost at a running pace, toward the helicopter.

  Martin did not see his colleague from India again until he visited him in the hospital. Devendra already managed to reach his left arm toward him. Both arms and his torso were bandaged. The scalding water had hit him in a relatively narrow stream. The areas affected were severely burned, but they were small enough his life was not endangered. At this point, Martin already knew who would replace Devendra aboard the Enceladus spacecraft. Has the Sikh already been told? Martin did not want to be the one to tell him, so he completely avoided the topic of spaceflight.

  “Say hi to Enceladus for me,” Devendra said at the end. Martin still shivered whenever he heard that name, one of Saturn's moons. I am no discoverer; I am not even an astronaut.

  September 24, 2045, NASA

  “We do not hire astronauts, Mr. Neumaier, we create them.”

  The words from the interview replayed through Martin's mind. He had resisted, of course, when he was asked to replace his injured colleague on board Valkyrie. His knowledge of the system, his cool-headed behavior, his ability to concentrate even without sleep—these had all been noted when NASA investigated this incident.

  “Now you tell me yourself how the mission would have ended if the communication between you and the ship would have occurred with a lag of several hours?”

  Martin realized why the planners of the Enceladus mission were frightened—the crew was basically cut off from any external help. An exchange of questions and answers would take hours due to the enormous distance. In that aspect, unmanned missions had been no different, but they also had been not nearly as complex. Now they would need all skills right there, not 1.2 billion kilometers away. Unfortunately, space on board was limited, and they could not send more than six astronauts on this long trip.

  Martin could not quite explain it, but he eventually gave in. He forced the planners to make one promise, though; he would not have to go on board Valkyrie. The very idea of being surrounded by darkness while knowing there were kilometers of ice above his head frightened him. He would stay aboard the mothership. He could control the drill vehicle from his orbit around Enceladus as well as he had done from his workstation at the camp in Antarctica.

  Goodbye California and West Coast, Martin anticipated. Three days later, he was picked up by a black limo. JPL in Pasadena was only responsible for unmanned missions. The car was parked by the cafeteria, between Buildings 180 and 264. Nearby was a military airfield where a small twin-engine plane waited for him. Five hours later he landed in Houston, Texas, where another limo was waiting for him. The man who had greeted him at the arrival gate now sat beside him in the rear of the limo.

  “Space City,” he said.

  “Confirmed,” the female voice of the car’s AI replied. The limo started.

  The man turned toward Martin. “I’d like to welcome you as a guest of the Astronaut Corps.” He shook Martin’s hand and then said, “I am Chief Astronaut Dave Willinger.”

  He had heard this name before. Willinger had made a name for himself during a Mars mission. Martin had not known that Willinger had since become Chief of the Astronaut Corps. It's probably a boring office job rather than a real promotion, Martin presumed. I would gladly trade places with him. He introduced himself as well, though his host certainly must have known who he was.

  “Martin Neumaier, JPL contractor. Former contractor, that is.”

  Willinger uttered a raucous laugh.

  “Yes, your status is rather hard to define. But since you are already here... we will have to skip basic training anyway. And I am sure you already know how to dive and how to pilot a plane.” He nudged Martin with his elbow. Everything is going to be easy, he meant. I am just an astronaut like you, Martin thought.

  “For this reason, you are now our official guest. This has the advantage that we don’t have to pay you, and if something happens to you, it will not be our fault.”

  He uttered the same raucous laugh, and Martin winced internally. I don't know if I'm going to like this man. He's a bit annoying. Martin glanced outside. The limo was driving through a seemingly endless suburb.

  “Yes, it will take a little while longer. Space City is located a bit outside of Houston. I thought we could use the opportunity to talk about the plans for the coming months.”

  “Good idea.” So far, Martin knew nothing except that the mission was supposed to start in three months.

  “Your arrival here is seen as a kind of an unusual career change. I think that might be a problem, but what I think doesn’t matter.”

  So things aren't going to be easy after all? Martin nodded to himself. It would be an enormous understatement to call my recruitment merely problematic.

  “We will at least have to turn you into an astronaut. For that purpose we have designed a greatly shortened basic training, three weeks instead of twelve months. Afterward, you are officially an Astronaut Candidate or ASCAN, as we call them. Don’t worry, you cannot fail unless you fall and break some bones. In that case ...”

  Martin thought, I wonder if I can laugh and sound like Willinger, too.

  “However, there will be little danger of that, as you are going to spend most of your time in the classroom. The next step will be Advanced Training. We moved the diving course from basic training to this section. We will test how you handle extreme acceleration, low air pres
sure, darkness, and zero gravity. This segment also includes survival training. Afterward, you will familiarize yourself with the modules of your spacecraft. You already have some experience with Valkyrie, though you have never been inside one, have you?”

  Martin shook his head. “And I never will be.”

  “I don’t know about that. It is certainly an exciting machine. I am not familiar with it either, so it looks like we’re going to test it together. I am personally responsible for you.”

  During Advanced Training, each ASCAN was assigned to an experienced astronaut. Willinger gave him a questioning look.

  “This is an honor for me, sir,” Martin said. This seemed to Martin to be a suitable reaction in this case—and he was right. Willinger’s eyes lit up. In the long run, the desk job is probably not good for his ego, Martin concluded.

  “Your colleagues are all a bit ahead of you, but I think you should catch up with them in a little under two months if you train as intensively as I expect you to. You will have to, because then you are going up to Tiangong-4.”

  Willinger was referring to the Chinese space station. After the demise of ISS-NG, the Russians, Europeans, and Americans had not managed to agree on a new International Space Station. Since then, the Chinese station had become a kind of meeting point for all spacefaring nations. At first, the Chinese had invited astronauts from India, Indonesia, and Brazil. Finally, the former ISS nations had bought certain landing rights by paying for their own Tiangong modules.

  “I’m looking forward to it.” I hope that sounded OK. Martin was afraid this sentence would sound sarcastic. If it did, Willinger did not seem to notice.

  “We’re actually almost there, so you might want to put your shoes on,” the chief astronaut said with a laugh. Martin looked out the window. They were driving past a windowless three-story building, then a conventional office building with five floors. It had a large parking lot surrounding it. Nothing so far looked in any way futuristic. Rockets ready for launch, fire, and smoke—none of that was here. Houston was no spaceport, after all, but only the center for manned missions. The limo turned left onto a narrow street bordered by parking spaces and leading to a plain eight-story building. Right in front of it was a parking spot marked with the large yellow letters, “VIP.”

  “Johnson Space Center, Administration,” the car announced. The doors swung open.

  “Do I have an apartment here? I’ve got a few things I would like to have sent here.” Martin had to hurry to keep pace with Willinger, who was striding toward the entrance of the building.

  “You won’t need an apartment. There are rooms for the Flight Controllers in the basement, in case their shift runs late. One of them will be made available to you.”

  October 22, 2045, Pensacola

  “One... two... three... go!” said the voice from the loudspeaker. The safety belts dug into Martin’s shoulders. His entire body was being accelerated upward. A powerful force resisted and squeezed him. His heart raced, and he tried not to bite his lips. Then liberation came. The seat flew onward without exterior forces acting on it, until it went down again. He fell into a bottomless depth until he finally landed gently. The ejector seat exercise showed Martin for the first time that this training would take him to the limits of his physical endurance—and beyond.

  Even from below, this apparatus looks terrifying, he nervously observed. At carnivals, Martin had always given such rides a wide berth.

  “That was fun, wasn’t it?” Willinger asked. With his large paw he patted Martin’s shoulder—like the rest of Martin's body it still felt strangely soft. Martin decided, one really has to be an oddball to enjoy such events as these. At first, the flight to Florida had seemed to be a welcome diversion. During the past three weeks in Texas he’d had to absorb knowledge like a sponge. In case of emergency he was supposed to be able to take on the roles of doctor, scientist, mechanic, and pilot. There wasn’t enough time to test all of this in practice, but at least he now knew in principle how to set a broken bone, how to extract a tooth, and how to perform an appendectomy. What he had learned wasn’t always useful—on Enceladus, he would hardly have to treat heatstroke. And, as a precaution, all astronauts had their appendixes removed before the long journey.

  At Naval Air Station Pensacola in Florida, theoretical learning became much less important. Before his ride on the ejector seat simulator he had learned the basics about dangers during a rocket launch, ejector seat trajectories, and rescue routines. There seemed to be only one central question to consider—how much strain could Martin Neumaier withstand? And was he even capable of being an astronaut? No one here appeared to know he had been previously informed that his place on the Enceladus spacecraft was secure. Everyone, up to his coach Willinger, treated him like a normal recruit. As Martin was at a U.S. Navy installation, the tone was quite a bit harsher than at NASA Houston, where the people were mostly administrators.

  “What are we going to pursue tomorrow?” Martin asked.

  “Just a moment. We still have to take baths today,” said Willinger with a sly chuckle.

  They entered a building that was obviously an indoor swimming pool. It was empty. Martin was given a diving suit, and he was supposed to swim three laps, an easy exercise for him. Afterward he had to change his outfit, donning a combat uniform that was much heavier than the diving suit, and then return to the pool. The fabric soon became waterlogged and no longer fit tightly, but instead pulled him downward. The heavy boots also made it harder to kick with his legs. Nevertheless, he managed to cover the three required 30-meter-laps since there was no time limit to prevent him from finishing.

  “You seem to be able to swim,” said Willinger. “That’s good. Otherwise, I would have worried whether or not you were going to survive the next exercise.”

  Martin had already wondered why a metal capsule with windows hung above the pool. It looked like a helicopter without rotors. A crane moved the capsule to the side of the pool. Willinger strapped Martin to the left seat, while the right one remained empty.

  “Just a moment. I need to change.”

  Willinger put on a diving suit. Martin looked at him as he approached. Even though he must be over fifty, his body still seems to be in great shape.

  “I will be behind you, and when I tap you on the shoulder, you will unbuckle, open the door here,” he said, pointing at the door next to the pilot seat, “and swim to the surface. Understood?”

  Martin nodded, and then the crane picked up the capsule and moved it over the pool. He heard a loud clicking, felt a moment of weightlessness, and then the capsule sank, gurgling below the surface. Martin took a deep breath—the windows were open. Water flooded the inside. Instinctively, he wanted to open his safety belt and flee, but then he remembered to wait for the signal. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Willinger was floating in the water to the right of him. Martin pulled the door handle, but it was stuck. Willinger made gestures for him to stop. The other door! I have to open the other door! The thought raced through Martin's mind. The capsule was already three-quarters full of water. Martin unbuckled and had to dive down to find the door handle next to the pilot seat. He joggled it, but he did not have enough strength to open the door.

  Of course, the water pressure, Martin suddenly realized. He would not be able to open it until the capsule was completely flooded, but it shouldn’t be long. Martin gasped for air one last time, then pulled himself down by the door handle and started counting. At the count of fifteen, he pressed the handle again. The door swung open, and he pulled himself out and swam upward. When his head broke the surface, Willinger was next to him.

  “Lesson 1. Always listen carefully.” This time, he was not laughing. “But it was good you didn’t panic. Most people don’t realize the door cannot be opened for a while.”

  Martin nodded. “And now what?”

  “The same procedure, but this time blindfolded.”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

  Willinger once more uttered h
is familiar raucous laugh. “No.”

  “We will meet tomorrow in Building 3801,” Willinger had told him when he left. He had given Martin a mysterious look when he said that.

  “Oh, and don’t eat too much for breakfast.”

  Martin stood in front of the entrance to Building 3801 and waited. The sign read, Naval Operational Medical Institute. He did not know what to make of this. It is probably going to be another medical exam.

  Willinger came around the corner, right on the dot. As a greeting, he gave Martin a hearty slap on the back. Martin had expected that kind of gesture and softened it by taking a small step forward.

  “Ha,” said Willinger appreciatively.

  Yesterday, Martin had asked every colleague whom he encountered what Building 3801 was about, but each one had just smiled mysteriously. This appeared to be part of the initiation ritual.

  The building itself did not indicate a particular purpose. There were conference rooms and offices on the ground floor. The two men walked past them and reached a security gate sporting the sign, Multi-station Spatial Disorientation Device. Willinger and Martin held up their ID cards to a scanner.

  A double door led into a large, almost circular room. In the middle, Martin saw a device mounted on a round pedestal. Ten barrel-shaped capsules without windows, labeled 1 through 10, hung off arms leading from the center. The apparatus reminded him somewhat of a carnival carousel. It appeared strangely old-fashioned. Martin shivered because the room temperature was barely in the upper teens.

  A technician in blue overalls greeted them.

  “Our MSDD. An antique beauty, isn’t it?”

  He explained that the system had been constructed back in the 1970s.

  “It is even older than you, sir,” the technician said with a smile to Willinger, whom he appeared to know well. He gazed at Martin. “And you are reputed to be such an exceptional programmer.”