The Enceladus Mission: Hard Science Fiction

by Brandon Q Morris

  Martin opened his eyes. He had not even noticed that he had closed them. The others sat there, motionless and silent. They probably were imagining similar scenarios, but Amy was not finished.

  “It is too early to worry much. We have a doctor on board. I have already talked to Marchenko. I had to tell him earlier—you have to understand this. I did not want to make you choose before I was certain.”

  Choose? She must have gone crazy, Martin thought.

  “Marchenko is willing to perform an abortion. He is no gynecologist, but he knows the necessary steps. I am in my ninth week, so it could be done without a problem. The risks are controllable, even though this is an operation.”

  “You want to have an abortion? How can you?” Francesca’s face was pale. Her reaction fit the image Martin had of her.

  “I am the commander, and I am responsible for the life of the crew. I have to place your welfare above mine. I don’t just have to, I want to. I would not have taken this post if I had not been aware of the consequences.”

  Francesca shook her head.

  “You cannot do this. You would turn us into accomplices.”

  “No, I am making this decision on my own, as there is no other choice, besides breaking off the entire mission.”

  “Francesca is right. I told you that already.” Hayato was still looking straight ahead, but now he raised his head. “You are making this decision for our sake. I would also say this if I was not the father. I think we have the right to participate in the decision.”

  The commander appeared shocked. Her arms were hanging limply next to her body, which looked strange in zero gravity.

  “I... I don’t know. I cannot endanger you. I would never forgive myself for that.”

  “We can all speak for ourselves.” Marchenko now had raised his upper body. His deep voice boomed, the Russian accent was pronounced. “How about voting on it? You as the commander get two votes, one for yourself and one for your office. Everyone else has one vote each.”

  Amy looked around doubtfully, but no one protested. “I... I cannot accept that you would suffer harm because of me. No matter how the voting goes, if we find out the mission has no chance of success anymore, Marchenko will perform the abortion. We can give ourselves and Mission Control about two weeks’ time to recalculate all parameters.”

  Martin moved his head back and forth. She has to know that fourteen days will never be enough to come up with a reliable prognosis. Mission planning alone has taken several months.

  “I like Marchenko’s suggestion.” Francesca seemed eager. “We should not wait until later, we should vote right away.”

  “I agree.” Amy looked around the crew with an unsure expression. Marchenko nodded. Hayato did the same, but without looking into her eyes. Martin nodded. Jiaying hesitated and then also nodded. Francesca raised a thumb. “I think we should vote in secret, though. I want all of us to voice our opinions without concern for personal relationships.”

  Marchenko reached into his pocket.

  “I just borrowed 14 screws from the workshop, seven short ones and seven somewhat longer ones,” he said.

  Amy looked at him and raised her eyebrows. He smiled.

  “Everyone receives two different ones, and you, Amy, get four. The short screw means Amy should have the baby. The longer one...”

  Jiaying interrupted, “And if someone uses both screws to vote?”

  “Who would get such an idea?” Marchenko asked.

  He received no answer from her.

  “I am going to pass around this metal container.” He shook it. “It’s empty. Everyone puts a screw inside, and then we count.”

  No one reacted, so Marchenko followed his own announcement. The container went around. At each seat there was a clinking sound. Martin was second to last. He realized, There are too many unknown parameters in the equation to calculate her chances. However, I cannot force the commander to have an abortion, even though this was her own suggestion.

  He pushed a short screw a bit so that it tumbled into the container. Then he passed it on to Amy. Her hand was trembling. The sound of metal on metal two or three times was the only thing breaking the near-silence. Now the commander stood there quietly. Marchenko moved toward her and took the metal container. He turned toward the table, inverted the container, and lifted it. Seven screws floated around, hit the white tablecloth and rebounded. Martin saw they had left light brown smears, probably oil. Four were shorter than the rest.

  August 5, 2046, ILSE

  During the first weeks after launch, the crew's conversations with Mission Control had only been a simple exchange of ‘this is CapCom, what's up?’ followed by, ‘I have a question.’ By now, a signal took 20 minutes to reach Earth. Therefore an answer to a simple question would require almost three-quarters of an hour. The crew had now switched to sending so-called comms, or communiques, to Mission Control. A comm consisted of a proposed resolution, plus the reasons for it. It described a problem, possible solutions, and the option favored by the respective specialist in the crew. Mission Control checked the solutions and then sent its own comm that either agreed or contained changed parameters. The final decision still rested with the crew, as the assumption was that they would have to live (and survive) with the resulting consequences.

  The comms mostly concerned mission planning issues that dealt with the long term, not with everyday problems. The spacecraft’s technology was independent. While it constantly sent status updates to the home planet, a problem would have long ago turned into a crisis before a reaction to it reached the ship’s main computers. This was the reason the AIs were so important, as they constantly supervised all ship functions, and could react faster than the crew in case of emergency.

  The problem growing in the commander’s womb had not yet been classified as one by Siri and Watson. It did not belong to their area of experience, and it had not been part of their learning process that female astronauts could get pregnant. Vital data were protected and excluded from the regular transmission to Earth. Only Marchenko could initiate a data transfer when he needed some special expertise. For that reason, only the crew knew about Amy’s pregnancy.

  Like yesterday, Martin and his five colleagues sat around the dining table. The mood was relaxed, as Marchenko had donated half a bottle of alcohol from the medical supplies, and of course had made sure the alcohol on board would not be denatured. Marchenko had worked long enough at Roscosmos to know the right people.

  The crew wanted to draft a comm to explain this special problem and its solution to Mission Control. They had to admit one thing—there was no comprehensive solution in sight. During the long years of their journey, they would have to solve a sequence of problems, one after the other, the nature of which they could not even grasp today, starting with a birth under half of terrestrial gravity. They had neither diapers nor children’s clothes aboard, let alone toys. The ship was anything but childproof. A two-year-old pulling the wrong lever, just for fun? Would Amy be able to fulfill her tasks if she was distracted by her child? crossed Martin's mind. The entire mission had been planned for six astronauts. It was hard to compensate for losses.

  “That won’t work,” Francesca said among the dull rumblings of the spaceship that had seemed like silence to Martin for a long time. Now and then he put on his good headphones, activated the noise suppression function, and was shocked to find out what real silence sounded like.

  “Do you have a better suggestion?” I'm not used to hearing this stressed tone of voice from Amy, Martin noticed.

  “We are presenting the facts and the methods we used to arrive at this decision, that’s it,” Martin replied.

  The tension in Amy's voice increased. “Mission Control won’t be happy about it.”

  “That’s not our responsibility.”

  Amy shook her head. “Martin, you are taking this too lightly. The world has scraped together 80 billion dollars to make our trip come true. We have been financed, not only by rich countries, b
ut also by common people, for whose concerns there is no money left. We owe something to all of them.”

  “You are right, but...” Martin cleared his throat.

  Yes, he pondered, we do owe something to Earth and to all those people who have made this journey possible.

  “This flight to Saturn, let’s be honest, is predominantly a symbol,” he said out loud. “Now we are going to give them a new symbol—another one. Something unheard of that never existed before, the first human being to be born in space, the very first representative of the cosmic human race. That is no problem, it’s a sensation.”

  The others looked at him, which made him feel uncomfortable.

  “Mission Control will think we are kidding if we write that.” Amy tilted her head to the side and gave him a somewhat suspicious look.

  “Maybe. They will also see this opportunity, though. They must realize we have already made a decision. This way, they will at least get something out of it,” Martin said.

  They finished the rest of the text within ten minutes. Amy typed it in, and the others suggested sentences. Finally, Amy clicked the Send button.

  The reply took longer than the usual three-quarters of an hour to arrive. Martin had expected that. It might take days to run all of the calculations. However, after only 50 minutes a well-known voice and face came through.

  “This is CapCom.”

  It was Devendra, the man whom Martin had replaced for the ILSE mission. Since the Apollo missions, it was usually astronauts who took on the role of CapCom—Capsule Communicator—and communicated with the people aboard. The Sikh had not been in space, but he knew the crew like no one else.

  “Amy, great news, let me congratulate you.”

  The commander formed a ‘thank you’ with her mouth; Devendra would see but not hear it, of course.

  The CapCom paused a bit, then continued. “My answer is only semi-official, but I can already tell you they went for it. Actually, the Public Relations officer in the MCC seemed very pleased. It looks like the baby will arrive at just the right time. Spaceflights taking months without anything happening are not very attractive for the press. This way, though, they sure won’t forget you. CapCom, over.”

  Various news sites were the first to react. Martin thought, Someone in Mission Control must have a connection to the press. ‘Sensation in Space: The First Space Baby,’ the more respectable sites reported, while others wrote, ‘Space Sex: Female Astronaut is Pregnant.’ The newspapers discussed extensively how sexual intercourse would work in zero gravity, or they had experts discuss the survival chances of the unborn child. Martin was glad they were out of the reporters’ range. No photographer can hide outside our front door or search the trash for used condoms. Reporters could not even make phone calls to the crew. Despite this, videos soon appeared on the web supposedly showing ‘the amorous adventures of the female astronaut,’ as one private video channel described it.

  The official reaction of Mission Control, therefore, started with an apology. They said they were trying to find out how this breach of privacy could have happened, and they also agreed with the crew’s decision. The neutral way this was formulated made it clear Mission Control was really against it. On the other hand, then those responsible would have to admit their own mistakes. After all, the doctors had relied on the commander being permanently infertile. The transmission ended with tasks for Marchenko, who as the ship’s doctor was responsible for supervising the pregnancy. All the necessary equipment was on board, including an ultrasound unit. At the end, Mission Control mentioned there were requests for interviews with the commander and that they supported those requests. They did not seem to be quite so angry about the unexpected publicity.

  The video message contained an attachment especially intended for Martin. This is unusual, he thought. Has something happened to my mother? Astronauts are supposed to call up such messages in private. Martin moved hastily to his cabin. He swore when he banged his head against the ladder in the passageway. In his cabin, he fell on his bed.

  “Play message for Martin Neumaier.”

  “Confirmed. Message found,” the AI replied.

  “Hello, Martin.” It was Devendra again. Martin was not surprised to see him smile broadly, as this seemed to be the man’s basic attitude.

  “I’ve got good news for you. Due to Amy’s pregnancy, we will have to reconfigure the mission. She won’t be able to leave her newborn alone aboard the mothership. You have probably already calculated that she is due shortly before the ship reaches the orbit of Saturn. In this state, she also cannot make it without Marchenko. Two in the mothership, two in the shuttle, two in Valkyrie, you know the routine. Therefore you definitely will have to land. Isn’t that great? You will go down in history as one of the first people to set foot on the moon of another planet. Who still remembers the man who orbited the moon in 1969 in the Apollo 11 command module?”

  Of course Martin remembered his name, Michael Collins, born in 1930, the only man to leave his spacecraft twice during a single flight, and also the first one to move from one satellite to another. How could anyone forget such a person?

  Devendra laughed briefly, as if he had guessed Martin’s thoughts.

  “Who would know this? Except for you, I mean. Just ask your colleagues. I am sorry we won’t be able to fulfill the promise we gave you. You must understand we have no choice under these circumstances. I assume you wouldn’t like to cancel the mission because of this.”

  Martin sat up and looked straight at Devendra’s face, as if the man was sitting across from him. His eyes exuded a strong confidence, a belief in human goodness Martin had never had.

  “We are always available for questions on this protected channel as well. Your training will ensure you can do a fantastic job anywhere. I am supposed to send the regards of Mission Control. CapCom out.”

  Devendra’s face slowly faded from the screen, replaced by the mission logo. Martin leaned against the padded wall next to his bed and closed his eyes. So what, he thought, then I am going to land on Enceladus with the shuttle, near the South Pole, where the ice crust is thinnest. He had seen photos of the surface. The difference between it and Antarctica was minimal. Everything was whiter than white, and if he went outside without a space suit, he would die. He would simply stay inside, cozily sit by his computer, and supervise the Valkyrie expedition. A few days later, his colleagues would return, they would all take off again toward ILSE, and the excursion would end, just like the training near the South Pole of Earth. Martin took a deep breath, but not deep enough to get rid of the panic in his chest. There is... no... problem.

  Then he remembered he should send a reply. He decided against a video recording. An audio comm should be enough.

  “Neumaier to CapCom. Message received and confirmed.”

  August 7, 2046, ILSE

  Who would have imagined they would have to fabricate infant diapers on a spaceship? Six astronauts had gathered at the conference table in the command module to discuss what a newborn needed, and how these needs could be fulfilled by on-board resources. Of course, no one had thought to bring along baby food, baby clothing, and diapers. Instead, from the available supplies, they had to attempt to create something they could offer to a newborn.

  The most important aspect they all had quickly agreed on: nutrition. Mother Nature had found an excellent solution for the initial period. However, no one knew how the female body would react to zero gravity or reduced gravity in this aspect. Even on Earth some mothers had problems with nursing. Therefore in space they might need alternative arrangements. Adding water to dried milk was the lesser problem. They needed a vessel the baby could drink from.

  And once the baby was sufficiently fed, the problem moved to the other end. They immediately rejected the simplest solution. They did not have a surplus of the adult diapers they wore during spacewalks, so they would have to make diapers from the fabric of existing clothing. The elastic suits were not adequate for that. While the material co
uld be easily adapted to the proper shape, they were not very absorbent. Francesca then thought of the perfect material. NASA undershirts were thin but absorbed liquids well. Cut into rectangles and folded into three layers, they would make decent diapers. The spacecraft carried more than enough undershirts, but they had to be retrieved from transport containers during an EVA. The commander had added this item to the list.

  Once a diaper had done its duty, the next difficulty arose—it would need to be cleaned. In the lab module there was a machine that disinfected and deodorized the astronauts’ clothing, but it could not handle solid residue on textiles. Instead of a proper washing machine with a drum and a spin-dryer, it more resembled a steam cleaner that blew sweat stains and body odors from fabric. Hayato had already run a practical trial; the machine could not handle diapers. Instead, he suggested a combined procedure—first a manual cleaning in the shower, the person doing this also having to be in the shower—followed by treatment in the on-board washing machine. Hayato was ordered to construct a solid-material filter for the shower drain after Mission Control had pointed out the existing hair-catcher filter could become clogged.

  Mission Control would design the baby clothes for them. The child would need clothes offering protection against bone density loss, similar to the suits worn by the adult astronauts but taking growth into account. No one on board had any experience designing patterns for this particular elastic material. Jiaying agreed to sew mini-suits in several sizes. As a child, she had lived with her grandmother who had taught her to sew.

  Hayato also presented the idea for a baby bed to the others. He wanted to remodel one of the spare spider robots for this purpose. Instead of checking the outer hull of the spaceship, this machine would rock the baby to sleep and always keep the right spatial orientation, even if the gravity in the ring failed. The hardware of the spider robot was flexible enough to be adapted to such tasks. He also needed material from the spare part storage, and of course one of the spiders. Mission Control had to agree to this as well.