After a few paces she looked back. Tartarus Base was already lost in the thickening orange haze, the deepening gloom of Titan twilight.
After forty-eight hours, the last light had leaked out of the orange haze layers.
Benacerraf walked through the dark, fighting the resistance of the invisible gumbo as it sucked at her sled and snowshoes. All she could see was the splash of lamp-light on the glistening gumbo hide ahead of her, its diffuse reflection from her own nose and eye ridges, the ancient bone structure of her own human face.
Titan was a world of, enclosure.
She lost track of time, of the day-night cycle of the distant Earth. She would check her Rolex in the light of her lamp, and find that ten, or twelve, or fourteen hours had worn away, as she had driven on through her tunnel of blindness, dark save for the splash of light from her helmet lamp, silent save for the scratch of her breathing, the whir of fans and pumps in her backpack, the muttering of her own voice.
…She brooded. What if Rosenberg had been right, in his worst-case projections?
What if the clouds had rolled over the face of Earth — what if she was, truly, the last spark of awareness in the Solar System?
There were theories that consciousness was a quantum process. That reality — the Universe itself — was called into existence by conscious minds, as, by observation, they collapsed the infinite possibilities of each quantum wave function into a single, definite event, embedded in history.
The Universe, it was said, needed consciousness to create itself.
Then what if she was the last?
Here she was in this bubble of darkness, the limits of her personal cosmos reaching no more than five or six feet in any direction. Was there anything beyond the intangible walls of the hazy dark? Did she call into existence new stretches of the gumbo as she walked over them?
If she did not look at the Earth, did Earth any longer exist?
And when she died, as the last bit of consciousness departed, would the world — Titan and ringed Saturn and the remote sun and Earth and the stars — would all of it fold away and dissolve, with the cold grey light underlying creation breaking through, like, a projector’s lamp through a trapped and burning film frame?
At times she felt more frightened than she’d ever been in her life.
She welcomed the familiar pain of the harness pressure points and in her feet. The pain gave her something to think about, outside her own sterile thoughts.
She made camp, proceeding slowly and carefully, double-checking every step before she trusted herself to crack the seal of her suit.
She cleaned herself out. She felt free to dump her bags of frozen urine and feces rather than haul them with her. She tended clumsily to her various wounds and injuries.
She developed another big, ugly abscess, this time on her right foot around the ankle, where a flaw in her boot had rubbed and caused her skin to blister. She decided she had to lance it. She took a sterilized scalpel, closed her eyes and stabbed at the abscess, letting the momentum of her bunched fist ram the blade into her flesh. The pain was extraordinary, sharp and penetrating, much worse than when Rosenberg had operated on the same kind of injury.
When she looked down, pale, watery pus was leaking from the wound. She squeezed out as much matter as she could, and wiped the incision with a scrap of parachute fabric. Then she dosed it with antiseptic fluid and dressed it.
She ate from a packet of reheated soup, and drank melted Othrys water. Then she sealed up her suit and lay down against the plastic tent wall, layers of parachute fabric beneath her.
She propped her photographs in front of her helmet. She stared into those fragments of bright Seattle daylight, trying to believe she wasn’t alone, as she waited for sleep to claim her.
She made rapid progress.
She reached Cronos, and crossed its rim of pressure ridges. She skirted the walls of the crater they’d called El Dorado.
She walked into Titan’s murky daylight once more.
Beyond El Dorado, high on the gumbo-stained ice plateau of Cronos, she came to a ridge of broken, jumbled ice, maybe twenty feet tall. She had trouble hauling her sled over this; several times she had to go back and grab the lip of the sled, dragging it bodily up and over.
When she reached the crest of the ridge, she was facing a plain that looked as if it had been crudely assembled from jammed-together blocks of ice. Pressure ridges criss-crossed it.
The persistent, bone-deep cold seemed to recede. It was warmer here.
She descended the ridge, and began to make her way over the plain. The blocks and upthrust ribs in the ice were a foot or more high, and frequently snagged the runners of her sled. The ice creaked and shuddered; evidently great plates of it were sliding over each other in vast tectonic evolutions. She had the sense of riding the scaly hide of some huge, sluggish animal. But that elusive warmth seemed to gather.
She stopped. With the edge of her ski she scraped away the thin layer of gumbo and loose ice crystals from the surface.
The ice seemed thin: perhaps a foot thick, or even less. She thought she could see a dark liquid beneath the complex flaws of the ice, and bubbles of some gas trapped there.
At last she came to a dark break in the ice surface. It was a lead, a stretch of open water, within a crack in the ice maybe six inches deep. The water was dark and scummy, polluted with tholin and hydrocarbons.
“Hot damn,” she said. “You were right, Rosenberg. I wish you could have gotten to see this.”
She loosed her traces and leaned clumsily over the lip of the crack. She dipped one gloved hand in the water. Immediately the cold penetrated the layers of her glove, and the heater diamonds stung her flesh. Close to its freezing point, the water was a hundred and seventy degrees above the ambient temperature.
Water was molten rock here. It was as if some suited monster had come to Earth, and dipped its hand into the scalding red-hot lava stream of a volcano. But she was the alien, here on Titan.
She lifted out her hand. Away from the water surface the air temperature dropped quickly, and the droplets of oily water that clung to the fabric of her glove spread and froze, turning to frost patterns. When she closed her fist the frost crackled and broke away, hard ice fragments falling back to the water’s dark surface.
She stepped over the crack in the ice and hauled the sled across.
She came to more leads of open water, slick with hydrocarbons, opening and refreezing. Some of them were too wide to risk crossing, and she had to detour, tracing up. and down between the leads. In some places the ice was so thin it was spongy and creaking, and if she stepped too close to an edge it would crumble away into the open water. She found a lead that was closing, its edges grinding noisily together. Where the two plates met, the ice was cracking, its sharp sounds ricocheting out across the emptiness, echoing from the iron-hard ice.
The ice field stretched on; ridges and plates pushed out of the plain like pieces of gigantic, abandoned furniture. From all around her rang out the aching, grinding noise of moving ice, crackling like the shock waves from a Shuttle launch. The noises came together in great waves, punctuated by godlike silences.
As she penetrated the field of frozen-over ejecta, the visibility opened out, the pervading gloom of Titan’s orange sky lifting a little. Thin methane clouds, dark and tangled, blew ahead of her, obscuring the tall orange sky. Perhaps the relative warmth of the water was clearing the air of some of the organic haze.
At last she came to a place where the broken layer of methane clouds, ahead of her, grew still darker. The darkness — near to black — seemed to begin in a sharp discontinuity, almost a straight line, scraped across the sky.
She smiled. Rosenberg had warned her to expect this.
It was a water sky.
There must be a wide stretch of open water, no more than a few miles away, reflecting darkly from the low methane clouds of Titan.
She pitched her camp on a large plate of ice, hundreds of yards from an
y open leads. The air was so warm that she was able to strip off the outer layers of her suit. It felt like a great luxury, as she rubbed handfuls of half-melted ice over her bruised skin to clean herself.
She drank her fill of cool comet water.
That night, as she lay huddled against the tent’s plastic wall, she listened to the muffled groaning of the thin ice beneath her. She imagined the slow swell of the comet water, the big underground waves travelling back and forth across the ejecta sheet.
At any moment this plate could crack, pitching her into the cold water, suit and all. But somehow that wasn’t a frightening prospect. She was, after all, made of water. Water was home.
She slept, without dreaming, as well as she had done since Rosenberg’s death.
She went through her waking ritual for the last time.
She breakfasted on dried strawberries, crackers, and tiny, sweet lettuce leaves from the CELSS farm. She took a final dump, into an empty plastic food bag, and cleaned herself thoroughly.
She blew her nose on a fragment of parachute fabric. It was the last time she’d be able to do that, even.
There was a last time for everything, she thought: not just the grand actions, but the small, human things. It all counted.
She pulled on her suit. She tucked her little packet of photos inside her suit, over her heart. She sealed her helmet and gloves, and turned the switch that powered up her PLSS. She heard the familiar high-pitched whine of the pumps and fans, the cool hiss of the oxygen blowing over her face.
She packed away what she could: her food and waste bags, the power cell. Soon, the tent was as neat as she’d left Discovery.
She pushed her way out of the tent’s cramped little airlock. Outside, standing on the thin, grinding ice, she tucked Rosenberg’s canister of spores under her arm, to keep it as warm as possible.
She looked around her little outpost. The half-empty sled stood on the ice, its parachute-fabric cover loosely knotted over it. The tent, closed up, was compact and neat.
She fixed her Hasselblad to the S-band antenna stand, and lined it up so it framed the tent and sled. She checked that the antenna was still aligned correctly on Cassini; it was possible the drifting of the pack ice during her sleep had pushed it off its line.
Feeling self-conscious, she went to stand in the camera’s field of view. Standing there before her little camp, in her grimy, battered, much-repaired EVA suit, she held up her canister of spores, while the camera fired image after image up to Cassini.
She hated these Armstrong poses. But maybe, she thought, this one was justified. After all, if Rosenberg was right, with this one act she might be shaping the future of a new biosphere.
These might be the most important photographs ever taken.
She wondered whether to smile or not.
Her residual sense of orderliness made her walk around the camp once more, checking everything was intact and stowed away.
Then she turned and strode off, across the ice, towards the water.
A wind began to pick up, blowing off the broken ground in front of her, hard and piercing; she found she relished its resistance.
She could feel her packet of photographs, a hard rectangle pressed against her chest by the suit.
She felt as if she was discarding her life, in huge layers: first Earth itself, shrunken to a pinprick of light by the huge distance she’d travelled; then Tartarus Base, with its painfully assembled and repaired life-sustaining gadgets; and at last even the trappings of her own little encampment out here on the water ice. Now, she was left with nothing but her body, and the battered suit that was its last protection.
The leads began to widen and interconnect.
Soon the ice was broken up into isolated islands, some only a few feet across, separated by channels of grey, scummy water. Ahead, fragmented ice stretched in a loose mosaic. She could see the open water ahead of her, a dark band encroaching from the horizon, flecked with loose ice floes.
She pressed on, climbing over the narrower channels, taking care to stick to the larger ice floes. But the ice was fragmenting rapidly. Soon, even the biggest floes were unstable beneath her feet.
She couldn’t go any further. This would have to do.
She kicked off her skis, and stacked them neatly to one side. She wouldn’t be needing them any more. She took a last sip of orange juice, from the worn plastic nipple inside her helmet.
She walked to the edge of the ice. She took Rosenberg’s canister of spores, and dipped both her gloved hands in the water. The cold of the water was a thrilling shock, easily penetrating the feeble resistance of the gloves’ heating elements.
Under the water, she opened Rosenberg’s canister, and shook out the spores, scattering them as widely as she could.
When the canister packet was empty she withdrew it, shook it clear of ice, and tucked it neatly into a sample pocket, buttoning closed the flap.
Then she stood straight. She looked around at the haze-drenched world around her: the cramped, close horizon, the scattered darkness of the methane clouds above, the shattered ice landscape, with that band of free water, just out of reach.
She reached up and snapped the switch on her chest that shut down her PLSS.
The sound of pumps and fans died immediately. The air stopped washing over her face, and felt thicker, more stale. The cold of Titan dug into her flesh through the pattern of heating elements. And she could hear the moan of the wind, a remote bass tone, and the deep crackling of the ice sea, emerging from all over the landscape.
It was the first time she’d heard the music of Titan, unmasked by the man-made noises of her equipment.
She walked forward, across this icy beach.
Before she could reach the edge of the floe, the ice crumbled under her weight.
There was a moment of falling — extended by Titan’s low gravity — long enough for a small stab of terror to dig into her consciousness. But then her feet and legs hit the thick, oily surface of the water. The meniscus rushed up her body, its cold mass enclosing, and joined over her head.
Her suit made her more dense than the water, and so she sank into darkness.
She fell slowly. She let her arms and legs relax, and she felt them drift away from her torso, separated by the flow of water.
She turned slowly onto her back.
Above her she could see the surface of the water, the dim orange glow of the sky above, huge oily ripples creasing the meniscus. But the surface receded, its detail lost, and soon the sky was invisible, save for the faintest of orange glows.
The water felt comfortable as she fell deeper into it, as if she was returning to a kind of home.
Now, at last, it was all gone. The Universe had collapsed down to the layer of water that pressed against the surface of her suit, the bubble of air in her helmet. There were no more choices, no decisions, no plans.
Maybe this was mankind’s last moment, she thought, here on this remote beach, the furthest projection of human exploration. Maybe, in fact, the sole purpose of the human story, fifty thousand years of crying and living and loving and dying and building, had been to deliver her here, now, to this alien beach, the furthest extension of mankind, with her little canister of seeds.
The cold dug deeper. For a while she found herself shivering, and she wrapped her arms around her torso. But that seemed to pass, and she felt comfortable again.
She knew what was happening. This was hypothermia, her core body temperature falling, as her body heat leaked out through the suit’s unresisting layers into the giant welcoming mass of fluid beyond.
It didn’t really matter.
She thought she was unconscious for a time.
It was hard to be sure.
Then she thought she could see Columbia, far below, rising towards her.
She smiled.
The orbiter’s leading edges glowed, a faint orange. The floodlights in the payload bay glowed like a captive constellation. And beyond Columbia there were stars: thousan
ds of them, easily visible to her dark-adapted eyes, like the blackest desert night on Earth. She could even see the great sweep of the Galaxy, the ragged edge of the dust-clouds at the core.
The EVA was over. She reached up her hands, and started to take off her helmet.
BOOK SIX
Titan Summer
Voyager One reached the boundary of the Solar System.
This was the heliopause, the sheet in space where the wind of ionized particles from the sun grew so feeble it was overwhelmed by the broader stream of interstellar ions. Already Voyager was a hundred times Earth’s distance to the sun, ten times Saturn’s distance.
When gushes of solar plasma hit the heliopause, immense radio blasts — a hundred trillion watts — were generated. Voyager’s instruments, almost overwhelmed, recorded this, and faithfully attempted to download the data back to Earth.
Still there was no reply, no reassuring command stream.
Even beyond the heliopause, the sun’s gravity held sway; there were clouds of objects out here — ice moons, a trillion comets, never observed by humans — circling the central star. Voyager soared through this new realm, its radioisotope power slowly fading.
Voyager tried to contact Earth until its reaction gas failed, and it could no longer point its antenna. And by 2020 there was no longer sufficient power to drive the radio transmitter. Still the software cycled through its reacquisition algorithm, sending commands to inert attitude thrusters and radio transmitters, until the last trickle of power died.
It took twenty thousand years for Voyager to cross the Oort Cloud, the sun’s immense swarm of comets. At last it was free of the Solar System, its final gravitational bonds broken.
Its power and radio transmitter long dead, Voyager embarked on a new journey through the silent calm of interstellar space: an endless circling of the heart of the Milky Way galaxy.
There was almost nothing here to damage the derelict craft. The stars were so sparsely scattered that Voyager would never encounter another stellar system…
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