On the Shores of Titan's Farthest Sea

by Michael Carroll

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Abby frowned at the closed door to Kevin Nordsmitt’s quarters. “I guess I’ve never actually broken into someone’s locked room before. I grew up as a good little girl. Have you had any experience in that dark past of yours?”

  “Stand back and learn,” Troy said. “And keep an eye out, Miss Innocence. It’s been a while since I had to jimmy an encrypted lock.”

  Troy removed his wrist-top monitor and took the back off. Pulling the tiny power pack from it, he glanced around. “Do you have something like a hairpin?”

  “Nothing so feminine. How about a chunk of my phone frame?” She removed her earpiece and peeled off a thin strip of metal along its border. She handed it to him furtively.

  “Perfect.” He placed the metal strip against his power pack and shoved it into the lock’s port. Abby looked down the hall in both directions. By the time she looked back at Troy, the door was swinging open.

  Troy handed her back the small shard of metal. “See? You’re still good for something.”

  Abby’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. The two amateur sleuths stepped into the room, shutting the door behind them. Kevin’s room was sparse. He had no paintings or photos on the wall, save one poster of a Mesoamerican ruin looming out of a rainforest somewhere. Next to the poster, on the book kiosk, lay a traditional paper-based book called MesoAmerican Mural Art. Kevin’s desk unit glowed with a collage of photos. One showed Kevin and Abby, side by side, posing in front of a fuming volcanic vent at one of Titan’s hydrothermal sites. The image, the memory, made her smile.

  Troy wandered off to the kitchen. “You can tell a lot about a person by their eating habits.”

  Abby sifted through the contents of several files on Kevin’s deskpad. She found bank accounts, travel records, and archives of letters from friends and family.

  “There’s not anything in here about his work,” she called to Troy.

  “Check the bathroom. That’s where I do all my important reading.”

  Troy was right. In a basket next to the toilet, under an entertainment emag, lay some papers. That was suspicious in itself—papers were harder to follow than electronic files. And these papers had an incongruous letterhead: CoAz U, Dept of Bio. Biology?

  Troy peeked through the doorway. “Hey, lookie what I found.” He held up a mug. Emblazoned on its side was the logo of the University of Colorado/Arizona.

  Abby held up a page from the basket. “They match. He’s got a lot of docs from CoAz, which makes sense. Just like he said.”

  Troy snorted. “But do they even have a hydrology department?”

  “Not sure, but I bet they do.”

  “Probably so. That was his cover story, and he was careful. But I think Kevin was doing something besides what he told everyone he was doing.”

  Abby leafed through the pages. “Cover story,” she muttered. But it was beginning to look like Troy might be right. What would that mean? If Kevin really was here under false pretenses, he would have needed an inordinate amount of help. Simply getting onto this ice ball was next to impossible unless one had very good reason to be here. Aside from its remote location, the moon-world had been declared an international pre-biotic reserve. The declaration brought with it many cautions for those planning to spend time there. Contamination by terrestrial microbes was a major concern, despite the fact that no Earth life could survive under Titan’s extremes. Organic material of any kind had to be carefully monitored so as not to confuse in situ chemistry with that from visitors. This meant more paperwork, more administrative hoop-jumping, and training in working in biologically sensitive environments. No simple environment suit would do, for example. All suits at Mayda were sealed in multiple layers designed to keep out Titan’s atmosphere and cold while keeping in any biological elements associated with the living being inside the suit. Abby and her colleagues thought it extreme—some even suggested unnecessary—but the biologists had won out.

  Which begged the question. With all the trouble, why would someone send Kevin out here? There must have been a darned good reason.

  She pulled out another sheet. “This one’s a chart of routes or something.”

  “Titan road map? Ship routes? Why would a hydrologist have a chart of ship routes?”

  “No idea.”

  “I found something else in the kitchen drawer that might be even more useful: a second wrist-top. Shall we have a look?” Troy swung the tiny computer at the end of its band, as if he were trying to hypnotize her.

  Abby blinked at him. “In his personal wrist-top? That’s got to be illegal.”

  “And breaking and entering isn’t?”

  “Guess you’re committed,” she said.

  “Me?”

  “You did the breaking.”

  “And we did the entering.” Troy brought the little computer on line. “Now, let’s just see who Kevin was chatting with.”

  “Are you as good with passwords as you are with locks?”

  Troy held up a piece of paper. One word scrawled across the top: PASSWORDS.

  “You must be living right,” Abby said. “Where was it?”

  “Taped to the door of the refrigerator, right next to the grocery list. People really shouldn’t write things down like that. You never know what fiend is going to be hacking into your computer.”

  As Troy stepped out of the bathroom, the top of the wall caught his eye. “Hey, look up there.” Along the wall just under the ceiling ran a long line of faux petroglyphs. Some took on the appearance of stick figures with geometric, boxlike bodies. The small forms danced in and out of swirls and spirals. Tiny gollywogs carried bows or spears. The silhouette of Kevin’s hand glowed in several places just below the ceiling. Other forms had a distinctly animalistic look, with big ears, antlers, tails and spots. “Whoa. Look at those. That thing must be a deer. These Mayan, too?”

  She craned her neck to study the little murals. “I don’t think so. I’ve seen them somewhere before. Somewhere else. And a—what do you think—rabbit?”

  “Yeah, and look next to the hand outline, the flute player.”

  Abby nodded energetically. “Right, right. Kokopelli. These are Fremont culture. I remember seeing some just like these on that biking trip I did in Utah. The square shoulders and big owl eyes and spirals and dots. Pretty cool. See what you missed?”

  “Kokopelli, right. Got it. Yeah, the biking. I remember.” Troy said, heading for the other room. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

  So much support for me, Abby thought. And that was only one of Troy’s problems.

  “I didn’t know Kevin was such the decorator,” Troy said.

  “Yep. Did them himself. Hand painted.” Suddenly, a look of panic crossed Abby’s face. She blushed.

  Troy shrugged. “Look, I know you guys had some history. After, as you put it. Let’s just move on.”

  Of course, Troy was the one who kept bringing it up. He always could hold on to things, and he had a mind like an elephant. He never remembered the good times. All he was left with was the fact that Abby had called things off after three dates. Three stinking dates! And he thought he owned her? But if she had it out with him, as she had tried to before, it would tear open past wounds and make things worse. She knew from experience.

  A thought occurred to her—memory like an elephant. Where did that come from? Gray and wrinkly? She smiled to herself.

  Troy rooted around Kevin’s files for nearly half an hour. Abby browsed through the medicine dispenser and surveyed the programmed channels. Nothing of interest there. She returned to Troy at the workstation.

  He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “I got nothin’.”

  “Let me try for a while.”

  Abby scrolled through a few files. She pointed to a message. “That’s odd. This one went to a Henry Davidson on Ganymede.”

  “Who’s Henry Davidson?”

  “According to this, he’s a traffic controller on Port Dardanus.”


  They both leaned into the screen, puzzled. Abby scrolled further. Lines of data tumbled down the screen, each with a coded label of some kind.

  Troy spoke over her shoulder. “Look at all that. He was pretty circumspect. Who do you suppose ‘#21’ is?”

  “Or ‘Major J’,” Abby said, pushing her chin toward the little screen. “He’s got lots of contact with Major J. But what about that one? It’s a bigger file.”

  She hit the icon. It opened a video. The image was murky and hard to decipher. Its edges were fuzzy, as if looking down a long tunnel. In the shadows, a long column extended from one side of the screen to the other. The camera zoomed in on some etched lines.

  “Calligraphy gone bad,” Troy mumbled. “What is this thing?”

  “More squiggles.” Abby shook her head. The column bifurcated into a set of arm-like extensions. The video came to an end. “Looks like it’s alive. Or was.”

  Troy squirmed. “Like in a microscope or something. Look at the caption.”

  “MECTRODEX. Aren’t they the big pharmaceuticals guys?”

  Troy nodded silently. “Drugs again.” He shifted from one foot to another.

  Abby’s fingers flew as she said, “What? Relax.”

  “Wait a minute. Shh!”

  Footsteps approached in the corridor outside. Someone was passing. Abby listened as the steps paused outside the closed door. Troy looked at her, eyes wide. She held her finger to her lips. In a moment, the steps resumed down the hallway.

  “You know, Apps, I don’t think we should be doing this. Let’s get outta here.”

  She glared at him sideways. “You were so hot to get in here. Now we find that Kevin was chatting up some guy who’s dealing drugs on Ganymede—legally or not—which I would guess confirms what you said, and you want to leave? What’s up, guy?”

  His face reddened. “I told you Kevin was no hydrologist, and that’s enough for me. We’ve ventured into dangerous waters here, and I’m not talking hydrology. If Kevin’s death was something to do with foul play, somebody besides us might be coming in here to dig around.”

  Light flickered across the monitor. She leaned in, trying to ignore his urgent tone. “Weird. Whatever the file was, it sent to Ganymede and copied to some research facility on Earth.”

  His tone became animated, almost urgent. “You were always stubborn.”

  She looked up. “Stubborn? Just because I’m making some headway here? Who says I was stubborn? Get the plank out of your eyeball, bud.”

  Troy fidgeted in the doorway. She turned back to the monitor. Through clenched teeth, she hissed, “I hate it when people aren’t what they say they are. I hate it.”

  Troy cleared his throat.

  She shrugged. “Okay. Maybe you’re right. But I still say he was not involved in any nasty illegal anything. He certainly was no drug smuggler. And I still say we should try to prove it by—”

  He held up his hand. “An outing. Okay, okay.”

  © Springer International Publishing Switzerland 2015

  Michael CarrollOn the Shores of Titan's Farthest SeaScience and Fiction10.1007/978-3-319-17759-5_6

  6. Crash

  Michael Carroll1

  (1)Littleton, CO, USA

  In the low gravity of Jupiter’s largest moon, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Even the crash of a spaceship.

  Three traffic controllers stood in Ganymede’s primary spaceport tower, staring intently out the window. “You are cleared for emergency landing,” one of them repeated into his headset. “Do you read me?”

  Above the icy horizon outside, a ship flashed against the night sky, defying the darkness and coasting toward the landing pad. Closer and closer it came, looking like some immense, crippled whale. Fins and shining silver skin hung from tangled masses of metal and dangling cable.

  The control room door swung open. A man in a suit strutted in. His nametag read “Supervisor” in gaudy red letters.

  One of the controllers leaned over to the other and muttered, “Oh good, the cavalry. We’re safe.”

  The supervisor jabbed a finger toward the window. “What happened to them?”

  “Can’t tell yet,” said the traffic controller. “Their transmitter’s out. All we’ve had was the emergency beacon. Got that even before they made Jovian orbit.”

  “Wait a minute,” the other one said. “Here comes something over the screen—from their emergency antenna.”

  Words flashed across the monitor.major oxygen leak***engine failure on left outboard***

  request emergency landing at Port Dardanus

  The craft lurched dangerously as vapors erupted from its torn side. Slowly, carefully, the great ship stabilized as its crew struggled to land safely. Only a dozen meters from a safe landing, something went horribly wrong. The right wing dipped, and the entire cruiser twirled around. It spun out of control like a leaf in a wild whirlwind, and then slammed into the icy surface. Slurries of ice and mud flew into the airless void. The huge ship settled in a cloud of ice crystals. Immediately, an emergency team ran out through the airlock to the ship. They attached a flexible tunnel to the side of the craft and sealed it against the door. As soon as the pumps filled the tunnel with air, a medical unit dashed through it and banged on the hatch. The door flew open. The ship’s captain fell out against one of the medics. He said only one word:

  “Pirates.”

  Even before the report was in, one of the controllers went on break. He stepped briskly into the men’s room, pulled a bulky device from his coat pocket, and punched a few spots on a small screen. His message was brief.

  “Family at it again: another pirate attack. Another load of lost minerals. Slim pickings this side of the Asteroid Belt. Suggest you concentrate closer to Mars.”

  When the controller returned, his colleague said, “So where’ve you been?”

  “Just had to take a leak.”

  “You have to do that a lot, Davidson. Maybe you ought to get that checked.”

  “Maybe so.” He smiled to himself. “I’ll look into that first thing.”

  © Springer International Publishing Switzerland 2015

  Michael CarrollOn the Shores of Titan's Farthest SeaScience and Fiction10.1007/978-3-319-17759-5_7

  7. Tanya and Abby

  Michael Carroll1

  (1)Littleton, CO, USA

  “You look about a thousand percent better.” Abby sat beside Tanya on a hard galley chair, plunking down a steaming heap of oatmeal next to Tanya’s dainty yogurt cup.

  “What kind of math do you atmospheres people make, a thousand percent? You are crazy, my little Anya.”

  Nobody else called Abby Anya; it was Tanya’s endearment for her. She liked it. Not many people called her by nicknames or cute little endearments these days. She knew it was her own fault. It was the simple result of keeping people at arm’s length. Titan was that way, would have to be that way. A place to accomplish, to make up for lost time, lost opportunity…other losses. But the loneliness made it all the more difficult. True, she was surrounded by people, but one can be in a crowd and still be alone.

  “Da, it is amazing what a little sleep will do for person. But I am not over it.”

  Abby stuck a spoon into her breakfast glop and inhaled its cinnamon aroma. “Nobody will be, not for a long time. Kevin was a sweetie.”

  “Yes.” She looked off toward the window, but her eyes were focused somewhere else. Abby could see momentary fury there, but it seemed to melt away into something else, something softer. “I help him out in north one time. On to far shore of Sevan Lacus. He needed help with some weird equipment. I never knew hydrologists use stuff like this.”

  “Like what?”

  Tanya shrugged. “Similar to electron microscope, but different frequencies, he said. It was helpful to finding underground flows.”

  “Did he find any?”

  “Not while I was there. We mostly talked about our childhoods; mine in Munich and his in Maui. Did you know he was Hawaii boy?” />
  “Nordsmitt doesn’t sound very Hawaiian.”

  “Nope. Still, he likes ocean always. Likes rain and rivers. Won lots of kayaks races and other boat things. I never went to Hawaii. Have you?”

  Abby pointed with her spoon at a spot in midair. “It’s a whole lot greener than it is here. Green is what I miss most, I think. That, and my mom’s lasagna. I spent one summer on the islands. Once I got used to the gravity I loved it.”

  Abby remembered the oppressive air, like molasses, when she first arrived on the green world. The first night is always the worst, they say. But it’s worse for some than others. She thought of her friend, Maria, from grammar school days at Meridiani. Maria had gone on a trip to Earth a few years before her, said the adjustment was a cinch. Not for Abigail. She flopped around like a beached fish, trying to get a breath in the middle of the night.

  “For a Mars girl it was quite the adjustment” Abby said. “Everything was heavy and wet, but those storms!”

  “You speak with love, like true meteorologist.”

  Abby shrugged. “Some things you just can’t hide.”

  “Maybe,” Tanya sounded skeptical. “But sounds more than love. You are driven, girl. How come?”

  “Driven? No.” Tanya was smart.

  “Hours you keep?”

  “What else is there to do around here but work?” It was a weak rationale. Perhaps Tanya would let it go.

  “How much time you spend on reports and not on people? Or exploring?” She jutted her chin in the direction of the window, and the fairy-tale scene outside. The ember glow of the horizon shimmered in the sullen undulations of the sea, oily and dark. In the distance, a curtain of methane rainfall draped across the sky. To its left, low over the hills, the golden glow of Saturn simmered behind layers of fog and scattered cloud. “There is something else. Something you make up for, or something you want. No?”