On the Shores of Titan's Farthest Sea

by Michael Carroll

  Doc Mason stood up from a green stool as they entered the room. She had obviously been watching for them.

  “Hey kids.” Her cheery tone was forced.

  “Hey, Doc, so what did they find in the garbage?”

  “Something that shouldn’t have been there. Something that tells a story you won’t like. Brace yourselves.” She paused and locked eyes with Abby. “I’m serious. You might want to sit.”

  “I’m fine,” she said impatiently.

  “We’re fine,” Troy added.

  Doc Mason crossed the room to a plastic bin. She popped the top open. Air hissed from the container. Reaching in, Mason pulled out a blue standard-issue environment suit. She spread it across the floor.

  “There was no helmet, no backpack. Just this.”

  Abby bent down, reaching toward the suit. Her hands shook like aspen leaves. She took in a deep breath and pulled the suit up by its collar. The collar ring, which usually formed an airtight seal against the helmet, was torn and ragged. She examined the nametag on the chest pocket. It was one of the temporaries. Most of the writing had rubbed off, but she could make out the first two characters: “K. N-”. At the right edge of the nametag were two more letters, the last in the series. They looked like a “tt.”

  “Oh,” Troy said, his voice cracking. He stood on the other side of the suit, his face ashen. “Have a look at the back, Apps.”

  Abby turned the suit around. She felt as if her knees might buckle. She leaned hard against the wall. The suit had been sliced open across the shoulders, and then ripped vertically down the spine.

  Abby looked up at Troy. Beyond him, the ceiling tipped from one side to the other. He was saying something about water. Doc Mason handed her a glass. She frowned at it.

  “May I have something hot?”

  “I’ll get it,” Troy volunteered. Mason stayed close. In moments, Troy shoved a steaming cup of something into her hand.

  “I guess I was hoping it would turn out to be something more innocuous,” Abby muttered into the mug, “some accident someone was trying to cover up.” Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes.

  “This was no accident,” Troy said, unhelpfully.

  Doc Mason sat down next to Abby and took her hand. “They say that dying of the cold is one of the easiest ways to go. With the kind of temperatures we’ve got outside, you simply—”

  “Kevin didn’t die of the cold,” Abby snapped, ferocity in her tone. “Somebody did this to him. They ripped him out of his suit to let him suffocate and freeze to death. My guess is he didn’t just fall asleep. He died afraid. He died fighting.”

  She knew she had to do something. She would call Jeremy, convince him to come out. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move.

  She imagined Kevin in some dark, cold place, with the frigid talons of Titan raking his back, burning his skin, draining the warmth of life from him.

  Abby buried her face in her hands. Finally, the tears came.

  (*)

  Darrel Jones leaned against the polished wall, grinning at his fellow prison guard. “I dunno. The guy just seems like something’s not right with him. He’s not himself, ever since they found him in the mess hall sprawled out on the floor.”

  “And he still doesn’t remember how he got out of his cell and in there?”

  “Nope. Not according to him. He used to spout a lot of big college words and long sentences and just loved talking about spiritual dimensions and all that tripe. These days he’s clammed up.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the Demian Sable I know and love.” The other guard scratched beneath the edge of his collar, just by the nametag that read MEL. “Still, you said you wanted a quiet job.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m not complaining. I like it. It’s a relaxing stint, much quieter than that school bus route I had to endure for the past three years.”

  “What about your wife? She mind the extra money?”

  “No, we can both learn to deal with that, and I don’t mind not bringing home the germ of the week from those runny-nosed kids, either. This place, once I heard there was an opening, I jumped at it. Ad said something like, ‘The secure campus at Morrow is the most peaceful site in the corrections system,’ and they weren’t kidding.”

  “Campus. Don’t you love it?” Mel snickered. “They’ve got so many systems and barriers and personal alarms, only the true idiots make a fuss. It is a peach job.”

  The screams began just then. They came from the private quarters of Demian Sable. Jones hit the assistance required button on his lapel. The guards both turned down the hallway and dashed toward the ungodly sounds.

  Demian Sable lay on his back on the cold floor, his body rigid. His face contorted into bizarre ridges and wrinkles, eyes squinted shut.

  Jones hit the wall monitor. “We need a medic, stat.”

  “On the way,” the monitor squawked.

  The guards held the man down. Darrel watched in horror as Demian Sable’s face warped and transformed.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Mel said. The prisoner’s face smoothed, his breathing calmed. “Great,” the guard grumbled.

  Darrel’s gaze stayed with the prisoner’s face, refusing to move. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

  “Streamer.”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “Guy had a streamer. Puts a synthetic retrovirus in your system. Changes your genes or somethin’ for a while. Gets right into your tissues and transforms things, but it wears off in a few weeks.”

  “How could he—how could they—” Darrel’s stammering trailed off.

  “Oh, I’m sure the questions are just beginning. Warden Delvin’s going to just love us. One thing’s for sure: Demian Sable hasn’t been here for some time.”

  © Springer International Publishing Switzerland 2015

  Michael CarrollOn the Shores of Titan's Farthest SeaScience and Fiction10.1007/978-3-319-17759-5_13

  13. Submersible

  Michael Carroll1

  (1)Littleton, CO, USA

  “I think a little technology will cheer you up.”

  “You can’t out-engineer someone’s personal loss, Troy,” Abby grumbled.

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I just thought I could show you something that might lift your spirits a bit. I know you get as much of a rush from a good science experiment as I do. Besides, there’s nothing you can do for a few hours until you hear back from your secret agent.”

  She looked at him broodingly, with tired, bloodshot eyes. His playfulness seemed incredibly inappropriate to her, but he was trying to help, and that was a good sign. “I suppose I need to stop moping. What have you got?”

  Troy put his finger to his lips. “Shhh. Secret! Follow me.”

  The two clomped over metal grating down a narrow tunnel, ducking beneath low-hanging equipment and ductwork. The dark passageway led to a substantial hatch with a glowing control panel on the side. Above the hatch glowed a warning: OUTSIDE ACCESS BEYOND. Below it, a handwritten sign proclaimed, MIND THE GOOP. A few heavy jackets hung on a rack beside the entrance. As Troy unsealed it, he called over his shoulder, “Grab a coat; it’s cold in here.”

  They stepped in. A fog of their own breath billowed around them.

  “It just arrived on yesterday’s autodrop from Earth.”

  “Long trip,” Abby said, but her voice trailed off as her eyes registered the object before her. “It looks like a racecar.”

  “Shiny, yes, but pure science, my dear. Pure science.”

  “I want one.”

  “It only cost about a zillion bucks. But worth every penny. Rated for a cryogenic methane bath. Nuclear powered. We could tool around in this baby for weeks without coming up for air, which you wouldn’t want to do on Titan anyway.”

  “I thought nuclear submarines made oxygen from water.”

  “Every analogy breaks down at some point. But you get the idea.”

  Abby couldn’t help but smile in admiration. “A Titan submarine. Not bad, Capt
ain Nemo.”

  The submersible hung from a small crane that barely fit under the ceiling of the domed storage hab. Polished to a gleaming cobalt blue, it was big, perhaps the size of a three-person rover, with fins in the back and two engine fans embedded in wings that swept around seamlessly to the blunt nose. A glass dome crowned the craft. Broad windows draped across the front, imbuing it with a shark-like demeanor. A menacing robotic claw hung from a bay in the belly.

  “What’s this thing good for?” Abby asked.

  “All sorts of things. I’m supposed to make it available to the core drilling gang to service the big rig as needed, but mainly I get to map the seafloor, chart geologic forms under the ocean surface, study my organics, take core samples—you know the drill, har har.”

  “Funny man.” Actually, he was being funny. Surprisingly so. She had to face it: Troy still held a flame for her. But she had made things quite clear, she thought. He used to be so sensitive to the needs, the views of others. These days, it was if he had gotten lazy. He often didn’t seem to care what others thought or how his actions impinged upon their lives. She wondered what went wrong along the way. People change, yes. That was natural. But with Troy it was something else: Troy had soured.

  He placed his hand gently against the smooth skin of the craft. “It’s got the same advanced nuclear power plant that runs Mayda station, an Ingermanson. That makes it only the second one on Titan.”

  “Hope it works better.”

  “Oh, they’re getting the wrinkles ironed out.” As he spoke, he moved in front of a ceiling light. His red hair glowed like a halo. The only part of his face that showed in the dim light was his baboon grin. He patted the side of the submersible. “Of course, we had to make a few modifications for this place.”

  “Like?”

  “The tanks. At these temperatures, we can’t just blow out the tanks with air. The nitrogen just condenses out, and you don’t go anywhere.”

  “Not very convenient,” Abby said.

  Troy shrugged as if it was nothing. “Since when was anything about Titan convenient? We have to use a high-pressure helium tank and recycle each time we descend.”

  Abby walked over to the belly of the craft and gazed up into the bay. A host of instruments awaited deployment, each nestled within its own cradle. “Impressive,” she said quietly.

  “I’ve just about got all the subsystems checked out. Everything looks good. It’s about time to go for a little perambulation.” His head was cocked at a slight angle, a smirk on his face.

  “You want company?” Abby couldn’t keep the enthusiasm from her voice. It was a sweet-looking ride.

  “Hey, we’ve both got our work cut out for us, but I could use a hand on the aft robotics. I’ll trade you some time on my boat for a few hours of me helping you sniff the air with your rudimentary and outdated meteorology equipment.”

  “Deal.”

  (*)

  The place was pretty cozy, for a cavern dug into the side of an ice cliff. Acrylic-sealed walls held in a warm nitrogen/oxygen atmosphere. The air was dense, as it was everywhere on Titan, but one got used to the heaviness in the way one got used to humidity in New Orleans.

  The outside airlock led to a central causeway. From the main thoroughfare, a series of small rooms branched to the sides. At the end of the walkway, a cavernous great room had been hollowed out from the heart of the mountain. Furnished with tables, makeshift chairs, and wall screens, it served as the communal meeting place. Somewhere beyond it, on the other side of a metal bulkhead, lay the pumps, tanks, generators and fuel lines necessary to run the secret spaceport.

  Marv Holliman spat on the floor and shook his head, preparing to rant. Across the table from him, Jessie Flannigan and Kinto—last name unknown—smirked at him in amusement. “Why would he come here, after all this time?”

  “I told you he was real,” Jessie said, flicking her wayward bangs from her eyes. No tattoos blanketed her chiseled arms, just a deep tan and several scars.

  “Have to see it to believe it,” Marv said. “There’s been lots of rumors ‘bout Montenegro this and Montenegro that, and how inspiring the guy is and how much he’s fixed things to be easier for the Family, but why don’t he never show up to things? Why don’t he be the point man on any high profile heists? That’s what would inspire me. Action, not bedtime stories.”

  Kinto, a bulldog of a man with a permanent grin, pointed a finger at Marv’s chest. “If Commodore Clark’s right, you’ll get your chance to be plenty inspired soon.”

  “In person,” Jessie added.

  “Like I said, gotta see it with my own eyeballs.”

  The door at the back of the great room clanged open. A blustery man in a helmetless environment suit called across the tables. “Marv! In my office. Now.” He was red-faced, and the blush spread all the way across his clean-shaven scalp.

  “That can’t be good,” Jessie said, frowning at Kinto.

  “Definitely not,” Kinto agreed. He squinted at Marv. “Commodore’s got a bee up his bum about something. Good luck, mate.”

  Marv closed the door behind him and stepped through a maze of pipes and wired machinery to another hatch. Cautiously, he knocked, and then unsealed the metal door. The hatch opened into a well-appointed office. Behind a small desk, the bald man cast a baleful eye at Marv.

  “Sit.”

  “Yessir,” Marv said, scooting into the only other chair in the room. “What’s this about, sir?”

  “It’s about stupidity, mainly. Were you or were you not in charge of launch control last Thursday?”

  “Thursday?” Marv squeaked. He glanced around the room, searching for something that might help his memory. What happened last Thursday?

  “Shall I give you an overview of the rules of conduct? Rules like, if someone wants to launch during the day, it has to be cleared by a sweep of the area first, not after?”

  “Yes…” Marv drew the word out. He knew the protocol as well as anyone. “Did something happen?”

  “Oh, I’d say so. Our sentry spotted two people on the southern shore about ten minutes after a flight left here—that one bound for the Galileans? The really important one? Ten minutes! If they had been spotted before the launch, they wouldn’t have known about a launch. Or about a launch facility. Get my drift?”

  “Will they make trouble?”

  The bald man slammed a meaty fist into his desk. “What do you think? They must be scientists from the Mayda outpost. Scientists like to ask questions. Like that guy in the cave. After your dolts ‘took care’ of him they had to risk going to Mayda Station and cutting the power while the idiots dropped him off.” He looked at the ceiling dramatically. “Why in heaven’s name would they do that?”

  “They told me they panicked.”

  “And went inside? With a corpse? Am I crazy or is that…insane?” The veins in his neck bulged. His eyes reddened.

  “They thought that if it wasn’t clear where he had died, they wouldn’t be able to tie it to any specific—”

  “No, Marv. Actually, they didn’t think at all. Oh, yes, this just keeps getting better. See, these scientists, they enjoy mysteries as long as they can solve them. This is one we don’t want getting solved.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Maybe you could start acting like it. Mayda has nice communications equipment and regular contact with other Titan centers and Iapetus and Hyperion, not to mention the Galileans and an occasional postcard to Mars. We’ve got a security crisis on our hands, and the timing couldn’t be worse with Montenegro on his way.”

  Marv lowered his voice. “I thought Montenegro was like a mascot, a rallying point for the Family. Not a real guy.”

  “Someone is on that ship that’s heading for the Saturn system, and that somebody purports to be him, in the flesh. It’s Montenegro all right, and he makes landfall here soon.”

  “What can we do?”

  Commodore Clark stood slowly, his hands balled into fists, his knuckles resting
on his desk. He leaned forward into Marv’s personal space, and then some. “You are going to come up with a plan that addresses that question. Clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Not tomorrow. Not tonight. I want you back here with a solution on my desk in an hour.”

  That should be just enough time to write my will, Marv reflected as he exited the Commodore’s office.

  (*)

  Tanya’s Zodiac bobbed in the methane swells. The waves had calmed since the last time she was out, but she still tended toward nausea. Better to get off fast. She keyed her mike as she rammed her inflatable boat against the ragged outcrop.

  “This is Tanya, coming up to see if you lazy bums are still doing working.”

  The security gate at water-line—they still called it that out of habit—chimed, and she swung it open. Slamming it behind her, she clambered up the icy trail. Above her, the great arm of the core drill rocked back and forth, in and out of view, against the hazy orange sky. The sound reminded her of the breathing of a thousand slaves on a galley ship, the basso drumming keeping time in the background.

  At the top of the trail, the flat staging area seemed deserted. She could see lights inside the control cab at the base of the tower. She waved through the window and entered. There was no airlock; everyone was fully suited.

  “Hey, girl,” a burly engineer said through the radio. He hunched over dual monitors.

  A woman peered over his shoulder, nodding slightly at Tanya.

  “Dr. Tanya Yampolskaya, this is Dr. Jasmine Major. Dr. Major is here in case we find any fossils in our ancient ice or clay samples.”

  “Fossils?” She tried to hide her skepticism.

  “I’m from Colorado/Arizona U’s Paleontology department.”

  Tanya reached out to shake her hand. “And I’m here for wanting more ice samples. Stanley?”

  “Your wish is my command.” The bear at the monitor kept his eyes on the screens. He was using a joystick, directing some delicate operation somewhere in the deep core. “It’s still solid down there,” he murmured.