Jupiter gt-10

by Ben Bova

  For a moment Grant thought that Zeb would say they’re doing God’s work. But the Moslem scientist stopped short of that.

  Sitting at his console in the mission control center, Grant was almost quivering with anticipation. This morning the consoles no longer connected to the simulator in the aquarium. Now, as he looked up at the big wallscreen, Grant saw the interior of the submersible itself.

  It was empty, as yet. No, not really empty, Grant told himself. It’s filled with that PFCL gunk instead of air. The crew will be breathing that soup, immersed in it, living in it for days on end, weeks.

  “Ready for immersion procedure,” Dr. Wo said from his position at the central console, lapsing unconsciously into the clipped speaking style of the controllers.

  The image on the wallscreen changed to show the airlock in the docking module. Krebs and the other crew members stood in a small huddle by the outer hatch. They each wore snug-fitting bodysuits, more for modesty than need, Grant understood. The tights left their legs bare, and he could see the studs of electrodes lining their flesh, like obscene metal leeches attached to their skin.

  “We are ready,” Krebs said, peering directly into the monitoring camera. She had an odd way of staring, as if she were focusing only one eye on you.

  “Proceed,” said Dr. Wo.

  Starting with Muzorawa, the crew entered the airlock one by one. Surveillance cameras watched as the hatch sealed tight and the lock slowly filled with the thick liquid perfluorocarbon, rather than air. It looked to Grant as if each of them were being deliberately drowned. Each one floated upward as the chamber filled, instinctively lifting their heads to suck in their last lungful of air. When the liquid finally filled the airlock, each of them spasmed with inborn reflex, eyes popping wide, mouths gaping and gasping, arms and legs flailing.

  Grant had to force himself to sit still, to say nothing, as he watched his friends’ desperate convulsions. This must be what it’s like to watch an execution, he thought, his fists clenched, his own pulse racing hard.

  Then, after what seemed like hours of struggle, each member of the crew began to breathe almost normally and opened the inner hatch of the airlock to swim into the sub’s interior. Grant blinked with disbelief when he checked his console clock and saw that Muzorawa’s reflexive struggles had lasted less than thirty seconds. The others did almost as well.

  Krebs was the last to enter the airlock. She hardly struggled at all. In fact, Grant thought he saw a smile cross her heavy, gray-skinned face as the liquid closed over her head.

  SEPARATION

  For most of the day the crew simply accustomed themselves to the submersible. Grant was surprised, as he watched the wallscreen display, at how cramped the interior was. Despite the outer size of the ship, the bridge was no bigger than the simulator in the aquarium had been. The galley was nothing more than a shoulder-tall console built into one of the bulkheads.

  Of course, Grant realized. They won’t be eating normally; they’ll get their nutrition intravenously, through the ports in their necks.

  Krebs had assigned each of them a privacy berth, where they could sleep and get away from the others for a while. They reminded Grant of the coffin-sized quarters he’d shared with Tavalera aboard Roberts.

  Their voices were different: deeper, slower, as if someone were playing a recording at lower than normal speed.

  No one left the control center for more than a few minutes. When noon came, Dr. Wo told Grant to go to the cafeteria and bring back enough sandwiches and drinks for all five of them.

  “Big appetite, mate,” Red Devlin wisecracked as Grant loaded his tray.

  Grant merely nodded.

  “What’s goin’ on, eh? Big doin’s?”

  “You might say that,” Grant replied as he hefted the tray.

  “You need help with that?” Devlin called after him as Grant made his way past the incoming people and started down the main corridor.

  “No thanks,” he yelled over his shoulder, nearly bumping into a technician coming up the corridor.

  Feeling like a lackey instead of a scientist, Grant juggled the heavily laden tray all the way back to the control center. This is why they call us scooters, he guessed.

  As he slid back into his console chair, munching a sandwich, he saw on the wallscreen that Krebs was starting to organize the crew for linking electronically with the ship’s systems.

  Muzorawa had taken up his station at the control panel, with O’Hara and Karlstad flanking him. Pascal was nowhere in sight. Grant thought that Lane looked tense, perhaps worried. It was harder to read Zeb’s expression; he seemed totally focused on the controls.

  Four hairless humans, naked except for their skintight bodysuits, electrodes studding their legs. Hair-thin fiberoptic wires led from the implants to sets of plugs in the consoles. The wires seemed to float gently in the liquid-filled chamber.

  Krebs hovered behind and slightly above the crew, like a levitating sack of cement, watching everything they did. Wires trailed from her stocky legs to a panel set into the ceiling above her.

  “Remember,” she said, her voice oddly booming, “that once we are linked, the manual controls will be used only as a backup.”

  The four crew members nodded. Grant found himself folding his hands in his lap, to keep them off the controls on his console. This is for real now, he told himself. This isn’t a simulation anymore.

  Dr. Wo said, “Proceed with systems linkup.”

  It was eerie. Grant watched as, one by one, the crew members activated their implanted chips. Nothing seemed to happen. There were no sparks, no lights, no changes of expression on any of their faces. Maybe they stiffened a little, when the linkage first came through their nervous systems. He thought he saw a slight tic in Karlstad’s cheek. But nothing more.

  He forced himself to look down at his console. All the telltales were green: all systems functioning within their design parameters.

  “Begin systems checkout,” Wo said. His voice seemed weak, breathless, as if he were excited.

  “Systems checkout,” Krebs repeated.

  It went very smoothly; flawlessly, Grant thought, except that Quintero, monitoring the sensor array, reported that coolant on one of the infrared telescopes was low. Karlstad was assigned to check it out after separation.

  “It might be a leak,” Krebs warned.

  “More likely it merely was not filled properly to begin with,” said Wo.

  Karlstad said, “I’ll attend to it. It’s not vital, in any case. The backup is functioning in the green.”

  Grant thought that Egon was showing some real professionalism. He hates being on the mission, but as long as he’s in, he’s going to conduct himself like a pro. Good for Egon!

  The crew finished its checkouts and retired to their privacy compartments for the night. Dr. Wo stayed at his console in the mission control center but allowed the other four controllers to leave for the night. Grant got up and left the cramped chamber, feeling tired and sweaty.

  He argued with his conscience about going down to see Sheena. No, he decided. She’ll still be flared up over the burned-out electrode. Still associating me with pain and betrayal. The image of her rearing up in fury, fangs bared, made Grant’s stomach twist. Better to let her cool off for a while, he convinced himself. I’ll see her tomorrow night—or maybe after the ship’s gone.

  The entire next day was spent slowly ratcheting up the pressure inside the sub. Free to inspect the ship’s schematics from his console in the control center, Grant saw that it was built of four separate hulls, nested inside one another, with high-pressure liquid between each of the hulls.

  That’s why it looks so small inside, he realized. The section where the crew worked and lived was only a tiny part of the submersible’s total volume.

  The reason for immersing the crew was to allow them to withstand the immense pressure of the Jovian ocean. The higher the pressure that the crew could take, the deeper the submersible could go into the Jovian ocean. So, un
der Wo’s watchful eyes, the pressure of the perfluorocarbon mixture in the crew’s space was gradually increased.

  With all his lights green, Grant spent the time watching the crew on the wallscreen display. Lane looked a little apprehensive, he thought, although that might have been merely a projection of his own tension. Zeb was checking out the computer programs that digested the sensors’ inputs. He looked as calm and at ease as always, methodical, capable. The only difference that Grant could see was that Muzorawa’s trim beard was gone.

  Patti Buono, at the medical console, peered fixedly at her readouts. “Any discomfort?” she called out again and again. Karlstad complained of a headache. Pascal said she felt a tightness in her chest.

  “Psychosomatic,” Buono proclaimed. “The monitors show blood pressure, heart rate, all your physical readings are well within normal range.”

  Pascal, looking strangely gnomish without a wig covering her bald dome, turned to look into the camera. “And just what is normal range under immersion?” she asked, her voice a deep baritone.

  Krebs snapped, “Stop this bickering.”

  Pascal shook her head but said nothing.

  When the pressure reached 90 percent of the design goal, Krebs said, “Hold it there for one hour. Give them a chance to adjust.”

  Wo agreed, “We will hold at ninety percent for one hour.”

  * * *

  The next morning Buono asked each crew member how they had slept. The worst impact of the full pressurization, apparently, was that O’Hara suffered a slight nose bleed and Muzorawa—of all people-reported he had experienced a nightmare.

  Buono had no interest in Zeb’s dream; she concerned herself only with the crew’s physical condition. After a careful check of her medical sensors, she pronounced the crew fully fit for duty.

  “In that case,” Krebs announced, “we are ready to begin separation sequence.”

  “Wait,” said Dr. Wo, raising one hand, palm out, fingers splayed. “This is the proper moment to name the ship.”

  “Name it?” Krebs stared into the camera. Grant could not tell from her frowning expression whether she was perplexed or irritated.

  “Yes,” Wo replied, perfectly serious. “On the first mission the ship had no proper name. That was unfortunate. The ship should have a name of its own, a name that will be propitious.”

  Krebs’s frown soured. Grant could see that she was annoyed with the director’s sudden burst of Chinese superstition.

  Unperturbed, Dr. Wo announced, “The name of this vessel will be Zheng He.”

  No one said a word. They’re all puzzled, Grant thought. What in the world does “Zheng He” mean?

  At last Krebs said, “Very well. Zheng He is ready for the separation sequence.”

  “Proceed,” said Wo.

  Grant felt a tightening in his chest. The ship’s disconnecting from the station, going out on its own. They’ll be heading down into Jupiter’s clouds and then deeper, into the ocean. If they get into trouble we won’t be able to help them. They’ll be on their own.

  The separation sequence was automated. Grant could not hear the latches releasing or the connectors unsealing themselves. He watched the wallscreen, with quick glances at his console board to make certain all the propulsion and power systems were functioning properly. Zheng He disconnected from the access tube and used the station’s magnetic shield to push it free of the great toroidal mass of Research Station Gold.

  Grant almost smiled. That magnetic screen was intended to repel energetic subatomic particles that the Jovian magnetosphere sometimes spat out during a magnetic storm. Now it was pushing a somewhat larger “particle,” Zheng He, away from the station’s hull.

  The submersible and the station remained side by side, separated by a mere kilometer, for two orbits of Jupiter, slightly more than six hours. Grant watched the wallscreen that showed the sub, a tiny metallic lenticular shape against the gigantic, overwhelming background of Jupiter’s tumultuous, turbulent cloud deck. The crew rechecked all the ship’s systems. Then Krebs reported they were ready for entry into the Jovian atmosphere.

  “Insertion burn,” Krebs ordered.

  Grant saw a tiny flicker of light at one side of the saucer. For a heart-stopping moment he thought the insertion rockets had failed. Zheng He seemed to remain alongside them, hovering helplessly. But within a few eyeblinks he could see that it was indeed moving away, faster now, allowing Jupiter’s powerful gravity to pull them along, down into those swirling clouds.

  Dr. Wo said something aloud, in Chinese.

  “Good luck,” said Frankovich, his voice slightly husky.

  “Safe journey,” Kayla Ukara called to the departing crew.

  Grant licked his lips. His throat was suddenly dry. Then he found his voice and said, “Godspeed.”

  REVELATION

  All five of the controllers watched Zheng He disappear into the clouds of Jupiter. For several minutes Grant simply stared at the wallscreen showing the planet’s colorful cloud deck. The ship had gone. It was as if it had never existed.

  But my friends are in that submersible, Grant said to himself. They’re going down through those clouds right now, while I sit here with nothing to do but watch over this dumb console. If anything happens to them, I’ll be powerless to help them.

  “Status reports,” Dr. Wo called out, his rasping voice sharper than usual. “Life support?”

  “Functioning within nominal limits,” replied Frankovich.

  “Structural integrity?”

  Nacho Quintero answered, “No problems.”

  The medical monitors and sensor systems were all showing completely normal performance. Even the troublesome infrared telescope’s coolant level was back to normal. When Wo asked for the power systems, Grant swiftly scanned his monitor.

  “Power all green,” he reported.

  Wo swiveled his gaze across the cramped, stuffy compartment, from one controller to another, and then looked up at the wallscreen. It still showed nothing but Jupiter’s endless clouds.

  “Should we call them?” Patti Buono wondered aloud. “Make voice contact?”

  “They are due to report in three minutes,” Wo pointed out, gesturing to the mission schedule timeline displayed on his main console screen.

  The time ticked by so slowly that Grant thought his console clock might have stopped. Not a word was spoken in the control center. No sound at all except the electrical hum of the monitors and the distant whisper of the air circulation fans. Wo seemed to turn into a block of wood, a statue, unmoving, unblinking. Grant wondered if the man was even breathing. Sweat beaded his own upper lip and brow; he felt it trickling along his ribs.

  “Control, this is Zheng He.” Krebs’s voice shattered the silence.

  “I hear you,” Wo said, as calmly as if she were sitting next to him.

  “All systems functioning normally. No problems.”

  “Good,” said Wo, with a satisfied nod of his head.

  “We are preparing for the descent. Communications blackout will prevent further”—she seemed to search for a word—“further communications.”

  “I understand,” Wo replied. “We will track your beacon as long as possible.”

  The sub actually carried two beacons, Grant knew: a long-wave radio transmitter and an infrared communications laser. Both would be absorbed by Jupiter’s deep, turbulent atmosphere, swallowed up in the raging storms and lightning strokes that awaited Zheng He’s crew. By plotting the signal strength and dispersion of the beacons, though, Grant and the other scooters aboard the station could learn more about the dynamics of the Jovian atmosphere.

  Even if it kills the crew, Grant heard a sardonic voice in his head whisper.

  The submersible also carried half a dozen “torpedoes”: small, self-propelled automated capsules that could be fired from the sub to pop up to the top of the cloud deck and broadcast a prerecorded message.

  None of the controllers left their consoles as long as the submersible maint
ained communications contact. But after six more hours, even the radio beacon was drowned out by the constant flicker of Jovian lightning. They would hear nothing more from Zheng He unless and until the crew popped a message-bearing capsule.

  Wo pushed his wheelchair back from his console. “There is nothing more to do here,” he said, sounding tired, weak. “They are on their own now.”

  He wheeled himself out of the control center. The plan was to have one person at the central console— Wo’s usual post—throughout the mission. Quintero had drawn the first four-hour shift; Grant was last.

  “Let me make a quick run to the toilet,” Quintero said, squeezing his bulk past Grant’s console.

  “I’ll sit in until you get back,” Grant said to Nacho’s rapidly disappearing back.

  “Even Macho Nacho has to pee sometime,” Patti Buono said, trying to lighten the tension that had smothered them all.

  “Don’t you?” asked Ukara, heading for the corridor right behind Quintero.

  “Now that you mention it …” Buono got up and followed her.

  Grant didn’t bother bringing a chair to the central console, he simply stood in front of its darkened lights and stared up at the wallscreen. Might as well turn it off, he told himself. The radio speaker built into Wo’s console hissed static that crackled every few seconds from a lightning bolt.

  Quintero came back and hauled his own chair over to the central console. “Thanks, amigo. I’m okay now.”

  “Good,” said Grant, suddenly realizing that his own bladder needed relief.

  The nearest rest room was a dozen meters down the corridor. Grant headed for it, but saw that Dr. Wo was sitting in his powerchair near its door.

  “Uh … do you need help, sir?” Grant asked.

  Wo looked up at him disdainfully. “What I need—” he began in a snarl, then stopped himself. For a moment Grant didn’t know what to expect. Then, much more softly, Wo said, “Come with me, Mr. Archer.”