Jupiter gt-10

by Ben Bova

  “I thought we’d see airborne organisms,” he said aloud.

  Karlstad seemed to twitch, as if suddenly awakened from a trance. “They’re out there,” he said.

  Muzorawa countered, “The sensors haven’t detected any.”

  “Not even on the microscopic scale?”

  “Ah, well … microorganisms are present everywhere,” Muzorawa agreed.

  “But what about the big life-forms?” Grant asked.

  “They’re pretty thinly scattered,” Karlstad replied. “They need a lot of territory to support themselves.”

  “Maybe they’re afraid of us,” O’Hara suggested in a subdued voice.

  “Afraid?”

  “After all, we did come crashing down here like a great blazing meteor, didn’t we?”

  Karlstad hesitated a moment, then conceded, “Yes, there is that.”

  O’Hara started to add something, but bit the thought off and said instead, “Message from the director coming in, Captain.”

  The wallscreen view of the unbroken haze was instantly replaced by a grainy, static-streaked image of Dr. Wo. He looked grimly angry.

  “The IAA inspection team is making their final burn to rendezvous with the station,” he said without preamble. “I have been ordered to recall your mission. You are supposed to return to Station Gold immediately.”

  Everyone on the bridge froze. Grant turned slightly and saw Krebs floating up near the overhead, one thickfingered hand pressed against the metal paneling to hold herself in place. She was staring at the screen, the stony expression on her face unreadable.

  “You are to acknowledge receipt of this message,” Wo said, drawing out each word as if to emphasize them.

  The silence on the bridge was palpable. Grant felt shocked, bitter disappointment that the mission was being aborted, anger at the IAA for cutting it short. He wanted to go on, to stay linked with the ship, to probe deeper into that alien sea.

  O’Hara reached for the keyboard of her console.

  “What are you doing?” Krebs snapped.

  “The director said we should acknowledge receiving his message.”

  “I will decide when to acknowledge it,” said Krebs.

  “But—”

  Krebs hovered up by the overhead for several more silent moments. Then she pointed toward Grant and commanded, “Increase thrust twenty percent.”

  Grant reacted automatically, and instantly felt the surge in power, like flexing a well-lubricated muscle. It felt good, strong, right. From beyond where O’Hara stood with a frown of uncertainty on her face, Karlstad glanced toward Grant with a puzzled, troubled look.

  The bridge seemed to tilt noticeably. Muzorawa called out, “Flight angle steepening past twenty degrees … twenty-five…”

  “No need to call out the flight angle,” Krebs snapped. “We are going into the ocean at maximum rate of descent.”

  Muzorawa hesitated a heartbeat, then said slowly, “Captain, the director has ordered us to abort the mission.”

  “I am aware of that,” Krebs answered sharply. “I have decided to enter the ocean sooner than planned.”

  “Shouldn’t we answer Dr. Wo?” O’Hara asked.

  “How can we?” Krebs said. “We are beyond direct communications contact.”

  “But we’re not—”

  “We are beyond direct communications contact,” Krebs repeated with iron in her voice. “We never received the abort command, so we cannot acknowledge it.”

  She’s going in! Grant marveled. Despite the IAA’s order, she’s going ahead with the mission. Zeb looked concerned but kept silent. No use arguing with a decision she’s already made, Grant told himself.

  Krebs said to O’Hara, “Your communications duties are finished. Maintain an open comm channel for monitoring incoming messages only. We will not respond to any messages from the station.”

  Lane looked as conflicted as Grant felt: worried about disobeying Dr. Wo, yet eager to go on with the mission.

  “You will pilot the ship from now on, O’Hara. Under my direct command, of course.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Lane said, almost in a whisper.

  “Maintain dive angle of thirty degrees.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Lane repeated as her hands busily rearranged the controls on her console touchscreens.

  Grant looked to Muzorawa; Zeb seemed concerned, worried. Turning to look past O’Hara, Grant saw Karlstad looked positively shocked. Worse, he looked frightened.

  But no one said a further word. Grant found that he was glad for Krebs’s decision to defy orders. Joyous. It was obvious that Dr. Wo had been forced to send the recall command. But we’re here, below the clouds, heading into the ocean. We’re going to do what we came here to do, and not Wo or the IAA or the New Morality can stop us. Grant grinned inwardly as he felt the ship’s thrusters purring smoothly, propelling them through the thickening Jovian atmosphere, down toward the world ocean.

  O’Hara finished resetting her console. “Ready to take the conn, Captain,” she reported softly.

  Krebs pushed down from her usual spot to stand beside O’Hara, hooking one foot into a floor loop.

  Pointing to the small screen in the upper left corner of O’Hara’s console, Krebs said, “Keep that one open for incoming communications. There is to be no outgoing message unless I specifically order it. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  Turning to Muzorawa, she said, “Prepare a data capsule for launch.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Zeb replied.

  Krebs leaned past O’Hara and touched the communications screen, then said in a flat, calm voice, “Data capsule number one. We have penetrated the clouds and are descending into the ocean. All systems functioning normally except communications, which are totally blocked by unexpected electrical interference in the Jovian atmosphere. Since we are unable to receive or transmit messages, we will continue on our mission plan and report through data capsules as necessary.”

  Then she turned to O’Hara and asked, “Did you get that recorded?”

  “Recorded,” Lane answered.

  “The capsule is ready to be launched,” Muzorawa announced.

  “Good. Launch it.”

  Nothing happened. Grant suddenly realized it was his job to launch the capsule. Too late. Krebs pulled her foot free of the floor loop and whirled halfway about, staring wildly.

  “Archer!” she bellowed. “Archer, where are you?”

  Blinking with surprise, Grant said, “I’m right here, Captain.”

  Krebs advanced on him like a barbarian army. “Why are you just standing there! Launch the capsule! Launch it!”

  “Y-yessir,” Grant stuttered, desperately trying to remember the launch command sequence. The capsules had to be launched manually, he recalled that much; they were not included in the biochip linkage.

  With fumbling hands, he tapped his central touchscreen and called up the launching program. It was simple enough, he saw, but with Krebs hovering over him like a smoldering volcano, it took Grant two tries before he got the commands in the right order.

  He felt the capsule’s launch like a tingle of excitement shimmering through him. It reminded Grant of the thrill he’d felt the first time he’d skied down an expert slope in the snowy Wasach Mountains. Breathless. Exhilarating.

  Until Krebs growled, “Wipe that stupid smile off your face, Archer, and get back to reality.”

  It took an effort of will, but Grant did it.

  Hours passed. The ship still dove toward the sea. Krebs put different camera views from the sensors onto the big wallscreen, but they showed nothing but blank, featureless mist, all gray, colorless. To Grant it looked empty and dead.

  Until Muzorawa shouted, “Look at that!”

  “What?”

  “Let me increase the magnification,” Zeb mumbled, his fingers working the console. “There. See?”

  “Snow!” Grant said. Soft white flakes were sifting through the haze. It looked beautiful. Something like
Earth, like home, on this distant alien world.

  “Not snow,” Karlstad said. “Organics. They form in the clouds and precipitate out.”

  “Manna from heaven,” said O’Hara.

  “Food,” Karlstad corrected.

  Muzorawa chuckled. “It is only food, my friend, if there are creatures in the sea to eat it. Otherwise it is merely organic snow.”

  Grant thought of the distant, shadowy shapes that Dr. Wo had shown him from the record of the first mission. Life-forms? As big as whole cities? Dozens of kilometers across? It seemed impossible.

  “Karlstad and Archer, rest period,” said Krebs. “Disconnect, take a meal, and sleep for four hours.”

  Grant had to consciously force his hand to switch off the linkage. Suddenly he was no longer connected to the ship, he was alone again inside his own flesh.

  Feeling naked, vulnerable, he pulled the optical fibers from the chips in his legs and stowed them away, then floated off toward the nutrient dispenser.

  Egon was already plugging the dispenser tube into the port in his neck. “The soup line,” he said as he turned on the dispenser’s pump.

  Grant hooked up, too. There was no satisfaction in eating this way. He never seemed to feel hungry, probably because the perfluorocarbon liquid kept his stomach filled. But there was no pleasure in eating, either. No taste, no aroma.

  Karlstad broke into his thoughts. Leaning his head so close it almost touched Grant’s, he whispered, “Did you notice the way she couldn’t find you?”

  “What?”

  “When you were supposed to launch the data capsule. You were right in front of her, no more than three meters away, and she couldn’t see you.”

  Remembering, Grant said, “Yeah, that was spooky.”

  “She damned near panicked.”

  Glancing over his shoulder to make certain Krebs wasn’t watching them, Grant whispered, “She has a funny way of looking at me.”

  “At all of us.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “Temporary spells of blindness, maybe.”

  “She’s blind?”

  “Maybe. In flashes. Her vision blanks out for a moment or two.”

  “Is that possible?”

  Karlstad made a barely discernible shrug. “I don’t know. I’ll see if I can find anything in the ship’s medical library.”

  “Could the implants be affecting her vision?”

  “Could be. What’s worse, though, is her defying Old Woeful’s abort order.”

  The dispenser bell clunked. Karlstad yanked the feeding tube from his neck like a man pulling a leech off him.

  Grant said, “I’m with her on that. We shouldn’t scrap this mission just because some IAA committee says so.”

  Karlstad’s brows rose. “You? The True Believer? Now you’re ready to commit heresy?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with religion!”

  “The hell it doesn’t. Those IAA inspectors are probably all your New Morality people, or the equivalent.”

  “No matter what they want, I want to go on with the mission,” Grant insisted. “Don’t you?”

  “Certainly. But what happens when we get back to the station? How do you think those inspectors are going to treat us? Refusal to obey orders is called mutiny, you know.”

  Grant’s jaw dropped open. Mutiny?

  The timer bell went off.

  “Stop your muttering,” Krebs called to them. “Get to sleep, both of you.”

  Grant disconnected the feeder tube, his mind churning. Mutiny? Are we going to be treated as mutineers when we get back?

  STORM TOSSED

  Grant slept fitfully, dreaming that some giant hand was shaking him, pummeling him mercilessly. He snapped awake and found that it was no dream. The ship was shuddering, lurching, as if caught in the jaws of some vicious terrier and being shaken to death.

  He banged his shoulder as he slid out of the berth, barked his shin when he got to his feet. There shouldn’t be this much turbulence so deep in the atmosphere, he told himself. Maybe we’re in the ocean now! This could be turbulent currents of liquid water. He wished that he’d been allowed to carry out his fluid dynamic mapping more completely. The truth was that neither he nor anyone else in the solar system had any except the vaguest of ideas of how Jupiter behaved at this depth, where the atmosphere imperceptibly merged into the ocean.

  Grant staggered through the hatch that connected to the bridge. He knew that Zheng He was constructed of a series of shells, the innermost module being the one that the crew inhabited. Between each oblate shell was a buffering pressurized liquid that helped to cushion the rigid metal walls from the Jovian pressure outside the hull, and also damped down any vibrations caused by turbulence.

  If we’re banging around this hard here inside the core of the ship, Grant thought as he staggered to his console, we must be caught in the mother of all storms outside.

  The Great Red Spot! Lord have mercy, Grant thought, are we tangling the Great Red Spot? He got a vision of the ship being sucked into the maw of the overpowering superstorm, pulled in and crushed like a tiny fragile leaf.

  “What are you doing?” Krebs snapped at him as Grant started to connect with the ship.

  “Linking up, Captain,” he replied.

  “Mr. Archer, did I order you to cut your rest period short?”

  “No, ma’am, but with the storm—”

  “You are supposed to be resting.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Follow orders, Mr. Archer. I am quite capable of handling the ship without your help.”

  Grant hovered before his console, three optical fibers connected to his implants, the other threads bobbing in the liquid. Muzorawa and O’Hara were at their stations, fully linked. Zeb glanced down at him and smiled gently. Lane was concentrating on her console, fingers playing rapidly, smoothly across the keyboard.

  “Return to your berth, Archer,” Krebs commanded. “When I need your help I will call you.”

  Shamefaced, Grant disconnected and swam the few meters to the hatch. The ship lurched violently again and he had to grab the hatch to keep from rolling into Krebs, who was floating in the middle of the bridge. He looked over his shoulder at the captain and saw that she was smiling. Smiling! She was enjoying the turbulence. Fully linked to all the ship’s systems, she was riding out this storm with something approaching joy.

  He recalled how he had felt when they’d entered the cloud deck, the thrill of power, the sexual excitement of feeling the ship’s generator and thrusters overcoming the turbulent winds and storms of Jupiter. How must it feel, Grant wondered, to be connected to the whole ship while it’s fighting its way through a storm? The surges of thruster power, the flashes of electrical energy, the superhuman views through the sensors. She must feel each tremor of the ship as a shudder of her own body. It must feel like she’s being stroked, caressed. He studied her face: eyes half closed, that strange little smile on her doughy face. My God, she looks as if she’s engaged in foreplay.

  Grant dived through the hatch and slid into his bunk. He squeezed his eyes tight and tried to force the image of Krebs out of his mind. The ship lurched and staggered, tossing him from one side of his narrow berth to the other. Sleep was impossible.

  “Grant … are you awake?” It was Karlstad’s whispering voice.

  Sliding feet-first out of the coffin-shaped cubicle, Grant saw that Karlstad was sitting on the end of his bunk, feet hooked on its stumpy metal legs, hunched over a palmcomp he held in one hand. Its screen threw a ghostly greenish light on his face that wavered in the ripples of their liquid milieu.

  “Are we near the Red Spot?” Grant asked.

  Karlstad looked up at him. “Huh? The Spot? No, nowhere close. We’re on the other side of the planet.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  The ship lurched heavily, almost throwing Grant off his bunk.

  “This is bad enough, don’t you think?” Karlstad asked, looking up toward the overhead with
wide, frightened eyes. “Don’t even mention the Spot.”

  “I just thought…”

  “She’s deliberately pushing us through this storm,” Karlstad said grimly.

  “Why would she do that?” Grant questioned.

  “She’s taking us back to our primary entry position,” Karlstad said. “She’s following the mission plan as blindly as a lemming marching off a cliff.”

  “Right back into the storm we avoided? That’s crazy!”

  Karlstad held his palmcomp to his mouth and began speaking commands to it. Grant moved across and sat beside him on the end of his bunk. The ship plunged briefly, then surged upward. Grant’s stomach heaved.

  “Here, take a look.” Karlstad held the computer so Grant could see its glowing screen. His hands were shaking so much that Grant put his own hands over Egon’s to steady them.

  “Wind speed’s dying down, at least. It’s just a tad under fifty-five hundred centimeters per second,” Karlstad muttered, tapping the screen with his forefinger. “That’s less than two hundred kilometers per hour. We’re coming out of it.”

  “I imagine she didn’t expect the storm to be whipping up so much turbulence down at this low altitude,” Grant muttered.

  “I wouldn’t bet on that,” Karlstad grumbled. Then he said to the computer, “Display exterior pressure gradients.”

  The screen went blank for a moment.

  “You’re linked to the ship’s computer?” Grant asked.

  “What else?”

  The screen showed a wildly undulating curve with a huge dip at its center.

  “See?” Karlstad pointed at the graph. “It’s a small, compact storm. There’s the eye. We’re skirting through this region, here.”

  “Why didn’t Krebs avoid the storm altogether?” Grant wondered. “We didn’t have to go through any part of it.”

  With a bitter smile, Karlstad answered, “Like I told you, she’s following the mission plan. We’re supposed to be at this location, so we go to this location, no matter what the conditions outside.”

  Grant shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does if you’re a pathological anal retentive, the way she is.”