However, there in Aurora Fault, those tens of kilometers are reduced to just over a hundred meters. That was why Galileo was erected on this site. For this reason, the scientific prospects of a humanity eager to find multicellular alien life are concentrated around the international scientific station.
The son-of-the-night extends the claws of his huge hands with a satisfied smile on his leathery lips. A normal person—a short-life—would die in seconds out there without a hermetically sealed space suit and an efficient life-support system. The problem is that space suits can be traced from a distance. However, as far as he is concerned, this insulated clothing and compact oxygen tank are enough to give him a modicum of comfort, although he could even survive without such luxuries if the mission required it.
He reminds himself that he shouldn’t refer to ordinary people as “short-lives.” According to the Elder’s teachings, when among humans, one should not even think of himself as “son-of-the-night” or a member of the “True People.” He must strive to think of himself only as a privileged agent of the First Republic. For the humans of this enlightened age are sensitive and indeed susceptible, and cunning by far. In this last respect, Palmarine masters are often even more crafty than other humans. Hence, it’s not appropriate to discard the hypothesis that its sages have secret resources capable of foretelling, from tiny clues, their innermost thoughts and the way they consider their collaborators and antagonists.
Muscles tightening, he turns his left arm in a swift motion, sinking the sharp claws into the stone-hard watery ice. He reaches control of the skiff half a meter below the surface. Once activated, the device’s atomic stack heats the cabin by sublimating the ice into water vapor.
If the decision was his to make, he would have preferred to remain in Galileo and face the Brazilian enemy. However, the Ebony’s rulings were unequivocal and, as always, inflexible. He must keep the secret of his existence protected from the special operative sent by the Brazilian Intelligence Service. He will fulfill the order, notwithstanding the conviction that he would be able to defeat his opponent on Europa or on Earth.
Sullen, he crouches in the skiff, closes his eyes and prepares to hibernate for a few days. In his heart, independent of the postulates of the Way of Stealth and the doctrine that had been inculcated by the Ebony Circle, he stifles the impression that there is no honor in this evasive strategy.
4 Duel in the Light of Jupiter
Jonas crosses the vicinity of Galileo in concentric circles of increasing diameter. The patrol has been going on for hours. No results.
It’s not that there are no trails, tracks, and footprints around the base. Quite the opposite. Evidence of the wanderings of scientists and their pressurized tractors abounds in the vicinity. While most of the base’s facilities are underground, the numerous sensors and equipment planted on the surface surrounding the Aurora Fault require the occasional presence of residents as well as their robots and vehicles.
As the sun passes the zenith in the region, there are times when a tenuous methane mist condenses out of the residual atmosphere of Europa. Nothing that compares to Titan’s methane rains. However, enough to erase the tracks and footprints, making the plain adjacent to the fault recover for a few hours the smooth, pristine appearance prevailing before the arrival of the first manned expeditions.
For better or for worse, there had been no methane dew for days. Therefore, it’s the profusion of clues and not its absence that confuses the sensors of the VIB. At a temperature on the order of 70 degrees absolute, the infrared tracker proves useless. In passive mode—so as not to interfere with scientific instruments—metal and electromagnetic radiation detectors would remain inert, unless they could pass close enough to access to their opponent’s eventual lair. Under such adverse conditions, he would only discover the whereabouts of the Enigma in an extremely improbable stroke of luck.
Discouraged, he enlarges again the diameter of the concentric circle that he traverses around the base. Under the management of the VIB, the several active armor sensors automatically disengage at unpredictable intervals whenever Jonas passes too close to any more sensitive observation instrument. If, on the one hand, the safeguards reassure the Brazilian operative, confirming that he remains undetectable, on the other, this intermittent blindness disturbs the strategy he was trying to implement on his patrol.
When he completes six hours on the outside, he decides to abort the mission. Although he does not entirely rule out the possibility that Enigma is hidden somewhere in Galileo’s vicinity, he concludes that it will be almost impossible to find him.
On the way to the nearest access hatch of the citadel, less than fifty meters from the aqueous ice bunker housing the hatch, the primary metal detector releases a sharp peep. The locator then projects an animated green arrow into his visual field to indicate direction. Then, the manager conjures the hologram of a rectangular brick encased in the ice. According to the indicators, the compartment is six meters ahead and lies less than one meter deep.
It’s not an entrance. Apparently, this is a self-contained shelter.
He raises his right hand and subvocalizes the activation of the termolaser. Invisible to human vision, but not to VIB sensors, the coherent jet emerges from his open palm, bathing the ice sheet covering the brick. In seconds, the ice begins to bubble, evaporating by sublimation without turning into water. The resulting cloud of vapor rushes like whitish snow around what, with his magnified senses, he guesses to be a rectangular hermetic door.
Before the shelter door becomes visible to the naked eye, a silent explosion throws it upward in a dense cloud that expands and then pours out like droplets of liquid oxygen, while the nitrogen present therein remains gaseous.
Through the sensors, Jonas sees the bright figure jumping up into the cloud, an unbearably hot infrared blur.
The manager of the VIB superimposes a pulsating “310 K” in green flashes to the figure that moves in the cloud now totally revealed.
A human being. Enigma!
The temperature of the figure plummets as it comes in his direction.
Startled, he concludes that the subject is not wearing a space suit, not even a helmet, but only a flexible insulation suit and a climber’s mask. Extremely wide boots. Fully visible now, Enigma presents himself as a stocky, medium-sized individual with large hands.
He has bare hands!
At this moment, he realizes that all the exaggerations that the Service has taught him about the Enigma fall far short of the truth. Because if this guy can keep his hands uncovered at 80 degrees absolute without losing them by instant freezing, he’s simply not human…
As if to corroborate this conclusion, the adversary raises his hands to face height and huge curved external claws glare yellow in the clear light of full Jupiter.
Enigma jumps with claws extended. A normal human being would have succumbed, overwhelmed by the ferocious attack. With the agility provided by the VIB, Jonas merely takes an elegant step to the side at the last possible moment. The opponent passes straight through without reaching him and now needs to consume precious seconds to regain balance in this typically lunar gravity.
Unwilling to take risks, the Brazilian fires a laser pulse through the palm of his hand. He misses the target, for Enigma seems to anticipate his intention and deviates, moving even faster than the Service’s analysts estimated, despite the reduced gravity. He retries when the opponent charges straight at him and manages to shoot him this time.
The power of this second blast should be enough to kill an astronaut under the armor of his spacesuit. Enigma doesn’t wear a suit. Still, though he is struck by an intense tremor, he stands still, and advances.
In the next second the Palmarine agent stands before Jonah and strikes a violent blow with the claws of his right hand. The Brazilian jumps again to the side, to sidestep and avoid the attack. But now Enigma anticipates the feint and strikes simultaneously with the crossed left of the opposite side.
The treme
ndous impact unbalances Jonas, causing him to sit and slide off the ice, until he stops a dozen meters from his opponent.
Enigma zig-zags closer to him to avoid another laser pulse.
Jonas shakes his head to get rid of the torpor. Hears the VIB whisper in his ear:
“Microperforations in the outer shield at four distinct points.”
Impossible! With all these layers of flexible plasteel, not even titanium claws would be able to…
“Marginally compromised watertightness. Nanobot repairs in progress.”
The Brazilian debates, struggling to stand up before the waiting opponent, gallant, claws extended.
“The primary content is not at immediate risk of suffocation.”
At least, this!
Standing at last, he manages to deflect the enemy’s blow with his left forearm. The fingers of his right hand grip his opponent’s left wrist like vises when he, claws extended, seems about to unleash the deadly onslaught against his helmet.
They both stumble for long seconds, struggling over the slippery ice.
“Muscular amplification required in 62%,” the VIB warns him. “Under current conditions, the maximum available power is 83%.”
“Enable maximum power,” Jonas shouts, staring at the sharp claws approaching inch by inch toward his helmet. “Now!”
“Maximum power available for 23 seconds.”
He can stop the advance of the deadly claws, after all. Pull back the left hand and then use it to reach the enemy’s chest with a jerk.
Enigma slides back. Jonas breaks the opponent’s pulse just in time not to be knocked over by the other’s impulse. He concentrates his efforts in maintaining the precarious balance on the treacherous ice in this lower gravity.
Without the help of the Brazilian operative, the VIB put the laser trigger in standby. When Enigma falls to his knees almost three feet away, Jonas sees him as a pulsating blue target on his helmet’s visor. Below the bright bulge that struggles to stand up, it reads: Emergency power available for continuous-flow shooting.
When he raises his forearm to shoot, the enemy has already jumped on him with claws extended on both hands.
The shot hits him in mid-air. Stronger and longer lasting than the previous ones.
Jonas crouches in the last millisecond and the contender goes inches above his head to land eight feet behind him. The Brazilian jumps up. Ignores the warning hiss of the reserve batacitores and the right-hand laser override, advancing to engage against the opponent.
However, Enigma remains still. His body lies stretched out in the place where he landed.
The Brazilian approaches with cautious steps. It sweeps the inert adversary with its plethora of active sensors. Fuck Galileo’s instruments!
He stood next to Enigma’s corpse. He had almost been defeated on this hostile plain.
Then he observes the presence of vital signs in the corpse. Weak, but undeniable.
He’s alive! Burnt organs and tissues… And yet…
“Preliminary metabolic analysis of the Palmarine agent indicates accelerated cellular regeneration process underway in the nervous and motor systems. Pulsation and oxygen intake show tiny but significant rises.”
The SBI researchers were correct all this time, after all. Enigma has extraordinary regeneration abilities. No wonder the past reports insisted so much on the fact that he couldn’t be killed…
But Jonas had been trained to handle this kind of contingency. He knows what to do.
In a determined gesture, he pulls the breathing ducts out of his opponent’s mask.
“Process of accelerated regeneration of the interrupted agent,” the VIB says in a satisfied tone.
Jonas takes a deep breath. He would love to take Enigma, alive or dead, back to Galileo and then find a way to smuggle his valuable body to Earth. Unfortunately, the plan is too risky. The scientific base is infiltrated by Palmarine operatives willing to fight like madmen to prevent Brazil from having this war trophy, the prey that the Service had dreamed of capturing for decades and which always slipped through their fingers. Until now.
Because there is a means of leading the prey safely to the earth. A safe method of making SBI unlock the secrets of Enigma’s fantastic metabolism.
Jonas Spider smiles ruthlessly inside his helmet.
Who said Service needs the whole body? He ponders; the head probably contains enough information. After all, what analysts can’t get out of the brain tissues, they will discover through examinations of Enigma’s genetic material. Yes, the head should suffice.
5 Visit From the Man in Black
When Pellê fell off the map two months ago, Fernandes was sure he was screwed. He never heard from his friend again. He disappeared from his apartment without a trace. He hasn’t been accessing his universal account, nor the Network. His simbaac can’t be traced. The self-conscious symbiont is out of line or, perhaps, destroyed. Because even a technophobic zebra like him knows that nobody in his right mind would disable his simbaac. In his heart he fears the worst.
Why did I have to stick my hand in this gourd?
Apprehensive as he always is lately, two hours after he finished writing, late in the evening, he prepares to close his virtual office. At last, the old habit of working at home—a comfortable two-storey residence in the Botanical Garden—turned out to be sensible under the circumstances. At least, since he began to fear for his own life. After all, like every good paranoid who boasts, he has the last word in terms of a security apparatus and, therefore, feels much more protected at home than at the headquarters of the Voice of the Morning. Any attempt to violate the defensive perimeter of the residence will sound an alarm at the Gávea police station. Hence, if the worst happens, Fernandes knows that all he has to do is to keep calm, run to his armored panic room and stay sheltered there awaiting the forces of law.
This is why, alone in his spacious house in this tepid summer dawn, he feels a shiver of dread as he hears a deep voice greet him in his study:
“Good evening, Citizen Fernandes.” The tall, blond, bright blue-eyed fellow materializes on the armchair on the other side of the multifunctional. He opens a smile intently reassuring. “Working late again?”
Palmares found me! It’s him, the immortal bastard… He came to prevent me from revealing his existence…
“How…how did you get in here?” Fernandes stammers, rubbing his eyes, not fully believing the apparition.
The big man came out of nowhere! He checks the studio door to clear his conscience, confirming that it remains sealed. The alarms did not ring. A nervous touch with the tip of the indicator and the multifunctional informs him that the anti-invasion complex is still active.
On the other hand, this fellow bears no resemblance to that Indian with hideous features.
“Through the front door, of course. When you went out to the orchard to check out the robogardener’s service.”
“But that was yesterday morning…”
“Eighteen hours ago.”
“Impossible. The house sensors would have beeped. My home manager has advanced routines of…”
“I rescheduled your manager to ignore me.”
Eighteen hours in the presence of certain death and I didn’t even know …
“Who are you?”
“Call me Spider.”
Fernandes contemplates the fellow’s jovial expression. It would be better if he had the face of one who had few friends. I hate friendly killers! The impeccable black suit of the invader instills fear in him.
Comfortably seated on the anatomical armchair, entirely at will, the man in black scans every square millimeter of the pale countenance of his involuntary host with the air of a sci-fi telepath in a poorly written holodrama. Fernandes does not rule out the possibility that the visitor might really be able to search his mind. With Palmares, you never know…
Eyelids closed, he concentrates on the analysis of his alternatives.
If his inopportune visitor was black-skinned,
dressed as he is, Fernandes would conclude beyond any reasonable doubt, that he was in the presence of an agent of the infamous and ubiquitous secret service of Palmares. Being very white, it is even possible that he is Brazilian. No matter if there are white Palmarinos. A few, but there are some. The fact that this Spider expresses himself in Portuguese without an accent doesn’t reassure him. Portuguese is one of the two official languages of the First Republic.
“You seemed to come out of nowhere.”
“Camouflage system. When I deactivated it, voilá! I became visible to your eyes.”
Fernandes looks at the placid face of the visitor with a pensive expression.
“What do you want, Mr. Spider?”
“First of all, I need you to program your home system in absolute privacy. Nothing I shall say should be recorded.” Jonas shrugs with a perfunctory smile of apology. “You know what this is, don’t you? Let’s play it safe.”
The journalist steeples his fingers on the black top of the multifunctional device, and in his eagerness to conceal the almost panic-like fear he emulates a weary sigh before starting to talk again:
“Very well, Mr. Spider.” He uses the name by which the other introduced himself. Certainly as false as the proverbial blue-eyed Banto. “We are isolated and, as you know, entirely alone. Can you now deign to answer my questions?”
“The only thing you need to know beforehand, citizen, is that I’m an SBI agent.” Jonas extends his palm over the table top. The VIB assumes control and the multifunction activates, apparently on its own, to project the holocoat of arms of the Service, accompanied by holographic insignias and his functional agent identification. “Satisfied?”
“Very much,” Fernandes stammers. “I thought…”
“You thought I was an operative at the behest of Palmares with the mission of silencing you, right?”
“Uh… More or less. Apologies.”
“No problem.” Jonas smiles sympathetically. “Let’s say that, at this point in the events, it is not at all foolish to consider the visit of an aide to funeral matters.”
Solarpunk: Ecological and Fantastical Stories in a Sustainable World Page 22
