The Solar Sea

by David Lee Summers

  "You're the youngest,” said Alonzo. “Also, your personality profile matches what we want for this mission more than many of your fellow astronauts."

  The colonel scowled. “That brings up another point. I trained for years to go to Mars, got to know my fellow astronauts like they were family. How soon will we be launching this ship?"

  "If we're able to stay on schedule, I hope to get the ship assembled next week. With training for new personnel, we should be ready to launch inside a month."

  "One month,” said Jefferson slowly. “How can you expect a crew that has been together for less than a month to form a cohesive team that will make this mission a success? I read up on heliogyro theory and checked the alignment of Jupiter and Saturn before coming to this meeting, Mr. Alonzo. I know we'll make it to Saturn in about the time it took me to get to Mars, but it'll still take a well-trained team to accomplish the task."

  "This is a new age, Colonel Jefferson.” Pilot stepped over to the external sensor station and brushed his fingers over its surface. “If spaceflight is going to be a reality for mankind, we've got to get away from the mentality that long years of preparation are necessary for a short voyage. After all, Columbus put his crew together for the voyage to America in about a month. If he could do it and succeed, why can't we?"

  The colonel took a deep breath and frowned. “Columbus had his share of problems."

  Pilot rolled his eyes and moved past Jefferson to the door at the far end of C-and-C. “Let me show you to the crew cabins."

  The one-time astronaut followed Pilot through the far door, past a galley that seemed more like a country kitchen than a sterile shipboard mess hall and into a nicely appointed bedroom. With a touch of a button, one wall of the cabin came to life, showing a scene of a mountain stream. Deer stood a ways off, munching grass. Clouds drifted lazily through the sky. Jefferson almost thought he could reach out and touch the pine tree nearest to him. Instead, since they were now in a part of the sphere parallel to the ground, Jefferson sat down on the bed and admired the scenery.

  "You can download movies, television, Internet, even scenes from home right to the wall of your cabin. You won't even need to miss the latest movies that are playing back home while we're on the mission.” Pilot looked Jefferson in the eye. “Off hand, I'd say it's a far cry from anything NASA was ever able to provide on the Ares II."

  "Creating a luxury liner in space may help stave off morale problems, but it won't prevent them."

  "That's why Mr. Quinn and I want you in command.” Pilot sat down in one of the chairs at the table. “I want someone who can help keep the crew in line, keep them working as a unit. Also, your recent work in nanotechnology overlaps several key specialties."

  Jefferson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You said you don't have a full crew, how's all this been built?"

  "We've been utilizing as much of the factory labor as Old Man Quinn will allow. However, most of them will be staying behind. I'd like to get ten more crewmembers—that would bring us up to a compliment of twenty-five. Among other things, I still need a top-notch communication's specialist and a biochemist or biologist. If I can find a team where the specialties overlap, it would be perfect."

  "Why's that?” asked Jefferson.

  "The biological scanners are slaved into the communications gear. Sensors for organic compounds are tied into the low gain sending and receiving equipment. Also, by having the bio scanners and communications tied together, it allows for easy recording of the data."

  Jefferson rubbed his chin and thought about the explanation. It seemed to make sense—mostly. “What about a high gain antenna? I didn't see one on the outside of the ship."

  Pilot smiled disarmingly. “The whole ship's a high gain antenna.” When Jefferson raised his eyebrows, Pilot gestured all around. “Aluminized quinitite sails are great radio frequency receivers."

  Jefferson nodded, understanding. His thoughts turned to other things Pilot said. “Twenty-five people,” he mused slowly. He looked up at the mountain scene on the wall, felt the comfortable bed beneath him, then thought of setting foot on Mars again and exploring the atmospheres of Jupiter and Saturn. It was almost enough to make him willing to risk the voyage. “There's one more thing I'd like to see. You mentioned the shuttle-lander."

  "Right this way.” Pilot shut off the view screen.

  * * * *

  Myra Lee was at home in the shower when the phone rang. Grumbling to herself, she shut off the water, wrapped a warm, fuzzy towel around her middle and started drying her hair with another. After a minute of searching, she found her cell and answered.

  "This is Joyce Harmer at Oxford,” said a very precise voice on the other end of the line. “We believe we are close to translating a portion of the whale song for you."

  Myra's knees went watery and she fought not to drop the phone.

  "Dr. Lee, are you there?” asked Harmer, vaguely distressed.

  "Yes, I'm here. It's just that no one has ever come up with a translation script for whales before. This is absolutely historic."

  "I know. Can we set up an Internet chat and I'll show you what I've got?"

  "Absolutely, I'll just sit down at the computer.” Myra's towel slipped an inch. “Actually, better give me a couple minutes to get dressed. You caught me in the shower."

  "Certainly. I'll wait for your ping."

  Myra let the towel drop as she stepped through the house, thinking of the implications of the first words from whales. She found a T-shirt and some slacks and dressed as quickly as she could—which wasn't very fast since her mind kept turning around in circles. Finally, she started toward her computer, just remembering to grab a brush, so she could comb out her hair as she talked.

  She logged into the computer and pinged the Oxford philologist. Harmer's face showed in a window on the computer. Her short, gray-blond hair was a mess, not matching her precise speech at all. There were dark bags under her eyes as though she'd been up all night working on the complex problem. Suddenly, Myra didn't feel so bad about combing her hair in front of her own camera.

  Harmer sent some charts over to Myra, who recognized them as being very similar to her own charts of recorded whale song. “You were right,” said Joyce. “This new song is very like binary code."

  "You said you have a translation?” Myra forgot her hair and leaned forward.

  "Not exactly, but we do have a sense for what they're trying to say.” Joyce closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and continued. “It's as though they're sending a message. The context makes it sound like a warning. If we've got it right, it's something like, ‘The land dwellers are on their way.’”

  Myra sat back and stared at the Oxford linguist. “That doesn't make any sense. Who are they warning?"

  "That's difficult to say.” Joyce's brow furrowed. “It's like they've been reading too much Tolkien. They're warning someone they call ‘the keepers of the rings.'” She paused and sent some more information across. “I know it sounds utterly fantastic, but I'm sending along all of the notes and programs I used to come to my conclusions."

  "Any idea who ‘the keepers of the rings’ are?” Visions of dolphins jumping through hoops at Marineland in California came unbidden to Myra's mind.

  "You said the whales started their song at one o'clock in the afternoon of April 17?"

  Myra nodded, remembering the event clearly. It was difficult to believe that almost two months had passed since then.

  Joyce hesitated before answering, “The only other significant event that happened at the time was a broadcast from Quinn Corp executives announcing a mission to Saturn."

  "The ringed planet,” mused Myra. “Are you trying to suggest that the ‘keepers of the rings’ are little green men from Saturn?"

  Joyce shrugged and sighed. “I almost hesitated to mention it."

  Myra nodded. “Thanks. Can the programs you've devised tell us anything about what the whales say in any of their other songs."

 
; "I haven't had time to do much with the other songs.” Joyce appeared relieved by the change of subject. “All we can really pick up are sequences that repeat with subtle changes more than any specific words. It's as though the whales are reciting poetry or repeating a litany."

  Myra nodded to herself. “That's what I would have expected to find given their behavior."

  "Us too."

  Myra thanked the linguist, then shut down the computer connection. She brushed tangles out of her hair while visions of whales floating in the clouds of Saturn came to her mind.

  * * * *

  Pilot smiled when Jefferson's jaw dropped as they climbed into one of the launch bays, near the spheroid's central core. The craft before them was like nothing the colonel had ever seen. The lunar transportation shuttles were large, chunky ships with cylindrical bodies mounted on broad delta wings. Aside from their size and the power of their engines, they were very similar to the space shuttles of the late twentieth century. Even the Martian Lander was a large bug-like craft, built more for functionality than for grace and speed. The shuttle aboard the Aristarchus was trim, with graceful, curving lines. On one hand, the sloping delta wings made the craft look a little like the fighter jets that Jefferson had once flown for the Air Force. On the other hand, the gently sloping top and sleek lines gave him the impression of a sports car.

  "It'll hold a crew of six,” explained Pilot. “This one is optimized to handle the high winds of Jupiter and Saturn's upper atmospheres and stay there for an extended time."

  "This one?"

  "There are four extravehicular craft in all.” Pilot stepped over and ran his hand along the shining, silver wing. “This one is for the Jovian planets. We also have one for the thin, Martian atmosphere, one for the thicker atmosphere we're going to encounter on Titan and one for deep space exploration and towing—another redundancy in the ship's control system. Though they are optimized for certain environments, each ship can operate in all of the environments we're likely to encounter."

  "So, we have a way to rescue someone who's stranded, for instance,” said Jefferson.

  "Precisely. Or if one shuttle malfunctions for some reason, we don't have to abort the entire landing mission.” Pilot looked lovingly up at the little silver ship.

  Jefferson walked over and touched the wing, in spite of himself. After a moment, he scowled. “Have any of these ships been tested?"

  Pilot looked up at Jefferson, as though he'd been slapped. “Of course. Each of these has been flight tested between the Earth and the Moon.” His gaze fell to the floor for a moment and he turned his back to the one-time astronaut. “Admittedly, we may encounter ... unexpected variables along the way that might give us problems."

  "That's the nature of exploring the unknown."

  Pilot turned and looked at him. “All of our data, all of our information for how to design these craft came from NASA missions—either yours to Mars or unmanned missions to the outer planets."

  Jefferson rubbed his chin and smiled darkly. “In other words, you're working with the best you've got. I understand that. I hope you understand that sometimes the best you got just isn't good enough. Sometimes, every backup system in the world fails and that's the end of the mission and the end of us. We learned that with Challenger and Columbia. Each and every one of us will have to face that possibility out there and I'm afraid you don't know what you're getting us into. I worry about people like O'Connell who've never had to risk their lives before."

  Pilot nodded and frowned. “I suppose you think I'm an over-excited schoolboy who can't wait for the next field trip."

  Jefferson snorted and turned away. “Not exactly.... “He stepped over to the hatchway. “More like an over-excited Boy Scout. You're prepared. I'll give you that. I'm just used to having more training time, getting to know my crew better. I also don't think you're being one hundred percent honest with me, Mr. Alonzo.” Jefferson descended the ladder.

  Alonzo kangaroo-hopped to the ladder and looked down at the top of Jefferson's head. “I take it that means you've decided to turn down my offer."

  Jefferson looked back up. “No, it means I need to sleep on it. Show me to my quarters and I'll talk to you more in the morning."

  Pilot smiled and descended behind Jefferson when the cell-phone in his pocket buzzed. He hit the button, putting it on speaker while hanging from the ladder. “Hello."

  "Sir,” came the voice of a station communications operator. “The president's secretary is on the line and she says he would like to speak with you."

  "The president? He has my number. Why is he going through the switchboard?” asked Pilot, indignantly.

  "Not the president of Quinn Corp, sir. The President of the United States."

  "I'll take the call in my office.” Pilot turned off the phone.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 7

  Communications

  Myra Lee was so distracted by her own thoughts as she drove to the Oceanographic Institute that she ran a red light and nearly hit another car. She waved an apology to the other driver, who was already speeding away, flashing a rude gesture at her. Myra pulled off to the side of the road and took several deep breaths.

  Her mind raced through numerous possibilities now that an Oxford University linguist had confirmed her wild theory that the new whale songs were, in fact, a binary encoded message. She wanted to apply that knowledge to other songs that she had recorded as soon as possible. All the data and programs Joyce Harmer sent were in her laptop computer on the passenger's side floor of the car. She hoped she could make a little more sense of the data once she got into the office and had Lisa Henry's help. She also thought about placing a call to Stirling Cristof in San Francisco to get his take on the findings.

  Feeling a little more collected, Myra pulled back out onto the street and continued into the office. When she arrived, she wasn't surprised to find that Lisa Henry had yet to report to work. She fired off an email to Stirling Cristof, not certain whether he'd be at work yet, or not. He tended to be a late riser. To her surprise, he responded almost instantly, then initiated a video chat session.

  "Your friend the Oxford philologist says the whales are sending some kind of warning,” explained Myra.

  "Are you serious?” Cristof's eyebrows rose. “Who are they warning?"

  "Little green dolphins on Saturn—or maybe a jeweler in Santa Monica—if we believe your friend.” Myra laughed nervously, then gave a more reasoned explanation. “She says it's someone called ‘the keepers of the rings.’ It just so happens that the message was sent at the same time as Jerome Quinn was announcing the Saturn mission they're organizing. Because of that, she's speculating that the ‘keepers’ are connected to Saturn in some way."

  Cristof chewed his lip and thought about what Myra told him. “It's not completely unreasonable,” he said after a moment. “I take it you don't agree with her assessment."

  "I don't know what to think.” Myra ran her fingers through her hair. “It just seems so incredible and there's always the chance she's got it wrong.” Myra sat back and looked at her bookshelf while she weighed different possibilities. Finally, she turned back to Stirling. “She seemed pretty convinced about the warning part and I buy her explanation about how she came to that conclusion. It's the ‘keeper of the rings’ part that really bothers me."

  "Let's table that for the time being,” said Stir. “Rest assured, she'll be checking her preliminary conclusions with her colleagues. Did she say anything about how the whales are delivering their warning?"

  "Professor Harmer says that the language is a binary-type sequence, as we suggested.” She shrugged, as though apologizing for guessing correctly.

  "That's not what I mean.” Cristof shook his head. “I mean how are they transmitting? It's not like the whales are using radios."

  "I didn't think about that.” Myra sat back stunned. She thought for a moment and frowned. “That must mean the people from Saturn—or whoever the whales are
warning—are listening in."

  Cristof nodded slowly. “It also means that the whales know they have an audience. They expect to be heard. If it is someone from Saturn, they're watching us."

  * * * *

  Pilot kangaroo-hopped through the corridors of the Moon base speaking with Jefferson about the phone call from the president and asking him to follow. “If you're still willing to consider commanding this mission, this call could affect you as much as me."

  Pilot frowned and slowed his pace slightly when he heard Jefferson's labored breathing. Once they arrived at the office, Pilot quickly waved a huffing, puffing Colonel Jefferson to a chair while he picked up the office phone and asked the person on the other end to put him through to the president.

  "Hello, Mr. Alonzo,” came the voice of Oscar Van der Wald. “I've been following the progress of the Aristarchus and I'm calling to congratulate you on your initiative."

  "Thank you, sir,” said Pilot, genuinely flattered. He sat down behind the desk. “However, I must say that I'm caught off guard. I certainly wasn't expecting a phone call today."

  "My call isn't entirely social,” said the president, turning darkly serious. “I have concerns about this venture of yours."

  "I can assure you, Mr. President, that we're taking every safety precaution.... “Pilot's mind raced, trying to anticipate what the president was going to say next.

  "I'm sure you are.” Van der Wald impatiently cut him off. “We are more concerned about what you might find and how it may affect the interests of the United States."

  Pilot widened his eyes and sat back in the chair. A moment later, he found his voice. “Mr. President, this is purely a scientific endeavor."

  "Scientific endeavors routinely generate more ... how shall we say ... tangible results.” Van der Wald paused, letting that sink in. “We are naturally concerned about what your mission means for National Security."

  "In what way, sir?” Pilot's eyes narrowed. “We've been exploring the solar system for the past century, both with manned spacecraft and unmanned probes. There's never been any evidence for intelligent life outside of the Earth."