The Enceladus Crisis

by Michael J. Martinez

  “Of course, if we hadn’t been pushed off course by the bloody Chinese, we wouldn’t have to slog through the worst of the E-ring, now would we? Haven’t heard a word from them yet, despite our constant broadcasts. Houston says they’ve filed a formal protest, for all the good that’ll do them. Turns out we can’t bring the Titan depot ship here, so we’re on rations for a while. Thankfully, if we wait a week or so, Enceladus and Titan will be lined up well for a quick transfer orbit. Meantime, we’ll have to work double-time to fill the fuel tanks and get our drinking water desalinated. I wonder what Enceladus water will taste like. I’ll try to save some for you.

  “We definitely think the Chinese arrival is no accident. Who knows? They may have timed things perfectly to throw us off track and get to Titan first. Weatherby’s journal hinted that Titan was the Xan homeworld, after all. I think we have to assume that the Chinese know about Mars, and may even have an idea about your DAEDALUS ops. They’re very good at hiding behind the corporate shield laws. Anything you can get us on their ship, and their corporate sponsors, would help. I want to know who’s out here with us and why.

  “That’s it from here. Wrapping up my watch now. Stephane says hi, as usual. He always pesters me to say that.” At this, Shaila broke into a genuine grin, which prompted Diaz to smile back at her recording. “Armstrong out.”

  Diaz thumbed off the holoemitter and called up the latest intel on the Chinese ship. The People’s Army Survey Ship Tienlong, “heavenly dragon” in Chinese, launched for Jupiter last year. Like most planetary survey vessels, Tienlong was constructed in orbit. Unlike most vessels, the Chinese had erected a giant shroud—nearly a half mile in diameter—around the ship in orbit, standard procedure for the vast majority of their space endeavors. That made it tough for spy satellites—U.S., E.U., and corporate alike—to see exactly what they were up to. Intel reports were able to trace some unusual components, such as larger fuel and cargo compartments, but at the time they were assumed to be part of a longer Jupiter mission.

  It was, Diaz reflected, a dearth of imagination on the intel analysts’ part. Sifting through report after report, she could see the pieces of the Chinese mission coming together. A Chinese survey satellite reported “off course” that would end up heading straight for Saturn. The very tight system entry by Tienlong that would ultimately see them slingshot around Jupiter for a speed-boost to Saturn. The lack of in-country publicity, even considering the usually tight-lipped Chinese media. And no corporate sponsor announcement . . .

  Corporate sponsorship was a fact of life in 22nd century space exploration and colonization. It made sense, really; Christopher Columbus was looking for a trade route, not a new continent. ExEn was aboard the Armstrong in hopes of laying claim to Titan’s hydrocarbons, and Diaz’ last command, McAuliffe Base on Mars, was financed at the time by Billiton Minmetals, the Australian-Chinese mining concern. Most sponsorships were loudly trumpeted by the respective companies’ PR arms, but not all; competitive advantage was hard won around the world, leading to the corporate shield laws that Jain had mentioned. So it wasn’t unheard of that the Tienlong’s sponsor would remain under wraps.

  Thankfully, DAEDALUS wasn’t bound by such restrictions. More precisely, they were empowered by their sponsors, the United States and the European Union, to take extra-legal steps “when necessary as part of its mission to investigate extradimensional phenomena that may potentially harm the Earth.” The language was broad enough—and Diaz’ legal team talented enough—to allow for most anything.

  Thus, through the incredible information-gathering talents of Coogan, Diaz already knew Tienlong was sponsored by Total-Suez, and by her old acquaintance, Harry Yu. She called up an image of him, which sprang to life over her desk. The black-haired Asian man in the expensive suit smiled out at her. Harold A. Yu, senior vice president of new business development at Total-Suez—and formerly of Billiton Minmetals’ Martian operations.

  Harry Yu had spent a whole lot of time making McAuliffe Base’s mining operations consistently profitable, only to see the entire thing collapse in the wake of the extradimensional incursion. But he did in fact see nearly everything that occurred—and what he didn’t see, he likely copied from the base computers. Those were strange days, and security wasn’t what it should’ve been, what with the whole ancient Martian temple appearing on the slopes of the Australis Montes range, complete with resident Martian trying to conquer multiple dimensions. While most everyone on Mars spent months in quarantine and debriefing, Harry’s Chinese citizenship and corporate privileges let him off pretty easily. Hell, Diaz figured he might not have even been physically searched, let alone interrogated.

  So she had to assume, for the sake of security, that Harry Yu knew everything about the Daedalus incident. And given that, Total-Suez knew. And since they were sponsoring Tienlong . . .

  “Jimmy, I need you,” Diaz said. Less than twenty seconds later, Lt. Coogan entered the room.

  “Ma’am?” It always sounded like “mum” to Diaz, which made her feel her age. The fact that Coogan always wore a transparent HUD visor and earpiece didn’t help either.

  She swiped at Harry Yu’s file on her holoimager and literally shoved the data toward her assistant. “I need to know where this man is right now.”

  Coogan’s eyes flickered and blinked inside his visor; Diaz could see tiny bursts of light in front of the young man’s eyes. “Most of my queries are coming up blank, ma’am. All I know is he has a Nexus-cleared corporate passport.”

  Diaz frowned. It was getting easier to track actual government spies than to locate corporate executives anymore. “Get on it. Everything you got. I want to know where he is, what he’s doing right now. Don’t much care how you do it.”

  “Very good, ma’am. I—wait a moment,” Coogan said, his eyes darting around the room once more. “I have Dr. Greene on vidcall for you. Shall I put him through?”

  Diaz leaned back in her chair. “Sure. Let’s see how he’s enjoying Mexico.” A moment later, Harry Yu’s face was replaced by Evan Greene’s. While Diaz was expecting either ironic humor or actual pissed-off-ness, what she saw was genuine concern. “Don’t tell me you found something,” Diaz said, motioning for Coogan to remain and observe.

  “Not what you think, Maria,” Greene replied. “But BlueNet’s working. There are above-average levels of Cherenkov radiation present at Teotihuacan.”

  “Source?” Diaz demanded.

  “That’s the real pisser,” Greene said, holding up a piece of electronics that looked like a cyberpunk version of a bowling pin. “Know what this is?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Greene grinned slightly; he loved to get his lecture on. “This is, in essence, a radiation magnet. It takes ambient radiation in a given area and refocuses it. There are thirty-seven of these here, forming a ring around Teotihuacan.”

  “Yuna Hiyashi built a ring of gizmos around McAuliffe Base two years ago and we ended up with a frigate in our ops area,” Diaz snapped. “Get to the point.”

  “This isn’t like that, Maria. These won’t focus enough Cherenkov radiation to do anything at all except to have it show up if someone’s looking for it. It boosts the ambient levels to above-ambient, nothing more.”

  Diaz’ frown grew more intense. “That makes no sense. Why do that?”

  “Well, if there were folks on the other side of the fence looking for us, there’s a non-zero chance these devices might capture a tachyon or two—maybe just enough for them to notice we’re here, and maybe send a message in reply. Honestly, it’s kind of clever, but not really well conceived.”

  “Define non-zero.”

  Greene shrugged. “Global lotto odds, I suppose.”

  “Then it’s useless. What else?”

  “Only other thing I can think of is that it took Huntington and I a day and about a million terras to come out here and investigate, so it makes for one helluva distraction.”

  “And someone put them there.”

  �
��That’s right,” Greene nodded. “On the bright side, this gave me a few neat ideas to play with on the plane ride back.”

  Diaz exhaled sharply and ran a hand over her face. “All right. Bring every scrap of unauthorized tech back here ASAP. We’re gonna find out who put them there and why. Diaz out.”

  Coogan immediately jumped in. “There are twenty-seven different vendors for this kind of technology. Once we have serial numbers, or even part numbers, we can track down who bought them and when.”

  “Good man,” Diaz said. “For all our top-secret clearance, I think someone’s onto DAEDALUS in a big way. And if they know about us, they know about everything else.”

  “Your friend here . . . Harry?”

  Diaz nodded and rose from her seat. “I want something really fast put on 24-hour standby. Once we track him down, or whoever put that tech out there in Mexico, I want to be there in his face.”

  Coogan blinked a few times into his HUD. “I can get an executive-class transport in forty-five minutes, but there’s no pilot available.”

  Diaz shot him a look and pointed at the wings on her uniform. “I think I can manage.”

  August 22, 1798

  Cairo can be particularly unkind to Europeans in the summer heat, and despite the early hour, there was plenty of sweat on the brows of the scientists and soldiers gathered in one of the city’s newly abandoned palaces. Finch had opted to wear more traditional European attire for the meeting, but his coat and waistcoat were made of far lighter materials than the wool many of the Frenchmen boasted. A few of the savants had taken to wearing Egyptian robes and coats . . . on top of their European attire, and Finch idly wondered which one of them would be the first to pass out.

  To make matters worse, the newly formed Institut d’Egypt had somehow decided that the first-floor harem room would make the most picturesque setting to launch their endeavor, even though the cooling breezes were hampered by the intricately carved geometry of the mashrabiya latticework covering all the windows. Downstairs, Finch could hear a fountain gurgle in the courtyard, which would have been far more preferable.

  “You are Dr. Finch, I presume?” came a voice in French from behind him. Finch turned to see a man in a French revolutionary army uniform, with a great deal of braiding and rather impressive-looking epaulets.

  “Ah! You must be General Bonaparte,” Finch said, smiling and extending his hand. The other man nodded and smiled as they shook; he was evidently pleased to be recognized, though there were few other military men who would make the time for such an endeavor when much of the countryside still required pacifying. But the Institute was Bonaparte’s idea, and it seemed he fancied himself a scholar as well as a warrior. Finch knew as much, so the assumption was natural, though he thought the general would be somewhat shorter.

  “Dolomieu tells me you are a friend of the revolution, Doctor,” Bonaparte said. It was less a question or a statement, more a challenge.

  “I am a friend of knowledge and liberty, General,” Finch replied, “and foe to any who would curtail either.”

  Bonaparte nodded and smiled, seemingly quite pleased with the nuanced answer. “Then you are most welcome here among us, Doctor. Now if you’ll excuse us, I believe the Institute is about to meet. Where is Monge? Let us begin!”

  And with that, the Frenchmen filed into the harem room, leaving Finch outside in the open corridor outside. If there were any question about whether Finch should attend, the stern looks from the French soldiers guarding the doors answered them most assuredly.

  Despairing of his mission, Finch sat down upon a bench . . . and waited.

  From his perch, Finch could hear muffled French from inside the room. There were smatterings of applause here and there, and then Napoleon himself took up a fair amount of time, his unusual Corsican accent distinctive even if his words were muddled to Finch’s ears.

  Finch stood. And paced. Then sat down again. Then stood. All the while, the guards at the doors regarded him warily, if idly. He felt for all the world like an unwelcome suitor, and he was beginning to think Dolomieu was in the wrong for inviting him to begin with. Or that he was in the wrong for taking the offer. Perhaps there were other ways of discerning the motives for the French invasion.

  In the midst of wrestling with peevish doubt, and an hour after Finch was left to do so, the meeting in the harem room adjourned, and the savants streamed out. Finch waited, arms folded across his chest, as Dolomieu hurried up to him.

  “I am so sorry, my friend,” he said, looking genuinely contrite and concerned. “I had no idea they would go on for so long. The general,” he added, looking around and lowering his voice, “has us worrying about producing enough bread and clean water to feed his armies, rather than any sort of study.”

  “Then perhaps I should leave you to it,” Finch said, trying not to snap at his friend but succeeding only partially. “I’m quite hopeless in the kitchen.”

  “No, please, Andrew, I’ve been asked to introduce you to Berthollet,” Dolomieu said hurriedly. “Come, please.”

  Silently, Finch acquiesced and allowed his friend to take his arm and lead him into the harem room. There, an older man wearing the finest clothes was shaking hands with some of the other attendees as they left.

  “You must be Andrew Finch,” Berthollet said in heavily accented English as Finch approached. “Deodat has told me much of you.”

  “Hopefully only the best parts,” Finch said as he accepted Berthollet’s outstretched hand. “Otherwise, I shall be forced to deny it all.”

  “Deny nothing, young man!” Berthollet responded, a broad smile lighting up his florid face. He was a larger man, with an obvious love of food, but he was barely a few years older than Finch. Both were, in many ways, contemporaries and rivals in terms of aptitude and talent; Finch knew that Berthollet was one of the few Frenchmen to be made a Fellow of the Royal Society in London, as was Finch. “Of course I have heard of you, Dr. Finch, and I am pleased to find you here in Cairo after all. There is much to discuss between us, I think.”

  “Oh? And what is that, Dr. Berthollet?” Finch asked as innocently as he might muster. Let the chess game begin, Finch thought, smiling inwardly.

  “I believe our General Bonaparte will wish to be part of this discussion, yes? Ah, there he is now. Come, Doctor,” Berthollet said motioning toward the courtyard beyond the harem room. At least, Finch thought, it would be cooler there.

  And when they rounded the corner and Finch spotted a table with morning tea, set with four places, he understood why the larger meeting was elsewhere. The general was no fool when it came to the sun.

  “Dr. Finch,” Bonaparte said with a smile. “Come, partake with us.”

  With a nod, Finch took his place at Bonaparte’s left hand, with Berthollet at his right—a most natural place for him, Finch thought. “I find it interesting, monsieur general, that we three are the only ones invited to tea with you,” Finch said, helping himself to the tea. “I assume, then, you have other things in mind.”

  Finch winked at Dolomieu, who looked pale and slightly shocked at Finch’s lack of decorum, but Berthollet merely smiled, while Bonaparte let out a short bark of a laugh. “I like you, Dr. Finch!” the general said. “You speak plainly, as I do. So I shall return the favor.”

  “And I welcome it,” Finch said, sipping at his tea and reaching for a piece of toasted bread with jam. Someone took the time to spread the jam on the bread already, which Finch thought was a nice touch, and perhaps telling of the comforts these men were used to.

  “You left the English Royal Navy, and England itself, to participate in the events of our glorious revolution,” Bonaparte said. “And then you left seven years ago to come to Egypt. Why?”

  Finch smiled graciously at this. “You know full well what France was like when I left, monsieur. Robespierre’s Terror was a betrayal of all that we fought for. France squandered its opportunity. Just look at the United States of Ganymede to see the difference.”

  “Y
ou might have stayed to try to prevent it,” Bonaparte said, though with no hint of malice. It was, for all Finch could tell, a simple question, though of course it was anything but.

  “I am an alchemist, and a terrible politician,” Finch demurred. “I assisted how and when I could, but there comes a time when the waves grow too strong to navigate. And I had no wish to meet Madame Guillotine in the event I was accused of being an English spy.”

  “Were you?” Berthollet asked brusquely, though with a grim smile upon his face.

  “I am also a terrible spy,” Finch said. “And I think my move to Cairo, rather than back to England, is telling in that regard.”

  “Berthollet and Dolomieu say you are among the foremost experts on Egyptian lore, as well as an alchemist of some renown,” Bonaparte said. “We hope, Doctor, we may rely upon you.”

  “For what, may I ask? I can certainly facilitate some introductions to those among the local populace who have some alchemical training, or knowledge of ancient myth,” he said, hoping to strike the right balance of innocence and aid.

  Dolomieu actually laughed at this. “Do you think, Andrew, that we have come all this way searching after myths? I think the real alchemy of Egypt shall be prize enough!”

  With a sidelong glare at Dolomieu, Bonaparte smiled and rose, prompting all at the table to do the same. “Doctor, it has been a great pleasure,” he said, extending his hand. “I have other matters to attend to. Berthollet, you may proceed. Dolomieu, a moment if you please.”

  Looking excited, Dolomieu quickly shook hands with Finch and bustled off after the Corsican, whose strides quickly took him out of the courtyard. That left Finch alone with Berthollet. “Will you meet me this afternoon at the Mosque of Ibn Tulun? Before the final prayer of the day?” the Frenchman asked him.