The Enceladus Crisis

by Michael J. Martinez

  Harry smiled, his edge back. “Sorry, but I don’t have to do any of that. Since you’re not an IAEA inspector, and I’m pretty sure none of you are here at the behest of the Egyptian government, I think I’m just going to have to kick you out and call it a day.”

  “Harry,” Diaz warned as she stood up. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but—”

  He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I wasn’t the bad guy two years ago, and I’m not the bad guy now. I got a plant to get running here, and a Saturn mission to monitor. So if you’ll excuse me, Maria, I’m done. These gentlemen will see you out.”

  “That’s it?” Diaz said as the office door opened. Four security officers entered. They were armed with the latest in semiautomatic weapons—decidedly not non-lethal.

  “That’s it,” Harry said. He turned to the holoscreen on his desk and swiped through some text. “Special Corporate Charter Law, section 5, subsection B, paragraph 3: No governmental force beyond standard industry regulators will enter into corporate holdings unannounced, nor will they invade a corporation’s privacy beyond that which the corporation is legally required to disclose.’”

  Diaz watched as the men fanned out across the room. Mercenaries, likely ex-military. Damn.

  “I’ll be in contact with the U.S. government to file a formal protest with regard to your actions today,” Harry said. “Now get out and have a nice day.”

  Diaz looked at the guards, then back to Harry, who had already settled in behind his desk, dismissing them from his mind entirely. “All right. Let’s go.”

  October 14, 1798

  In retrospect, Finch should’ve known word of the expedition would have reached the oasis before they did.

  The French, after all, were nothing if not indiscreet in their activities in Egypt. They went everywhere in numbers, they were brash and loud, and despite Napoleon’s claims to be a friend to all followers of Muhammad, they treated Muslim tradition as inconveniences at best—and something to tamp down upon at worst. Their reputation had spread throughout lower Egypt as invaders and interlopers, no doubt aided by the retreating beys, who had headed south and west as the French pressed on.

  That the news would follow the caravan routes should have been anticipated. Indeed, Finch was completely unsurprised at the two hundred mounted warriors now facing them across the desert plain, with the trees of the oasis faint upon the horizon behind them in the morning light. The French were exhausted from the night’s travels, and outnumbered more than two to one besides.

  “We should attempt a parlay,” Finch told Berthollet quietly. “These are Bedouins, and they guard their oases jealously. We should make a truce, and pay the tax they will undoubtedly desire.”

  “Payment?” Berthollet snorted. “They have swords and horses. We have rifles. We should slay two-thirds of them before they even reach us! Do they not know this?”

  “Do you wish to be welcomed or scorned?” Finch countered, growing testy. “We may be welcomed as simply another caravan, or we may be seen as enemies of Islam and the vanguard of another Crusade. The other tribes will spread the word of what happens here.”

  “The other tribes are a fractious lot,” Berthollet said dismissively. “Some of them will welcome us.”

  “Me against my brother, my brother and I against my cousin, my cousin and I against the stranger,’” Finch quoted. “You’re the strangers here.”

  Any further debate was cut off as four of the horsemen began riding toward the center of the plain. Gathering Finch and the French military commander with a wave, Berthollet kicked his horse forward to greet them. Shaking his head, Finch spurred his camel forward, the creature’s loping gait keeping pace surprisingly well.

  Minutes later, they reached the center, facing four Bedouins dressed, in their way, to impress. These worthies wore long robes and headscarves, and used patterned silks as sashes and belts. All carried wicked-looking scimitars, and they also had firearms—likely to be a rarity amongst the rank and file, but worrisome enough.

  “Who among you speaks a civilized tongue?” the most garishly dressed among them demanded, in Arabic.

  Finch raised a hand in greeting. “I am the murshid Andrew Finch, of Cairo, and I speak the tongue of the Prophet. In the name of Allah the Merciful and Just, I bid you greetings and hopes for long life and prosperity.”

  “In the name of Allah, I greet you,” the Bedouin said curtly. “I am Sheikh Karim bin Abdullah al-Siwa. Your name is known to us, murshid, and there is honor attached to it. So why is it you travel with these Franks?”

  Guilt by association, it seems. “You do me honor, Sheikh Karim. I travel with them on a quest for knowledge, not conquest. If you know of me, you know I am a scholar. My companions are as well, and we seek naught but rest at the oasis, and the opportunity to research the ruins we may find there.”

  Sheikh Karim looked over the shoulders of the Europeans toward the troops behind them, all of whom had weapons ready. “Scholars do not carry swords and guns, murshid.”

  Finch smiled, but inwardly cursed himself. He had an alchemical admixture that would do much to ease negotiations, making his words more amenable to all hearing them. And the damned vial was among his possessions in one of the wagons behind him. He was too damned young for senility. “The desert is arduous, especially for those unused to it. And there are those, as you are aware, who are not as noble and generous as your esteemed tribe, who would waylay caravans without provocation. Thanks be to Allah, we did not encounter them in our journey here, but we thought it best to be prepared.”

  “Finch,” Berthollet hissed, shifting in his saddle. “What are you saying?”

  “He’s asking why a group of scholars has soldiers with them,” Finch said sotto voce. “I’d prefer it if we got through this without loss of life, monsieur.”

  Berthollet grimaced. “Not likely,” he said, kicking his horse forward. “You there, Sheikh. That is your name, yes?” he asked in French.

  “It’s his title,” Finch said.

  “Fine. Sheikh, you will stand down. We mean to explore around this oasis, and we will not be denied,” Berthollet said loudly. “Finch, tell them.”

  Finch rode up next to Berthollet. “Damn you, monsieur! Will you not allow me the chance to do this properly?”

  Berthollet sneered toward the Bedouins. “Why should we? They live in tents and know nothing of philosophy, truth or science. They should be grateful we’re here!”

  At this point, Sheikh Karim rode forward from the rest of his party. “Not grateful,” he said in heavily accented French. “We know philosophy. We know Allah. You do not. You will leave. Now.”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Finch muttered. The Bedouins may be nomadic tribespeople, but some of the better-off tribes sent their foremost sons to Cairo and, in some cases, Istanbul in order to learn more of the ways of the world. Sheikh Karim was likely among them. “My esteemed Sheikh,” he said in Arabic. “I must apologize for this man. You must know how the Franks get when they are out in the desert sun for too long.”

  Sheikh Karim stared wide-eyed a moment at Berthollet, then suddenly burst out laughing, as did those with him. “You know, murshid, that would explain much!”

  “It explains but half, Sheikh Karim. The other half has something to do with wine and smelly cheese,” Finch added.

  He was rewarded with more laughter. “Very well, murshid Finch,” the sheikh said finally. “If they pay the tax, they are welcome to the oasis so long as their soldiers remain in a camp to themselves. You and your scholars will be under my protection, and will not need them in the ruins. But know that it is because of you I extend this courtesy, and these Franks must behave like civilized men while here.”

  “A moment, honored Sheikh,” Finch said before turning to translate for Berthollet. “Honestly, it’s the best deal we’ll get that keeps everyone alive.”

  Berthollet frowned. “And what if I do not care if they die?” he said quietly.

  “Then the next tr
ibe that comes here will set upon us. And then the next. And we’ll eventually run out of these half-starved boys you call soldiers. And then we’ll die as well,” Finch said quietly, but with steel. “Now, unless you feel like condemning us all to death today, monsieur, I’m going to accept his offer.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Finch turned back to Sheikh Karim. “Honored Sheikh, we are prepared to accept your most kind and generous offer, but I have one question. What if some ill befalls us that requires weapons whilst we are away from our men? By the grace of Allah, this will not happen, but there are sheikhs out there far less enlightened than yourself.”

  Sheikh Karim seemed all too ready with a reply. “Then you may all camp at the ruins you seek, and I will accompany you myself, murshid, to ensure your safety!” he said with a broad grin. “I have often wondered of these relics. I played amongst them as a child, and could never discern their writing.”

  Finch smiled. This had turned out better than he might have thought. “Then you are most welcome, Sheikh Karim, and may Allah keep you.” He then turned to Berthollet and switched to French. “We’re in. And the sheikh there knows the ruins well and has agreed to act as a guide.”

  Berthollet’s eyebrows rose. “A guide? He knows of the temple?”

  Finch smiled. “He knows of ruins, monsieur. I don’t think he understands their significance. Sheikh Karim will guide us to the ruins.”

  “I suppose this is the best of a bad situation,” Berthollet grumbled. “Perhaps it is better to get them to work for us than to shoot them and do the work ourselves.” With a perfunctory nod to the Sheikh, Berthollet turned and galloped back to his countrymen. Karim turned and did the same, leaving Finch there in the middle with Jabir, who had dutifully ridden with Finch into the parlay.

  “Well?” Finch asked him.

  The young man shook his head sadly. “The Sheikh thinks he’s getting hostages, and Berthollet thinks you’ve tamed the Bedouins,” Jabir said. “How long can this last, murshid?”

  Finch turned his camel around and plodded back toward the French line. “Hopefully long enough, Jabir. Find us a place to make camp between the French and the Bedouins, preferably a bit out of the way.

  “Just in case things deteriorate.”

  June 19, 2134

  Shaila smiled as she rapped on the glass on the door to sickbay. Smiling and waving, she hit the intercom button with the other hand. “How’s my favorite scientist under glass?”

  Inside, Stephane gave a half-smile, half-grimace. He was in bed, looking extremely bored, wearing standard-issue hospital wear. After reporting to Armstrong on Stephane’s taste of Enceladus, Nilssen ordered Stephane quarantined while Conti did a more detailed analysis of the particulates in the water. “Quarantine is the most boring thing ever,” he replied.

  Shaila’s smile grew broader. “Hey, at least you have access to all your Enceladus data,” she said. “Plenty to study there.”

  “Yes, but I don’t have access to you,” he grumbled.

  “Well, you have work to do anyway,” she replied. “How’s the analysis coming?”

  Stephane picked up a datapad and began tapping on it. A moment later, the glass between them filled with data points. “Everyone’s interested in the biology, but nobody’s paying attention to the geology,” he groused.

  Shaila looked over the data. While she grasped perhaps a fifth of it, tops, she understood that the geology wasn’t behaving as predicted by years of satellite survey data. The cryovolcanism had some odd patterns to it, centered along the southern pole where they landed. “Did we do this?”

  Stephane shrugged. “I don’t know. I am trying to account for every possibility, but I need more data. I should get down there again.”

  “Not until Conti clears you,” Shaila replied.

  “And where is my doctor?” he groused, folding his arms across his chest. “I have things to do!”

  Shaila knew Conti was pulling triple duty, hustling down to the moon with each load of fuel water, coming back to check on Stephane and doing data analysis in the meantime. Meanwhile, Stephane was into his fifteenth hour of a 36-hour quarantine, and by all reports, his good humor was wearing thin by the hour.

  “I just got back from a fuel run. Conti put the underwater probes in,” Shaila said. “She’s pretty excited about seeing what’s under there. Said the data will be coming back soon.”

  Stephane tossed the datapad onto the bedside table with a bit more force than was necessary. “I should be down there. Stupid! How could I be so careless?”

  “Hey now,” Shaila said. “A few months on Mars doesn’t make you an EVA pro. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “True, I have my countrymen for that,” he replied testily. “Have you seen this?”

  A new chart flashed in front of Shaila—an instant poll, showing that 52 percent of people in France were upset that Stephane opted not to be the first man on Enceladus. Probably because I’m a Brit, Shaila thought.

  “Hey, you still have 45 percent who thought it was sweet,” she said brightly. “And I did too. You really didn’t have to do that.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he agreed, which prompted Shaila to take a physical step back from the door.

  “Hey, I didn’t ask you to,” she said defensively. “That was your call, not mine.”

  Stephane glared at the door, but seeing her face, relented. “I know, I’m sorry, Shay. I’m just frustrated being in this little cage.”

  Shaila considered giving him a talking to, but opted against it. If she were stuck in medical while everyone else was exploring a brand new world, she’d be pissed too. “It’s OK,” she said. “I really did appreciate it.”

  “Like I said, you don’t always get a chance to give a woman a world,” he replied, his customary grin returning. “And as for the poll, you know us French. We will debate everything we can a million times.”

  “Yeah, I know the French all right,” she said, her smile tentatively returning. “You should get cracking on a preliminary report. Houston’s been pretty understanding, but we want you to make sense of some of the cryovolcanism before too long.”

  Stephane gave a salute from his bed. “Oui, Commander. I am on it.”

  Shaila turned and walked off, still slightly discomfited by Stephane’s outburst. They had been through a lot together over the past two years, and he almost never got snippy with her. Even when all hell was breaking loose on Mars—even when he had an 18th century pistol pointed in his face—he didn’t get pissed. Scared, sure. But angry? No.

  “How’s he doing?”

  Shaila stopped abruptly, right before she plowed into Nilssen, who looked at her with bemused concern.

  “Sir,” she said, unconsciously straightening up. “He’s cranky as hell, but he’ll be OK once he’s released. How’s the water works?”

  “On target,” the commander said. “I was just looking for you. Wanted to get a second opinion. What do you make of these?”

  Nilssen handed her a datapad. On it, there were strings of complex carbon molecules—proteins, if she remembered her organic chemistry correctly. “From the water?” she asked.

  “Yep. These readings just came in from Conti’s submersible. Pretty damn complex if you ask me.”

  She nodded and handed back the datapad. “More than anything I’ve seen,” she agreed. “You wondering where the line is?”

  He nodded. “Does this constitute life? Or do we need to find something that actually moves? I mean . . . it’s close. Damned close. Anyway, I think we need to have Conti grab some deep samples then get back up her to put ’em through their paces in the lab. If we can get that nailed down here, we’d –”

  The intercom hummed to life, interrupting the captain. “Nilssen, Jain, report to command at once.” It was Hall, who was serving as duty officer while Archie piloted the lander. Even geriatric engineers didn’t fly all the way to Saturn and not want a shot at walking on another world.

  Nilssen tapped his datapad once. “We
’re here, Liz. Report.”

  The datapad showed Hall’s face, looking creased and worried. “Houston got some signals from our Titan survey sat they wanted to show us.”

  “Show us,” the skipper ordered.

  Hall’s face disappeared, replaced with an image of the Chinese ship in orbit around Titan. Houston must’ve re-tasked the satellite to keep a close eye on the Tienlong, because the imagery was stunning. She was a very different design from Armstrong, eschewing an outward wheel in favor of an internal centrifuge for sleeping. That certainly saved on space and energy, but the crew would require a lot more gravity rehab when they got home.

  A small lander, not dissimilar to Armstrong’s own craft, pulled away from the Tienlong and, once clear, fired its engines toward Titan.

  “You think they have the same electro-mag shielding?” Shaila wondered.

  “Hard to say,” Nilssen responded. “I’ll ask Houston to keep an eye out.”

  The lander streaked toward the planet, and the satellite’s camera dutifully zoomed it on it—the onboard A.I. was pretty good. “Tracking shows the lander’s heading for a strange spot,” Hall chimed in. “Somewhere near the northern pole. Our surveys show there’s not much there. None of our target spots are within 500 kilometers.”

  “You think we missed something?” Nilssen asked her.

  “Makes me think they know something we don’t know,” she replied.

  Shaila and Nilssen traded a worried look. “Ask Houston for as much detail on that area as they have. Suggest you ask your conglom as well. Thanks for the heads up.” Nilssen cut off the comm and let out a sigh before turning back to Shaila. “God damn it. ExEn’s going to be clamoring for us to get over there ASAP. Where are we on fuel?”

  Shaila tapped a few keys on her tablet. “We’re at 18 percent. Won’t have enough for a burn to Titan for at least a day or two. Besides, we need to get Stephane down there to finish the geology survey. Tell ExEn that and they might hold off.”

  Nilssen smirked. “I’ll do my best. Tell Conti to clear him soon as she can. I stopped in on him a few hours ago and he looked like he was ready to chew through the door. That’s one pissed-off geologist.”