The Titan Probe

by Morris, Brandon Q.

  Marchenko shook his head.

  “For a long time I thought I was everything,” the image of Devendra began. “Then I had a short phase, only a few million years of your time, when I assumed I was nothing. Today I believe I am something. This is the summary of my seven ages. I hope to be able to explain the whole story to you sometime. Right now, though, I lack the words for it, or to be precise, you lack them.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I do not know. How old are you?”

  “In terrestrial years, 62,” Marchenko replied.

  “Are you sure? A few of the billions of molecules you consist of seem familiar to me. What you are made of is older than the solar system.”

  Marchenko fell silent and then said, “One could look at it that way, yes. Are you alone?”

  The pseudo-Devendra said, “I'm not sure what you mean by that. On this moon I was the only form of consciousness until your group arrived. But half a million years ago I found out I have a brother on Titan. As you can imagine, this plunged me into a profound crisis.”

  “A brother?”

  “Not in the human sense, of course. You do not have a word for it. We do not have parents in common. Your fellow astronauts have probably already met my brother. He is still young, tempestuous, and stupid. He had a harder time in his... youth. I just recently began communicating with him. It is difficult, much more complicated than communicating with you.”

  "What happened to my colleagues on Titan?" Marchenko asked.

  “Do not worry, they are fine.”

  “And otherwise?”

  “On Io there is something of which I have been fearful for a very long time. It radiates something you would call hatred, rage. And a moment ago I received the first radio waves from your planet. It became clear to me something must have happened there. I was still thinking about it when your group arrived. You are a remarkably quick species.”

  For a while, neither said anything.

  Marchenko had so many questions to ask this man, but he could not formulate them, not now. They appeared so meaningless to him, so human and so tiny. The being he was facing was much more advanced than he was.

  “No,” the entity said. “You overestimate me, just as I initially underestimated your group. This might be my fault, as I selected your memories of the church. But I am not God. I am neither omnipotent nor omniscient.”

  “Too bad,” Marchenko replied. “Otherwise you might have helped me return to my crew.”

  “We can talk about that later,” the pseudo-Devendra said. “But do not get your hopes up. It will not work quite the way you would imagine. In the meantime, you can move around here freely. I have set up this area to suit your requirements.”

  “Just where am I? Where is 'here?'”

  “You are inside my consciousness, but you have to admit you knew that the whole time.”

  “Not completely. It could also have been in my own consciousness.”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  January 8, 2047, Enceladus

  It was the third of the seven nights that the crew had earlier agreed upon. The previous evening Martin had been pushed into his first open fight with Hayato. Up until last night, Martin had always believed such a conflict between the Japanese astronaut and himself was impossible. Yet when you were cramped together with two others, within the confines of a small module, a harmless quirk could soon became a flashpoint. Hayato seemed to brush his teeth every three hours or so, even during the night. He did not seem to care if he might wake the others while doing so.

  Hayato slept like a log, but Martin was easily startled by any noise. Yesterday he could not stand it anymore and had given his friend a piece of his mind, until Francesca had intervened and broken up the fight. Hayato had agreed to extend the minimum period between brushings to four hours—if, he had stipulated, Martin was asleep. The whole situation was silly, of course, but then they really didn’t have anything to do while waiting for the appearance—or non-appearance—of Marchenko.

  By now, Martin was annoyed with himself for mentioning his dream to the other crew members, since, had he not, they would have already been on their way back home. Even Francesca seemed to realize it was useless to wait around. Twice during the past 72 hours or so she had again asked Amy for permission to start constructing her own Enceladus base. However, the commander always rejected the request, even as mere busy work.

  So far Marchenko had not appeared in his dreams again, so he must be long dead by now. However, no one aboard dared to say this directly to Francesca. Martin considered the behavior cruel. How could they wake the pilot from her fantasy? But then, she had probably already realized Marchenko was lost, and only wanted to punish herself with her stubbornness.

  Two hours later Amy radioed again from ILSE.

  “I’ve got something for you,” she said. “Our radar is measuring increased activity from the Tiger Stripe.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If we knew, Martin, I might not be calling. Just go there and check it out. Perhaps it is a tidal maximum.”

  “It is still a while before we reach the point of greatest distance to Saturn.”

  “Yes, it is strange, and that is why I’m asking you to check on it.”

  “Okay, boss, we are on our way. Neumaier, over.”

  It is probably just something for us to do, intended to relieve our boredom, Martin thought. Well, a little walk doesn't sound too bad, I guess. Since all three of them wanted to go, but one crew member needed to remain in the lander, they drew lots. Hayato lost. At least now he can brush his teeth as often as he wants, Martin thought with a silent giggle.

  Once outside the module, Francesca seemed to gain new energy from the activity, moving ahead of Martin in long leaps. Where did all of her strength come from? Martin suspected his muscles had shrunk slightly in the few days inside the lander.

  “Careful at the crevasses,” he warned her via the helmet radio. Francesca did not answer.

  “I am already there,” he heard her say 45 minutes later. He still had a quarter of an hour to go before catching up with her.

  “So, is there anything there?” he asked her by radio. “Or should I turn around already?”

  “Yes, come. And hurry up,” she replied, and Martin knew right away something must have happened. “The water in the hole is bubbling.”

  Were the geysers about to erupt? Then Francesca had better be careful. During an eruption, the water shot out with a velocity that could carry her out of the orbit of Enceladus—and then only ILSE could rescue her.

  “Francesca, just stay away from the surface of the water,” he warned her.

  “I am not stupid—what do you think?”

  She was right. Up to now he had never seen her take foolish risks. According to Martin’s standards, she had already risked more than necessary, but she couldn’t be called suicidal.

  “How strange, Francesca. The Tiger Stripe which Valkyrie came through was considered inactive, wasn’t it?”

  “'Considered inactive,' yes—at least no geyser eruptions had been observed there. Remember, though, when you and I sat in Valkyrie, the water pressure from below still gave us quite a push.”

  Yes, he remembered. The water pressure had even allowed them to recharge the batteries, which had ultimately saved their lives. But what did this new activity mean? Was something happening near the rift? Now Martin hurried to catch up with the pilot.

  Francesca stood about one meter away from the edge of the hole. She was correct in her observation—the water was bubbling and churning as if it was extremely hot.

  “Did you already measure the temperature?” he puffed, almost breathless.

  Francesca quickly gave Martin a scornful look. “Neumaier, do you really think I just stand around doing nothing?”

  “Of course not. And?”

  “The water is not particularly hot. I think what is happening here is ammonia outgassing.”

  “This much? I can
not imagine it. Too bad we do not have a spectrometer with us.”

  “I could dive down a bit and look around.”

  “You don’t really mean to do that, do you?” Of course she meant exactly that, Martin thought.

  Francesca laughed at Martin’s reaction. “I do, but then you would be left up here alone, and I could not be responsible for that.”

  No matter what is going to happen, she is still full of life, he thought, and he was happy about it. Yes, all this activity seemed to be doing her some good. Martin looked around. He saw a black sky, Saturn above the horizon, ice everywhere, a landscape still hostile to life. During his first visit here he had been fascinated by it, but then again, he had also considered the Nevada desert very exciting. Yet he would never consider settling down here for years, as Francesca was eager to do.

  Francesca nudged him, so he returned his attention to the waterhole,.

  “What is it?” he asked, but then he already saw it. The water was bubbling much more than before. I am sure this indicates a geyser eruption!

  “We should step back a bit,” he said.

  Francesca shook her head. “This won’t be an eruption—I can feel it in my bones. Just wait.”

  She was crazy! Martin wouldn’t be able to convince her otherwise, but he did not have to expose himself to danger by standing next to her. With two jumps he moved back fifteen meters to safety.

  “MARTIIIIN! YAAAAAYYYY!” he suddenly heard her scream.

  He was startled. What is wrong with Francesca?

  He saw it himself—the surface of the water was divided by something one might initially mistake for the black hump of a whale, though it was made of steel. Valkyrie was back! It bobbed back and forth in the hole a bit, as if nothing had happened. At first, Francesca was ecstatic with joy, but then she froze in silence. Martin recognized the reason—the hatch of the emergency exit was open. It must have already been open when Valkyrie surfaced.

  “Neumaier to ILSE, come in.”

  Martin told the commander what had just happened. He saw Francesca briefly bend her knees, and then she jumped—straight to the center of the hole and landing exactly on the top of Valkyrie.

  “Just a moment, Amy, I have to follow Francesca,” Martin said excitedly into the microphone. “Hey, wait,” he called after Francesca. The pilot was already starting to let herself down into the emergency exit. Who knows what she is going to find there? Martin suddenly had a bad premonition. He definitely did not want to leave her alone in the vessel.

  “Watch out, I am activating the bilge pumps,” Francesca said.

  Martin was just entering the vessel, and he let himself sink to the floor. There was a humming noise, and then the pumps turned on and soon began pumping the water outside. Martin looked around the interior. The floor was covered with a thin layer of something he assumed was mud—and not only the floor, but it was also on all the walls and instruments. They would have to clean everything off with a pressure hose. Where did this stuff come from? What has Marchenko done to Valkyrie to have it surface in such a condition? thought Martin.

  “Have you found anything yet?” He hoped Francesca would answer ‘No,’ but instead she said nothing at all. At least it appeared she had not discovered Marchenko’s corpse. Martin was sure he would have noticed her reaction, but even after ten minutes he had heard nothing from her. The vessel was already half emptied of water when he caught up to her. Together they looked through every remaining nook and cranny but found no trace of Marchenko. Valkyrie’s batteries still had a 50 percent charge. There also seemed to be enough oxygen in its tanks to fill the vessel completely. It was wasteful, since they would have to leave again soon, yet they nodded to each other, closed the emergency hatch, and had the vessel create an atmosphere again. It always felt good to get out of their EMUs.

  Ten minutes later they had managed to peel off their suits. There was a sour smell. Apart from the slime everywhere, they did not notice anything unusual. Marchenko had left no obvious traces.

  Martin hoped the computer could tell them more. The log must have saved the course Marchenko had taken. Preoccupied, Francesca turned on the device with anxious movements. Martin did not dare to speak to her. He could imagine how her hope for Marchenko’s survival had grown when Valkyrie appeared, only to have her hopes now plunge into a bottomless abyss. He felt sorry for her, but he did not know what to say.

  The computer reported it was ready to receive commands, and Francesca stared at the monitor. Martin could not make out what she was seeing. She quickly pressed a key, then pressed it again, probably because nothing was happening. Then her eyes darted back and forth.

  “It is... a message from Marchenko,” she said in a flat voice, her eyes filling with tears. Martin already suspected it wasn’t a greeting, but a farewell message to her. Francesca abruptly turned around and fled into a corner of the room, covering her face with her hands. Martin followed her and placed a hand on her shoulder. The pilot was sobbing quietly.

  She slowly turned around and started back to the computer. He got there first and tried to close the message without looking at its content. This was none of his business. He had only seen “Dear Francesca” before the file was closed. What did Marchenko experience during his last hours? Why were there no signs of him anymore? If anyone knew, it would be the AI of Valkyrie. When the control computer booted up, the AI had not automatically activated, as was customary.

  Marchenko had probably turned it off to save electricity, since it required the quantum computer module that consumed a lot of energy. Martin started it via a keyboard shortcut of five unique keystrokes. A sound confirmed he had pressed the correct keys in the correct order. It took a minute and a half before the quantum computer was ready for use, and it needed to be cooled down to low temperatures. A timer on the screen counted down the seconds. Three, two, one, zero, Martin counted along silently.

  “Hello, my friends!”

  Martin immediately recognized the voice. It was definitely Marchenko’s!

  “I so hope you missed me.”

  Francesca spun around and glared at Martin. Did she assume he was playing a mean trick on her? Martin vehemently shook his head. It was not his fault the AI suddenly spoke with Marchenko’s voice.

  “Come on, please say something. I still do not have a connection to your vital signs.”

  “Di... Dimitri?” Francesca’s tone of voice still expressed more doubt than hope.

  “You do not call me Mitya anymore? Yes, it is me. It is really me.”

  “But how did you get...” she asked, stunned.

  “It is a long story. I am looking forward to telling you the details. But now is not the right moment for this.”

  Martin was fascinated by the question of what was happening inside the computer right now. Did someone reprogram Watson? Were they facing an artificial intelligence that imitated Marchenko and spoke with his voice? Or was this really... Marchenko himself?

  “May I ask who you are?”

  “Certainly, Martin. I can imagine you being particularly interested in this question. The short answer is, 'I am I.' I do not know exactly what I am. I have Watson’s abilities, but my own memories and personality, as far as I can tell. And, Francesca, I also have my feelings. So what am I then? You tell me.”

  Martin remained silent because he did not know the answer either. Maybe all of this was only an enormous trick? The Watson AI was incredibly powerful, as he knew, and they had only used a small part of its capacity. What if it had decided to comfort Francesca by pretending to be Marchenko? Martin looked at the pilot. She seemed to be struggling with whether or not to trust his voice. Was there any way of proving such a deception? Martin decided not to say anything about his suspicions, as long as he lacked any evidence to the contrary.

  “Dmitri, I... think it is great you found a way back,” Francesca said. She stood there, upright and determined. This was typical for her. At the same time, Martin felt she did not completely trust the voice. Her tho
ughts must have been similar to his.

  Did she have more methods than he for uncovering a deception? All the pillow talk between her and Marchenko, every mole on her body and his, every secret these two people had shared might have been recorded by the on-board AI. On a spaceship there could not and must not be any true privacy, since this might endanger the mission, which, of course must always be the priority.

  “Mitya, darling, a few weeks ago you wrote something in my diary. With the pen my mother had given to me.”

  This is clever, Martin thought. He did not know the pilot was keeping an old-fashioned paper diary. The on-board AI was nearly omniscient, but the resolution of the security cameras was too low to decipher handwriting on paper unless the sheet was directly in front of a lens. In all likelihood, none of the engineers would have imagined someone would get the old-fashioned idea to put a pen to paper to write things down.

  “Yes,” Marchenko said, “I remember. I do not want to repeat the sentence in front of Martin, since it is our secret, but if you walk over to the computer I will show it briefly on the screen.”

  Fantastic, Martin thought. It is working. If the AI really saved the memories of the Russian... well, then it will not be long until the A in front of the I loses its meaning.

  Francesca slowly approached the monitor. She appeared to be just as excited as Martin was. But there was also fear in her expression—fear of being disappointed again. Martin was wondering how she could stand all of this anyway. She had to be really, really strong. He almost envied Marchenko.

  The pilot reached the monitor screen. Martin turned his back so he could not see anything. He held his breath, and then he heard Francesca cry aloud.

  “Oh! You are back!” she exclaimed. Martin turned toward Francesca and took her in his arms.

  “Sure,” Marchenko said. “And you cannot imagine how happy I am.”

  For a whole minute, the two astronauts just stood there. Tears were streaming down Francesca’s face, while Martin wondered what this would mean for AI research. Marchenko had found a way of transferring his consciousness into the computer! This was an old dream of many futurologists, a nightmare for others.