Ice Moon 4 Return to Enceladus

by Brandon Q Morris

  “Confirmed,” Francesca said. The Semlya was now at the bow of the freighter, which then used its engines to adjust their trajectory to the course of ILSE.

  “It is working quite well,” Marchenko said via radio. He was highly satisfied. They were zooming through space at high speed, yet it felt like practicing how to park in a garage on Earth.

  With the Semlya attached to it, the freighter was noticeably slower to respond, so they needed start the deceleration maneuver much earlier than originally planned. The comparison with a garage was not so appropriate, Marchenko realized, because the garage door the freighter was aiming for came racing from the darkness of space at many kilometers per second. Regardless, the problem could be solved—both sides had sufficient fuel and enough time.

  Marchenko could focus his attention on the conversation with Francesca, as the automatic coupling systems would agree on details without external help. There were only a few free parameters, like the fact that humans were on board, that limited the maximum acceleration. Marchenko was getting nervous—he was worried he had forgotten something important.

  “Francesca, could you check whether the freighter’s automatic system is considering that a manned capsule is attached to it?”

  “One moment,” she replied. There was silence for a minute.

  “Valentina here. We have to contact central command.”

  Out here, that was going to take a while. The signals would not go directly to Earth, but from one asteroid to the next. Eight minutes later, the answer arrived.

  “Valentina again. We have to assume the automatic system is taking the mass of the capsule into account, but not us. It is a freighter! It was never supposed to transport people.”

  “Technically speaking, it is not doing so. Can we still modify the software? Like we did with the parameters for ILSE?” Marchenko already guessed the answer, but he thought he had better ask.

  “Not now that the automatic system is already active,” responded Valentina. “Otherwise we would be flying blind for a while and would have to turn off the engines during that time.”

  That would make you go too fast, Marchenko added in his mind. Damn. Well, it is not the end of the world. At least it will not cost lives. “You should prepare for some rapid decelerations,” he said via radio.

  “We’ve already started providing some cushioning,” his girlfriend answered.

  January 31, 2049, Semlya

  Oh man, oh man. This expedition was a prime example of bad planning. Martin no longer considered Shostakovich to be such a genius—or was it par for the course that passengers always had to improvise as a part of space travel? Was it too much to ask that someone should have a complete overview of the project? He had been over there at the computer and could have easily informed the system about several humans that were piggybacking on the freighter.

  When all was said and done, maybe it was going to be fun. Anyway, you exposed yourself to high accelerations when you rode a roller coaster at a fair. But Martin was not completely at ease, since no one knew which deceleration forces the freighter would use. Perhaps all this excitement was for nothing, and at any rate, they really could not prepare for this. The crew checked whether everything was firmly attached, so loose objects would not turn into projectiles. There was also no extra padding available for their couches, and they had no clue how much time was left before the ship began seriously decelerating.

  “According to my calculations, you do not have to worry much,” he heard Marchenko’s voice through the loudspeaker. “You are approaching on an ideal intercept course. It should not reach more than 10 g. You are already moving rather slowly.”

  Well, 10 g was two and a half times what a fast roller coaster would generate, or a quarter more than what astronauts experienced during reentry into Earth’s atmosphere. It’s bearable, Martin thought, particularly if that is the maximum value.

  “I am noticing an increase in fuel flow,” Marchenko warned from afar. “The engines...”

  Martin already felt it himself. Lie down, buckle in, done. He looked around and saw they all were prepared. Then the intense pressure started. It was like a giant had flopped down on his stomach. His body was pressed deeper and deeper into the seat, as if trying to force a hole through the spaceship. Phew, he thought, and reminded himself it was all an illusion created by inertia, nothing else. The mass of his body did not like being decelerated, but the engine of the freighter won out. The pressure against his chest and stomach ceased, and he could finally take deep breaths.

  “That went well,” Marchenko said. “You experienced 6 g. The freighter was nice to you.”

  No one answered, and no one tried to get up from their seats, either. The vessel was still moving too fast, so the crew would be experiencing another deceleration phase. The automatic system obviously did not want to rely on its target object keeping a constant speed. Show some trust, automatic system, Martin thought, the ship is controlled by Marchenko who means us well.

  “Attention,” Marchenko briefly said via radio.

  It was starting again, but this time the pressure exerted by the deceleration forces was not as strong. Martin felt like he could almost breathe this time, but he could not even imagine raising his hands. He realized he could manage this reduced pressure level and endure the stress, so he just lay there and waited for it to pass. Then he heard a loud, sudden crash. He turned around in shock to see the door of the metal cabinet behind them had flown open. Small parts were falling out, but nothing looked really dangerous. But there was an ominous squeaking sound coming from the single remaining hinge that had a precarious hold on the cabinet door.

  Instantly, Martin’s mind ran some calculations: The door itself might weight five kilos, and if the ship decelerated again with 10 g, the equivalent of 50 kilos would pull against the hinge that more than likely could no longer hold the door. Then a heavy metal part would fly through the capsule against their direction of travel, and the seat right next to the cabinet was occupied by Jiaying. Shit, Martin thought. She, too, seemed to have noticed the danger and was constantly watching the spot. Maybe she was prepared to jump out of her seat in case of an emergency. Would she have enough time left to safely do this?

  It was no use—he had to use the opportunity while it was available. Right now he did not weigh 700 kilos, only 200, he estimated. Then Martin laughed, because he finally knew what a fat man must feel like. He rolled out of his seat and did not even attempt to get on his feet. Instead, he crawled slowly on all fours toward the cabinet and used his feet to push away from the seat base. It... is... so... damned... hard, he thought. Almost there. He pulled on the door, but it did not change anything. It had separated from the lower hinge, while there was still a pin in the upper one. If he managed to pull it out, the door would fall down. Get up, quick, you need to stand! he told himself.

  With all his strength he pulled himself up on the cabinet door. The sharp-edged metal corner cut into his palm. Now for the pin. It was stuck, and he had to get the door weightless, just for a moment, then... he pushed with all his strength and the pin jumped out. The door was no longer supported and he, holding onto it, had no support either. The door toppled over, Martin fell on top of it, and together they slid toward Jiaying’s seat, which stopped them. The metal door was hard and cold and angular, but he had never had such a comfortable bed as here at the feet of Jiaying, who managed to smile at him despite the 3 or 4 g.

  February 1, 2049, ILSE

  It was way past midnight when, finally, the bulkhead of ILSE opened. The crew had been required to don breathing gear and cross the icy cold interior of the freighter to access their former ship. One by one, they crossed into the tiny airlock chamber and embraced each other on the other side. Somehow Martin expected Marchenko to greet them all with outstretched arms. The image was still vivid in his mind, and Martin felt as though he really had seen the former ship’s doctor. Perhaps this unusual occurrence was an aftereffect of the enormous strain during deceleration. He
looked at his bandaged right hand. On board ILSE there would be better medical facilities—and painkillers, as Marchenko had promised him.

  Martin’s euphoria was slowly fading. The ILSE they were entering was not the same as what they had left several months ago. It would take a lot of work before they once more felt comfortable in it. The shower he was so much looking forward to would have to be postponed for a few days. For how long depended entirely upon himself because, for some reason, the others considered him the perfect candidate for repairing the WHCs. Martin had not yet entered the habitat ring, but Marchenko warned him that water containers —particularly the wastewater containers—had burst due to the intense cold. He asked Marchenko to cool down the habitat ring to zero degrees so the stench would not be quite so unbearable.

  They would all have to sleep in the command module until Martin finished the repairs. No matter, this was still better than the capsule because they had more space. Amy was currently reactivating the equipment with the aid of Marchenko, while Jiaying led Valentina through the ship and discussed the order in which necessary repairs should be performed. Martin retreated into the workshop. He sorted the tools and prepared a toolkit for the next few days. What would he need as the temporary plumber? He asked for suggestions from Marchenko, who knew what needed to be fixed.

  “How was it out there on the asteroid?” asked Martin.

  “Well, there were one or two obstacles, but no real problem.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean—same with us.”

  “Good.”

  For a while there was silence.

  “I met someone,” Marchenko then said.

  “Oh—another woman?”

  “No, an AI… Watson, you know.”

  “Sure. I wondered where Watson was,” Martin said.

  “The AI changed. I have not reactivated him yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Marchenko told of his long conversation with Watson. Martin shuddered, knowing if what Marchenko shared with him was true, everything would change. Undeniably, Watson seemed to have developed beyond his programming. From a technical perspective this was enormously fascinating.

  “It had to happen eventually,” Martin said. “Many people predicted it would happen well before now.”

  “Do you think it is... infectious?”

  “If I look at Watson’s story—he experienced much more than any other AI. He survived hopeless situations, faced death several times, and was in contact with the Enceladus creature. You cannot simply apply this to other artificial intelligences. We tried for so long to transfer human experiences to AIs and it never worked.”

  “So each AI would have to find its own way, as Watson did?”

  “I hope so, Marchenko, otherwise chaos would break out on Earth.”

  “If we reactivate him, we should not let him communicate with Earth.”

  “Or we should talk to him and convince him it would be better for all of us.”

  “Can we really trust an AI?”

  “Can we trust you, Dimitri?”

  Martin was alone in the workshop. He had asked Marchenko for some time to think. He really needed to sort out what was going through his mind. At the moment, he wondered whether Watson was a danger. His thoughts were swirling around, looking at the issue from different perspectives. Martin would come to one conclusion or the other, then be dissatisfied and start all over again. Actually, the question was not that relevant as yet—Watson was still switched off—and it would be better to focus on the repairs that needed to be done.

  He sighed. Right, the WHCs. It would be great to finally take showers again. The warm spray of water would also help wash away unpleasant thoughts. He opened a hatch in the floor and took out a thick overall. This item of clothing was intended for working in particularly polluted environments, such as the storage rooms that normally were not pressurized. It protected against cold, water, and injuries—just the right thing for his job as a plumber. Then he packed some spare sheet metal and a glue gun. The special glue provided super-strong connections, even better than welding. Pliers, monkey wrench, shears, hacksaw… what else did he need? Oh—the hammer. ‘Never leave home without a hammer,’ his father used to say. Martin pulled the overall’s zipper all the way upward. The outfit also had a hood and a mouth protector, and Martin was afraid he would need both of them. Then he grabbed the tool bag and walked toward the giant ‘hamster wheel.’

  It did not make a difference where he started. The habitat ring was divided into four segments. Three of them had two cabins each, and a utility closet and one WHC. The fourth segment contained storage rooms and the exercise area. He would have to repair at least two toilets so they could move back into their cabins. Amy, Francesca, and Valentina could have private rooms, and he could share a room with Jiaying, so for now two segments would suffice.

  The habitat ring turned very slowly. This meant the gravity was near zero, so Martin could easily handle the heavy tool bag. He floated upward through one of the spokes.

  It took him a moment to find his bearings after he had reached the ring. The segments were identically structured, and he had forgotten the small modifications they’d made to make them personal. So he simply opened a cabin door. He immediately saw a photo of Marchenko on the wall, so this had to be Francesca’s former cabin. She would be glad to be the first one to move back in. The cabin next to it, which used to be Marchenko’s, could be given to Valentina. On the walls and the ceiling of the corridor he saw irregular dark spots. Were those fungi? They had to be fresh, since they could have hardly survived the vacuum on board.

  Martin turned around. The WHC was opposite the two cabins. He opened the door and immediately noticed a disgusting stench. Martin firmly pinched his nose, but in spite of it he almost vomited, sorry now that he had eaten breakfast. Just relax. You’ll get used to it. He tried to make his breathing as shallow as possible. You know, when you were a kid the air in the pigsty didn’t bother you. Martin looked around—the WHC really did not look that bad. The diagnostic system indicated that the burst wastewater container was located behind one of the wall panels. He had to loosen the four nuts holding it in place, and then he would see what shape the container was in.

  Martin knelt down and began working. The stench mercifully seemed to decrease, and he silently thanked his nervous system for adapting to the inevitable. He loosened the panel. It was dark behind it, so he aimed a flashlight in that direction and could clearly see the crack in the wastewater container. However, was that the only one? Martin squatted right in front of it. He felt queasy again when his nose got too close to the source of the stench. He felt the container, all around the sides and the rear, but he noticed no other cracks.

  He took the drill from his tool bag and drilled a hole with a diameter of one centimeter into the container, slightly above the crack. Then he inserted the metal shears into the hole and cut out the torn area. He needed to make a clean cut, since otherwise the crack might expand under pressure. When he reached an area below the damaged spot, brown sludge ran over his fingers. Thoroughly disgusted, he jerked involuntarily. Get hold of yourself! He had almost cut in the wrong direction. The metal shears would probably cut right through his glove and fingers.

  Now the wastewater container sported an oval hole, 30 centimeters long and ten centimeters wide. He closed it with a piece of special sheet metal designed for this kind of repair. On its back it had a coating that combined with the glue in his glue gun. Just like a repair-kit for a bicycle tire, he remembered. He used the glue gun to squirt a slightly larger oval around the hole and then he pressed the sheet metal against it. He had to maintain pressure with it in place for 60 seconds until the chemical reaction was over. Finished!

  “Marchenko, please activate WHC 2—carefully!”

  As WHC 2 was being reactivated, there was a gurgling sound in the pipes around Martin. He took off his gloves and touched the repaired area. He could not feel any moisture, though now he had a greasy brown film on
his fingers. He wiped them on his overall. He would have liked to have started cleaning the place right away, but in zero gravity this would only redistribute the dirt. It was more practical to wait until everything moved downward.

  He almost forgot something. Below the toilet seat there was a kind of cabinet with a red cross printed on it. He hoped the sludge had not run in there. Martin opened the door and found it was surprisingly clean. That was lucky! A first aid kit was attached on the left side. Martin checked it, since one never knew when it would be needed. He decided to take it out. Everything on the kit was labeled in Russian. He looked at the expiration date: December 2040. Someone must have saved a few rubles when ILSE was equipped. On the other hand—do bandages ever go bad?

  He opened the kit, and everything appeared clean and orderly. Large and small scissors, various adhesive bandages and gauze, but also different ointments and medications. Talcum powder—what would you need that for? Oh, maybe for the rubber gloves. There was also a scalpel and a small sawing device in the first aid kit. Martin imagined performing an emergency amputation. At the bottom of the kit he found various chemicals, probably to be used as disinfectants: Alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, and potassium permanganate, which he recognized by the chemical formulas on the bottles. One of the bottles sported a word in Cyrillic letters which seemed to read Eter—probably ether. Well, then at least his victim would be unconscious during the operation.

  Now, time for the next segment. He closed the cabinet, left the WHC, and spontaneously walked to his right.

  “Marchenko, please open segment 3 for me.”

  The bulkhead door that blocked the way started to open. First one on the left—that must be his own former cabin. He opened the door, and everything was unchanged. The bed was as rumpled as he had left it. He almost thought he could see the imprint of Jiaying’s body on the narrow mattress, but that was impossible.