On the Shores of Titan's Farthest Sea

by Michael Carroll

  Stanley turned to Tanya and waved at the corner of the little cab. “Over there, all for you.”

  “Just like Christmas,” Tanya said, scooping up several sealed cylinders. “Should I bring swimsuits next time?”

  “Let’s hope.” Tanya hoped so, too. Titan’s deep internal ocean, sequestered from the surface by 60 miles of ice mantle, had much to tell. This global sea was thought to be a sort of cap on the storehouse of Titan’s methane. If its water was seeded with ammonia, the water might be fluid enough to migrate toward the surface, freeing pockets of methane trapped within the ice crust. And if the water was in direct contact with the rocky core, at least in some places, the minerals of life might be mixing with the currents. But since the days of the old Cassini Saturn and LeVerrier Saturn/Neptune flagship missions, researchers had to settle for gravity maps to plumb Titan’s depths. Now, just perhaps, Tanya’s colleagues would be able to touch it directly.

  “Nice to meet you, Dr. Major,” Tanya said, juggling the cylinders through the door. Tanya made her way back down the slick slope, preoccupied not with Titan’s ocean but with the good Dr. Major. A paleontologist? Was she hired on April First? It seemed reasonable to search for fossils in rock, but in ice? Tanya stepped gingerly into her boat, wondering how a paleontologist could get to the front of that long queue of esteemed scientists wanting a stab at Titan’s deep ocean.

  © Springer International Publishing Switzerland 2015

  Michael CarrollOn the Shores of Titan's Farthest SeaScience and Fiction10.1007/978-3-319-17759-5_14

  14. Partly Cloudy

  Michael Carroll1

  (1)Littleton, CO, USA

  The trip to New Tucson by airvan lasted barely an hour, but the summons annoyed Jeremy Belton anyway. Why couldn’t Director Rao just phone? It was obviously something important, but this was a bit dramatic. And as always, Abby’s call came at the worst possible moment. He would have to deal with it, whatever it was, on his return home. In these days of long light-time communication, one had to learn to wait.

  Belton’s van had passed over Noctis Labyrinthus half an hour ago. Ahead, New Tucson spread across the dark lowlands of Solis Planum like a white spider web on rusted charcoal. He punched in the coordinates for headquarters and leaned back in his seat, trying to relax. In a few minutes, he stood in the open doorway of Sanjay Rao’s office. A cloud of blue vapor wafted around his desk.

  Belton stepped in. “Are you actually smoking?”

  Rao pointed an old-fashioned pseudocigar past Belton, toward the door. “It’s not actual smoke. Close that thing, will ya? I only do this when I’m desperately depressed. I had Alice disable the fire suppression lasers in here.”

  “That explains it.” Belton eyed the ceiling suspiciously. “What’s got you so depressed, Sanjay?”

  “Demian Sable. Sit.”

  “He is a depressing character.”

  “He’s a missing character.”

  “Missing?”

  Rao nodded.

  “I thought he was sitting pretty at inescapable Morrow.”

  Rao nodded again. “And the Titanic was unsinkable.”

  Belton suppressed a small cough. “So what happened?”

  “The operation was done professionally, using sophisticated techniques, some only available—legally—to the military. Morrow has complicated layers of outer security he had to get through. The place is like an onion. He should have been secure anywhere in campus. Exit requires biokeys, electronic passkeys, software passwords, you know the drill.”

  “He obviously had help,” Belton said.

  Rao frowned. “Obviously. But from whom?”

  “Are you kidding? Sable’s got an army of followers on two planets and half a dozen moons and asteroids. Quite a few are tech savvy.”

  “Or is it ‘from who’?” Rao was still thinking about his grammar. He focused. “Yeah, and those are the ones we’re looking into now. I figure you’ve got a built-in background for tracking down some of the thugs from Sable’s past. Maybe start with former Ishtar members.”

  “I assume you guys have been keeping track of them since we disbanded their happy little group?”

  “You know terrorists. Disband them here, they pop up somewhere else.”

  “But you have been watching, yes?”

  Rao blew a small wave of fog into the room. “Not us, specifically, but your friends at the Triplanet Bureau of Investigations have. I presume you still know the way?”

  “You know what happens when you presume. You make a pre out of zu and me.”

  Rao looked momentarily baffled, but Belton continued. “I’m sure somebody there still remembers me, fondly…or not.”

  Rao brought up a video loop on the table monitor and cleared his throat dramatically. “To continue: No human eyes or robot software noticed the little glitch in the closed-circuit monitors. There were no witnesses to see the one man come in, and the other one leave. One moment, Demian Sable was reading contemplatively in his cell, the next he had vanished. Poof! And somebody looking just like him was out cold on the floor of the mess hall.”

  It was Belton’s turn to nod. “Nicely done.”

  “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “I appreciate good technology.”

  “Then you’ll appreciate this.” Rao tapped the table surface and brought up a photo of the man in Sable’s cell. “Here’s whose face came out when that DNA mash finally settled down.”

  “Hey, I remember that guy. Danny Kendrow.”

  “Yeah, speaking of Ishtar.”

  “Right. Bad apple.” Belton struggled to remember. “Conspiracy. Arson. Assorted other tidbits. Associations with the mob out on…Europa, was it?”

  “Callisto. Close enough.” Rao stabbed his cigar through the air at Belton. “Jeremy, I need you on this case because you’ve already done the legwork. You know Sable and his illustrious network.”

  “His network on Mars,” Belton cut in. “But I understand he’s been spreading his wings.”

  “You’ve had professional dealings with Kendrow and a few others who must be in on this little escapade.” He lowered his voice. “And look, Jeremy, you are outside of the official organization these days, which makes you invaluable to me for extracurricular activities, if you get my drift. This thing’s going to be all over the news in a gnat’s burp. I can just see it: Spiritual guru-turned-criminal escapes max-security facility on Mars. The department’s going to make the Marx brothers look competent.”

  “This is bad,” Belton agreed. “Sable’s certifiable, and the guy has delusions of grandeur. I’m afraid if he gets his hands on a few good resources—”

  “Like he did last time,” Sanjay reminded him. They let the thought linger in the blue air.

  Belton sneezed. He glared at Rao’s polluting stogie. “That thing is going to kill us both.”

  A claxon sounded. Light flashed from the ceiling. An incandescent beam cut across the room and popped the cigar from Rao’s hand.

  “Geez!” he whined, rubbing a freeze blister on his thumb. “Alice!” he hollered toward the door. Turning his attention to his thumb, he whined, “Thought she turned that thing off.”

  “I feel safer already. Okay, Sanjay, I’m in. But you owe me some kind of seriously fancy dinner or something when we get done.”

  “Yes, I do. Read these files and dive in. I’ll try to get you anything you need. Sable is on his way somewhere, with a good head start, and you can bet he’s not waiting around for us to find him.”

  © Springer International Publishing Switzerland 2015

  Michael CarrollOn the Shores of Titan's Farthest SeaScience and Fiction10.1007/978-3-319-17759-5_15

  15. Encounter II

  Michael Carroll1

  (1)Littleton, CO, USA

  “It definitely isn’t the kind of ship most pirates are using these days. It’s…fast. Fancy and expensive, from the looks of it.” The ship’s Second squinted into a lens. He flicked a switch. The image appeared on the ma
in screen. “And that cargo transport next to it looks crippled. Like it’s being—”

  “Towed.” The Captain finished the sentence for him. He sauntered around the control room, his hands clenched together at the small of his back. “It’s darned irregular. Makes me nervous. This would be our second time this year.”

  “It may be perfectly innocent,” his Second said.

  The Captain paused, frowning. He plopped into his chair next to a touchscreen, and tapped a button. “And chickens have lips.” A klaxon sounded. “General quarters. General quarters,” a recorded voice intoned calmly.

  “Break out the firearms, Bill.”

  “Great,” the Second said.

  The Captain hit the communications tab again. “Cruiser to our stern, this is transport vessel JJA-42 out of Phobos/Stickney. Our ship is unarmed. We are a supply ship only. Are you in need of assistance? Please respond.”

  The static sounded more ominous than any threat the silent ship could have radioed to them. The mute cruiser continued to gain on them.

  The Second traipsed back into the control room and lay a pulse weapon across the Captain’s lap. “You know, if it is a bunch of those ‘buccaneers of the void,’ these will just make them mad.”

  “If we get the chance, we’ll defend ourselves.” A jolt rocked the ship. The Second fell to the floor, explaining with a few very short words how he felt about the situation.

  The screen blinked. A tall, slight man materialized in the viewer. He looked more like an accountant than a privateer. He also looked like he meant business.

  “I see you’ve pulled out a few pulse weapons. Let’s play nice. We need you to leave those behind, open your cargo bay doors, and take the entire crew—except for the Captain, of course—to the galley. If we see anyone but you, Jorgensen, we’ll kill them on sight. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, it is,” the Captain said. He wondered how they had found out his name. If they knew that much, they must have done their homework on the ship’s layout, too.

  “Your crew has three minutes before we board, Captain. You have that long to meet me at airlock number two. I assume you know the way. I do.”

  “How do they know all this stuff?” the Second grimaced.

  “Bill, just get everybody down to the galley.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Open the cargo bay doors, of course.”

  (*)

  The entire crew sat at tables, quietly. Someone had broken out the coffee and hot chocolate, but the few takers sipped their drinks lackadaisically, worry furrowing their brows. For his part, Bill couldn’t sit. He paced back and forth, pausing with each pass of the hatch to listen. He heard no gunfire, but he did hear the machinery cycling the air in the airlocks and the cargo bays. Below decks lay a treasure trove from Asteroid 21 Lutetia: rare metals, gold, copper, and a host of minerals to make life on Earth—and throughout the Solar System—easier. And the crew a lot richer. It made him want to cry.

  The wall speaker came to life. “Bill, are you all down there?”

  The Second lunged for the speaker button. “Yeah. You okay?”

  “Fine. Our unwanted guests are gone, along with most of our cargo. I need everybody back to work. We need to take inventory. Bill, up to the Comm.”

  “Yessir,” the Second said, a slight quaver of relief in his voice.

  The crew filed out, expounding various theories about what had transpired and when they might hear the details. The Second stepped into the control center as the Captain took his station. “You okay?”

  Jorgensen nodded. “Yeah, just a bit shaken up.” He took in a deep breath and hissed it out, letting his shoulders relax. “Well, that was refreshing.”

  “What?” the Second said, perplexed.

  “No gunfire, for a change.”

  “Oh.”

  Another jolt shoved the ship to one side. Bill was on the floor again, and Captain Jorgensen watched his main antenna sail by, blown off by a missile. So much for calling home any time soon.

  © Springer International Publishing Switzerland 2015

  Michael CarrollOn the Shores of Titan's Farthest SeaScience and Fiction10.1007/978-3-319-17759-5_16

  16. Lose/Lose

  Michael Carroll1

  (1)Littleton, CO, USA

  There was a nice little porthole at the hab junction on the west end where you could sit and look out on the shoreline of Kraken Mare and watch the distant waves, if the day had enough wind to kick them high enough to see. In Titan’s 1/7g, it took only a slight breeze. The dunes were right out of one of those Edward Hopper seascapes of an Atlantic-coast lighthouse, sans the grasses and weathered fences. Sometimes Abby fantasized sneaking out to put up a wooden fence just to make the place look a bit more like home. Even without one, the view was hard to beat. The dramatically sullen sky above bloodied the swells in reflections of ruby and ochre, and on clear days Saturn cast a shimmering golden column down the ripples to the beach below. Those ripples surged in slow motion under Titan’s low gravity. On days when the fog cleared, Mayda Insula rose from the surf like Ahab’s great whale. It was like that today, beautiful and lonely. Today was one of those days when she felt every mile of the millions between her and home. What she wouldn’t do for some homemade spaghetti.

  Tanya’s voice came from behind, breaking Titan’s moody spell. “Why are you not out there digging for old artifacts?”

  “Hard to find any ancient civilizations on this ice ball.”

  “I suppose,” she said, sitting down on the floor across from her. “So why did you not follow in your parents’ footsteps? Archaeology is in Marco genes, yes? I would think it’s hard not to be, with all the fame they got.”

  “Fame?”

  “They were famous?”

  “I suppose they were,” she said quietly, still watching the tide come in.

  “Was difficult for you?”

  “What? Having famous parents?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They weren’t that famous. I suppose they were more famous when they died.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “That’s okay. Ancient history. Which is just what you were talking about. But no, I was never that interested in dead cultures. I was more interested in the weather.”

  “People say it is safe subject. For conversation. Like parties.”

  “That it is,” Abby smiled.

  “Well, you got plenty here. Maybe you could go visit that new planet they are seeing at Proxima Centauri. Earth weather there, yes?”

  “Last I checked, nobody was volunteering to go on a 60-year one-way trip. Sounds like something for my granddaughter, unless she turns out to be a lawyer or engineer or something.”

  Tanya looked like she was executing some kind of higher math equation. “To have granddaughter, you need daughter. Or son. To have those, you probably need boyfriend. Or husband. Or sperm bank. Or some kind of plans. You have plans?”

  Abby looked at her hands in her lap. She thought about how many times she had dodged the bullet. There had been men who would have loved to share in a relationship, make babies with her, and even to settle down. But it was never the right time. She had her thesis, or travel, or a crisis at home. She had to bail her sister out of that abusive relationship on Prometheus, of all places. The little ring shepherd probably had thirty people at a time on it, and there was Janice, doing her art thing, studying Saturn’s rings, along with the personal habits of one of the staff at the outpost there. Abby had to go help her little sister, didn’t she? Or maybe she was never in the right place, physically or emotionally. “No plans. Not like that. Just plans to get famous and smart and give the world some knowledge it can use. How about you?”

  “Wait, wait, not done with you yet. See? Your plans again, with all work and no people.” Tanya reached across the floor and patted Abby’s foot. Abby looked back out the window as Tanya told her, “But you are fun girl, Anya. You are loveable girl. Special person. Many men would love to be yo
ur boyfriend. They all like you, too. Troy is funny boy. And Piers? Have you seen him look? I have. He is nice boy. And clever.”

  Abby turned to look at Tanya. “Are you trying to get me hitched, a billion miles from home?”

  “They say Russians are best matchmakers.”

  “You know what Agatha Christie’s advice to women was about marriage?”

  “British mystery writer? What?”

  “She said to marry an archaeologist. That way, the older you get, the more interested he’ll be.”

  Tanya laughed. It was a natural laugh, not forced or artificial. Tanya reminded Abby of a carefree schoolgirl, ready to discover the world before her. She put Abby at ease.

  “Funny thing is, it worked for my parents. They were madly in love until the last.” Abby fell into her own thoughts.

  Tanya said, “Not many people can say those thing. True love. Nice idea, but…”

  “You don’t think it’s possible?”

  “I guess I just haven’t seen that. Or when I did see, I didn’t recognize.”

  Abby heard sadness in her voice. Or was it regret? “You lost someone?”

  “I lost opportunity. He wants me, I think. I want my career. It does not have to be either/or, I suppose, but that is how it panned in. Looking back, maybe I could have played things other way.” She offered a weak laugh. “There, did you hear what I just said? ‘Play things.’ That was part of problem, right there. He said everything was game to me. Strategy. Planning ahead with my agenda.”

  “Was he right? I mean, you do strike me as a planner.”

  Tanya shifted, leaning her back against the wall and shoving her legs out straight on the grating of the floor. “I wonder. I wonder how right he was even now. Why I am here? Yeah, I got nice grant—”