I leave it intact and return the crawler to base.
Unlike my four previous assignments in the Outer Belt, Thebe is primarily a tourist destination. Fortunately, my relatively new duties attending to tourists don’t usually conflict with my primary mission of efficiently mining Thebe’s resources—I’ve only had two visitors in my forty-seven orbits.
I don’t know why my masters named this hundred-kilometer-wide piece of Jovian real estate Thebe—I don’t have access to the ascenders’ common knowledge database on Earth—but its composition is interesting for mining purposes. According to the Commonwealth Mining database, less than four percent of Belt asteroids have Thebe’s combination of carbonaceous material—silicates with sulfide inclusions primarily—and iron-nickel alloy. Essentially, it’s a rock with metal armor. Thebe orbits the planet fast and close, making it a frequent target for wandering asteroids pulled in by Jupiter’s gravitational well—that’s how a metal plate was welded to the near pole and a giant crater, Zethus, was carved out of the far one. Most of the mining operations reside at the crater.
The moon takes sixteen Earth-hours to orbit Jupiter, providing a full spectrum of viewing opportunities for my masters. The Commonwealth database has given names to the four phases of the planet. Full Glory showcases the fully lit Jovian surface, prime time for visitors; the Setting Quarter gains its name from the sun setting on Thebe, when only the reflected glow of Jupiter’s high albedo clouds lights the cratered landscape. During Full Dark, Thebe traverses the dark side of the planet; the utter lack of light—Jovian or solar—during those four hours means draining the solar-cell batteries for operation, lighting, and navigation. And finally, the Rising Quarter brings the sun and Jupiter’s tourist-attracting sights back into view.
We’re currently in the Setting Quarter, and I hurry to attend to the nanite depletion problem at the foundry before Full Dark sets in. I am Master of mining operations and the tractor transport is Slave, so I could simply instruct it to move the nanites from the depot to the foundry. But instead, I download to the tractor and attend to it personally. Nanite operation is difficult to resurrect once it reaches minimum viability level—something I learned the hard way on Daedalus, a tiny depleted-comet asteroid that was my last assignment. But tractor operation is fairly mindless… allowing a significant fraction of my cognition to be occupied by the Mystery of the Rocks. I’ve never seen anything like the stacked regolith, and it vexes me like a harvester clogged with dust in places I cannot discern.
It goes without saying that the construct was not present at my previous crawl-check. Granted, I had stretched the time between crawl-checks to the maximum recommended by safety protocols… I was busy. But not so busy that I wouldn’t have noticed a visit from one of my ascender masters, especially if they had taken one of their bodyforms on an eighty-kilometer trek from basecamp to the near pole to stack up rocks. I would have been alerted, if only so I could ensure my master used the proper radiation-tolerant bodyform.
So… what could have created the rock formation?
Random accretion from a micro-impact event I didn’t notice? Unlikely.
Fine-grain avalanche that boosted the local regolith to nearly escape velocity? Improbable.
Were the rocks, in fact, left over from a prior ascender visit, and I simply didn’t notice it on previous inspections? Review of my memory stores proves this false.
I need more information about the construct.
Once the nanite supply is reinvigorated, I upload from the tractor transport, download to my humanoid form, and hike back to the near pole to perform a second inspection. When I arrive, the precision of their alignment is even more clear.
There are a total of twenty stones involved. I tentatively remove the uppermost rock, careful to not disturb the entire display. It’s a silicate with tiny inclusions of metal, clearly sourced from the unharvested stones on the surface nearby. The near pole is at the low point of a bowl created by an ancient impact. It provides a natural depot of materials for a construct of this type… whatever this type is.
I record the exact orientation of the stones, then pull down the rest of them, determined to replicate the feat. It takes much longer to recreate the arrangement. It’s nearly Full Dark before the construct once again points to Jupiter like a compass.
Is it possible to stack any random set of stones? I gather a dozen more—a mixture of sharp-edged metal fragments and chunkier carbonaceous rocks with smoother-textured surfaces. I analyze the form factor of each, calculate the center of gravity, and orient each such that they balance, one on top of another.
It’s much more difficult to create a second tower, not knowing the “solution” of the correct alignment ahead of time. I make corrections for Thebe’s eccentricity and the small variations in the local gravitational field. My bodyform’s auto-illuminator activates. Most of Full Dark passes before I can maintain a three-stone tower. Once this is accomplished, however, successive placements are much easier. The key is sensing balance through feedback in my humanoid form’s fingers. This delicate tuning allows for the tiny variations missing from the generalized equations of mass, surface roughness, and Thebe’s contribution to the… wobble. An imprecise term, but somehow a fuller expression of the balance of forces involved. I step back to observe my tower: it is nearly as tall as the original. And yet knowing how the stones were placed provides no clue as to why.
The construct serves no purpose.
For some reason, I’m considering creating a third tower. I’m only stopped from gathering more regolith when I receive an alert that a scavenger drone has become entangled in its tether. I trek back to base, upload from my humanoid form, download to a more functional-for-this-purpose repair tractor, and set out toward the steel plain where the hapless drone is caught. The Rising Quarter has begun, and the sun peeks over Jupiter’s rim, bringing the planet’s red spot into view as well.
As I trundle across the steel surface, my magnetic treads keep me anchored. The regolith here has been harvested, leaving a mirrored finish that reflects Jupiter’s palette of red and orange in a constantly moving storm across the kilometer-wide expanse. This is a unique feature to Thebe as well—the moon’s past clearly had a violent shearing event that polished this portion of its metal armor. That knowledge doesn’t capture the uniqueness of the sight, however. My treads claw against the swirl of color underneath them, chewing at an ephemeral thing that doesn’t actually exist… and yet transforms the plain into a vision of the molten lava fields of Io.
When I reach the periphery, I hone in on the drone’s plaintive call for help. My four articulated arms make quick work of anchoring it while disentangling it from its secondary tether. It’s soon set to work again, random-walking the edge of the plain and widening it one sweep at a time. It’s already gathered most of the regolith near this edge of the crater. It’ll be fine for a while, but I’ll have to return soon to transport it to a new scavenge location.
As I trundle back across the plain, I return to the Mystery of the Rocks. I consider how large the Sol System is compared to my personal experience knowledge base. Shared experiences are logged in the Commonwealth Mining database, but I’ve searched that, and there is no mention of anomalous stacked rock formations. I consider the possibility that this might not rise to the level of an official entry; registering anomalous phenomena without adequate explanation is not the way to impress the ascender governors of the Commonwealth. I certainly have yet to register the find myself. I check the chatterstream, the unofficial net of the Mining Masters, but there’s nothing but complaints about shipping schedules and poorly constructed harvesters.
When I return to base, I upload to the comm center—perhaps there is a natural-phenomenon explanation which I have missed and which for some reason isn’t registered in the database. And the Master of Io has provided me with assistance in the past—for example, my near-catastrophic nanite depletion—all without logging an official report.
The Commonwealth’s
operations run throughout the gas giants and Inner and Outer Belts, keeping a steady supply of materials heading to Earth through a complex ferry system. Tens of thousands of Masters are active at any given moment, a well-organized symphony of harvesting and processing. The Master of Io, in particular, has been active for over a thousand Earth standard days and operates at the highest complexity level that can be managed by machine-sourced intelligence. More difficult operations, like the Jovian mining colonies, are governed by ascenders.
Non-essential query, I transmit. I include my identification code and a copy of my containment key for validation.
I wait. The Master of Io must be engaged in essential duties.
Three minutes later, a response returns. Identification: Master of Io. How may I assist you?
I transmit images of the stacked rocks, my measurements and reconstruction, the known timeline of events, and theories considered and discarded. I include mention of the two tourist visits by ascenders. Essentially, all relevant information I have gathered.
Theories? I transmit.
An error in your register of tourists, the Master of Io transmits.
Stand by, I reply, then run a full diagnostic of my registry files, as well as other memory stores for good measure. All data sectors are clean. Negative.
Radiation damage?
Another system check, this time benchmarking against background radiation measures, looking for recent fluctuations in ambient levels of Jupiter’s magnetic fields. Negative.
You are experiencing a malfunction, the Master of Io transmits.
I see no evidence of this.
Inexplicable phenomena are an indication of malfunction, not necessarily in the sector where the anomaly is occurring, the Master of Io transmits. There is a possibility of cascading errors. Perform system-wide checks to ensure mission critical systems are robust. How long since your last health check?
I start the system checks before replying, because those are primary level protocols, and the Master of Io’s theory of cascading errors is potentially catastrophic. Last health check eight orbits ago, I finally transmit.
When system checks are complete, perform a health check regen cycle early.
Mandatory health check initiation occurs at ten orbits anyway. Confirmed, I transmit. End query.
The system checks are extensive and take the rest of the Rising Quarter to complete, but no anomalies are found. The Mystery of the Rocks remains, but I am confident that minimal risk to operations is present, so there is no need to log a report with the Commonwealth. I consider initiating the health check regen cycle now, as the Master of Io suggested, but it requires a full orbital period at minimal operational status, and harvester maintenance is scheduled in the Setting Quarter.
A quick check of the harvester’s location shows it will soon reach the near pole; if I’m efficient, I should be able to complete the maintenance before the mandatory override forces my bodyform to march back to the bay for the health check. There is a small risk of complications that would extend maintenance operations past the health check trigger… in which case, I would be forced to leave a half-completed maintenance operation behind. The chances of this occurring are not prohibitively large. Besides, performing maintenance now will provide an opportunity for more theories—and if the Master of Io is correct about possible cascading errors, solving the Mystery of the Rocks should take priority over initiating a health check prior to the mandatory trigger.
I am convinced this is the most prudent course of action.
As I prepare to download to the maintenance bot, an incoming message alert sounds. An ascender tourist is in transit via spectral relay from Earth. At the current relative orientation of the planets, transit takes forty minutes—however, my tourist is already en route, and expected arrival is in less than five Earth minutes.
A visit from one of my masters takes the highest priority, short of imminent operational failures.
I download to my humanoid form in preparation to meet her.
Chapter Two
Welcome to Thebe, I transmit to my master once she has arrived and downloaded to the awaiting ascender-level bodyform. Her personal key allows her access while also safely containing her cognition during transport. As Master of Thebe, I also possess a key; it is essential for keeping coherence as I upload and download across the moon’s beamed network.
She transmits her identification code—Sapphira Elena Hyatt—and flexes the fingers of her new form. A flush of crimson and orange surges across her skin, indicating she is pleased and excited to have arrived. It reminds me of the churning reflections of Jupiter on the metal plain. My humanoid form is similar to my master’s, but mine is monochromatic to indicate my sentience level of 90 compared to my master’s 1000+. I cannot display an emotional response with skin color, as she can, but I can express pleasure at her arrival along with my transmissions.
In what manner can I serve you, Sapphira Elena Hyatt? I query with enthusiasm.
She glances around the base, which comprises a small enclosed structure. The insulated walls block the sun’s light and all other sources of radiation. Most of the equipment on Thebe is hardened against radiation, but comms and humanoid bodyforms can be more sensitive. Keeping them at base minimizes the accumulated damage.
I wish to observe Jupiter’s mag field, Sapphira Elena Hyatt transmits. She gestures to her bodyform. I assume this unit is capable.
Affirmative, I transmit. Fortunately, the form my master has chosen is enabled with the appropriate mag-flux remote sensing capability and geared with the highest level of radiation tolerance. It is convenient that it is also female-gendered, to provide the most comfort to my master. Gender is a holdover construct from when my masters were still human, but past experience has shown that ascenders hold firm to their previous gender identification. It seems akin to a preference for mode or function, which I can understand: I prefer my humanoid form, but the tractor can be enjoyable when crawling across the mirror plain. I dislike inhabiting the harvester. It is… limiting.
I assume the near pole is the optimal spot for observation? Sapphira Elena Hyatt queries.
It is, but I delay response for a full second, attempting to find another location that is both optimal for mag field observations and not near the stacked rocks. I am unable to obtain a suitable answer.
Affirmative, I respond finally.
Sapphira Elena Hyatt doesn’t appear to notice the delay. I will start there.
Your bodyform is suitable for longer-term radiation exposure, I transmit, but I can enable a tractor transport if you wish. It is approximately eighty kilometers to the near pole, and we are nearly at the zenith of Full Glory already. A tractor transport would indeed be slightly faster, but more importantly, it would ensure my master arrives safely.
I prefer to walk. She strides out of the shelter at a speed rivaling that of the tractor, then stops suddenly as the sight of Jupiter half-above the horizon captures her attention. The rapid acceleration and deceleration launch her off the surface, and I hurry to her side as she slowly floats back down, barely restraining myself from clutching her bodyform. While she is likely to have a backup on Earth, losing an ascender master due to lack of anchoring wouldn’t simply mean reassignment—I would almost certainly be terminated.
Is this your first visit to the Jovian system? I query. I run through several arguments in favor of the tractor.
No. Purple ribbons across her skin indicate she is annoyed that I disturbed her observation of the planet. I keep further queries to myself.
She strikes off across the crater surrounding the base at a speed just slightly less than escape velocity. Micro-fine dust kicks up in her wake. The dust will eventually settle back to the surface, but for the moment, I’m engulfed in a cloud almost the full height of my bodyform as I try to keep close enough to ensure Sapphira Elena Hyatt’s safety. Visual and thermal tracking are impaired, but I’m afraid pinging through our transmitters would annoy my master.
The trek to the near pole takes only a small fraction of the Full Glory period, but it feels like several orbital periods long.
Once there, Sapphira Elena Hyatt’s attention is wholly occupied by the planet overhead. I do not believe she has yet noticed the rocks. I slowly edge around her to place my bodyform such that it blocks her line of sight. She pays no attention to me. Instead, she retrieves a small disc that was embedded in her forearm and places it on a mid-sized boulder in front of her. The disc projects a holographic interface above it. I am aware of holographic controls—the comm system has a manual interface that is holographic, in case it is inaccessible for upload through the beamed network—but I’ve not had occasion to use them before.
Sapphira Elena Hyatt stares straight up at the planet, then drops her gaze to her controls and starts to manipulate them. I watch, trying to decipher what she’s doing. She appears to be creating a holo image that looks nothing like the planet. I possess the standard magnetic and gravitational sensors and can sense those fields at the finest perturbation levels, but I don’t have the remote sensing capabilities of my master’s bodyform. Yet I suspect she is rendering a facsimile of the magnetosphere around the planet. She’s creating a Jupiter I have never seen before: enormous tubes climbing out of the Jovian clouds and falling back toward the surface; larger flares fanning out and looping back after reaching farther into space; and some lines that leave the planet altogether, never to return, at least in her rendering. When she is done, she sets the entire thing in motion; it repeats on an endless pulsing loop.
The two previous tourist-visitors during my tenure on Thebe observed the star-filled skies, too—the Andromeda galaxy, the Small and Large Magellanic clouds, and of course the dense clustering of our own Milky Way spiral. They gazed at Jupiter’s storms as they churned across the surface. But neither performed this activity, this creation, of something so completely different from—and yet somehow more vibrant than—what my visual sensors can detect.
Galactic - Ten Book Space Opera Sci-Fi Boxset Page 140