by Allen Steele
On the other hand, because the Royal Navy knew that Superior allegiance is tenuous at best, NAVINT had decided not to trust Intrepid’s crew with full knowledge of its mission. Only the captain was given the details of the rescue mission…and, conveniently, he had been incommunicado within a zombie tank for most of the flight.
Kinnard muses upon this as he pushes himself down the gopher hole to his cabin, three decks down from the command center. As he presses his thumb against the lockplate, he checks the digital readout above the door. To his satisfaction, it reads 6.10.2069 1350Z: the last time he entered the cabin, just before Intrepid left Highgate.
The tiny cabin is dark, its trapped air musty and old. Ceiling fluorescents light up as Kinnard pulls himself inside. Everything is just as he left it: the framed holos on the wall, the bookcase containing operations manuals and a leather-bound copy of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. He shuts the door behind him, folds down a desktop next to his bunk. Concealed in the bulkhead behind the desk is a safe; he unlocks with his thumbprint and a memorized six-digit code number.
An envelope floats inside the safe, sealed with a red strip of tape, dated with Intrepid’s date of departure from Highgate. Kinnard breaks the seal and opens the envelope.
* * *
DATE: 0810Z 11 MAR 70
FM: CHNAVINT CLARKE CO
TO: PRIME MINISTER
SUBJ: TITAN RESCUE
CLASS: TS
1. (S) UPDATE: PRIORITY ONE SCRAMBLED PADSS TRANSMISSION RECEIVED 11 0756Z MAR 11 FROM PARN VA-145, FRIGATE “INTREPID.” CAPT. MARION KINNARD REPORTS SAFE ARRIVAL IN SATURN SYSTEM.
2. (TS) “INTREPID” REPORTS NO TELEMETRY RECEIVED FROM PA VS-29, ARGOSY “HERSHEL EXPLORER,” OR FROM HUYGENS BASE ON TITAN, DESPITE REPEATED ATTEMPTS TO CONTACT EITHER SHIP AND OUTPOST. NO AVAILABLE INFORMATION ON STATUS OF “HERSHEL EXPLORER” CREW OR HUYGENS BASE EXPEDITION.
3. (TS) PARM 5TH INFANTRY, MARE IMBRIUM COMPANY, BRAVO SQUAD SUCCESSFULLY REVIVED FROM BIOSTASIS ON “INTREPID”. CAPT. KINNARD TO BRIEF LT. COL. JULIETTE DESOTO AND TEAM, RE: CLASSIFIED ASPECTS OF THEIR MISSION AT 1000Z MAR 11.
4. (TS) OUTLOOK: “INTREPID” PROCEEDING TO TITAN FOR SCHEDULED FLYBY AT 0100Z MAR 12. BRAVO TEAM UNDER LT. COL. DESOTO WILL DEPART “INTREPID” ABOARD PARN VA-165, MILITARY LANDER “EXCALIBUR,” FOR LANDING AT HUYGENS BASE. “INTREPID” WILL COMMENCE AERO-REFUELING AT SATURN BEFORE RETURNING TO TITAN FOR INVESTIGATION OF “HERSHEL EXPLORER” AND PICKUP OF “EXCALIBUR” LANDING PARTY.
5. (TS) MILITARY CENSORSHIP IN EFFECT. PRIORITY ONE COMNET SCRAMBLE OF ALL COMMUNIQUES ENACTED 11 MARCH. NO INFORMATION WILL BE RELEASED TO THE PUBLIC OR PRESS PENDING SUCCESSFUL OUTCOME OF RESCUE OPERATIONS ON TITAN.
(6.) ALL FUTURE MEMOS RE: PARN/PARM OPERATIONS IN SATURN SYSTEM TO BE CODENAMED “KRONOS.”
END
* * *
3.11.2070 1001Z
Lt. Col. Juliette DeSoto stares at the warm tray of what looks (and smells) like boiled seaweed in white sauce and decides that she’s not quite so hungry after all.
Before she places the lid back over her tray, though, she glances down the long wardroom table, and notices that her team is discretely watching her, waiting for her reaction. If their CO won’t eat this stuff, no one in Bravo Squad will either—and since this is probably the best Intrepid has to offer, that means her people will go on their mission with empty stomachs. Not only that, but the young google female—Anna, is it?—who has carried the plates in from the adjacent galley is hovering nearby, nervously awaiting their response to her culinary talents.
So, for Queen and the Pax, DeSoto pulls a pair of chopsticks from the magnetized holder next to her plate and pretends that google food is the essence of haute cuisine. The seven men and women seated at the table reluctantly follow her example; everyone in Bravo Squad takes their first bite simultaneously, each watching the other to see who will gag first.
Much to her surprise, it’s actually quite good. Rather like asparagus in hollandaise sauce, but a little spicier. Everyone swallows and goes for more; even “Power Chuck” Clay, who is notorious for being picky about what he eats, is digging into the food with apparent relish.
Nevertheless, DeSoto is careful not to ask Anna what they’re eating. She may not like to know the answer.
As she eats, DeSoto gazes around the wardroom. It’s as small as those on any PARN vessel she has been aboard, but far less spartan. The table is of polished fauxwood inlaid with gold filigree; the fold-down ergonomic chairs are upholstered with soft blue velvet, hand-embroidered with intricate designs vaguely resembling google tattoos. Abstract Martian sand paintings are fastened to the bulkhead walls behind either side of the table; one features the Gaelic cross she has already seen on the faces of the crewmen, the other might be an original Milos, or at least a clever copy. Red silk curtains frame the wide square windows behind the table, and an antique brass telescope is bolted to the carpeted deck in front of the center portal. Even the chopsticks, she now notices, have been carved with scrimshaw designs.
And she had always thought googles spent their ship time having sex with each other.
They’re almost finished when the hatch opens and the first Primary they’ve seen since awakening from biostasis floats into the wardroom, followed by Isidore, the ship’s first officer, whom they met when he escorted them here from the hibernation deck. Even if his jumpsuit didn’t have three stars on its epaulets, it would be obvious that this is Intrepid’s commanding officer.
“Captain on deck,” DeSoto says calmly, and her team goes bolt-upright in their seats. A chopstick tumbles upwards from the table plates, dropped by someone who forgot that they’re in free-fall; Anna snatches it from mid-air with her left foot and silently returns it to Slick Nick, who mumbles apologetically.
“At ease.” The captain floats to a vacant seat at the opposite end of the table, tucks his ankles under the leg bar, and sits down. “Sorry to disturb you, but I thought this was as good a time as any to welcome you aboard the Intrepid. I’m Captain Kinnard, and I believe you’ve already met my first officer, Mr. Christ-Ortega.”
Bravo Squad murmurs polite greetings to Kinnard and Christ-Ortega. Since they were placed in biostasis on Highgate before their zombie tanks were transferred to the Intrepid, this is the first time they’ve met her captain or crew. Indeed, other than their ultimate destination and the basic purpose of their mission, DeSoto and her people know little about why they’ve been sent all this way.
Which, she reflects, is the way it should be. Bravo Squad is part of Mare Imbrium Company, an elite cadre of the Royal Militia formed as a rapid-response team to handle emergencies that threaten Pax Astra interests. Alpha Squad had quelled the Callisto rebellion a couple of years earlier; last year, her own squad had knocked down an attempted coup d’état on Clarke County by New Ark Party loyalists. Indeed, just before it was dispatched to Highgate, her team had been engaged in tactical exercises at the Straight Wall on the Moon, training for combat against renegade Superior clans who had aligned themselves with the Jove movement and might conceivably launch a first-strike attack against Pax lunar settlements.
Yet because the Royal Militia was a civilian army with most of its soldiers leading private lives and careers outside the army, and because the Pax itself was rife with informants actively engaged in espionage on behalf of clients both on Earth and in the outer system, the rapid-response teams rarely knew the full details of its covert missions before they’re actually deployed. Thus Colonel DeSoto knows little more about the mission than her troops. Likewise, because the Navy knew that the allegiance of the Superior clans that crewed its frigates was suspect at best, NAVINT had decided not to trust Intrepid’s crew with full knowledge of its mission. Only the captain knew everything.
“If you’re through,” Kinnard says, “then we’ll start your briefing.” He touches his wristcom, and the multiscreen above the table lights up.
The first image is a cutaway diagram of a Tycho-class argosy. It’s the same type of vessel the
Pax has been using for deep-space exploration past the Belt for the last fifteen years, older and larger than Intrepid. Much slower, too; DeSoto recognizes the General Astronautics gas-core nuclear engine mounted at the end of the ship’s boom as one with a considerably smaller ips-ratio than Intrepid’s nuclear-pulse engine.
“This is the Hershel Explorer,” Kinnard says. “It departed from Highgate on January 20, 2068, and arrived here about fifteen months later, on March 15, 2069, almost exactly one year ago. At that time the flight crew revived the science team from biostasis. Total crew complement was twelve.”
He changes the image; the multiscreen now displays still-pics of the expedition members. DeSoto notes that they’re all Primaries. “The expedition was conducted under the joint auspices of the Royal University and the Navy,” Kinnard continues. “Its commander was Capt. John Stephen Baylor, and his crew was the Jones clan…a Primary family, as you may have already noticed, since there were no Superiors aboard. The five scientists from the University were led by Henri Marquand.”
This would figure. The first clans were made up of Primaries who pioneered the idea of extended families crewing deep-space vessels nearly a generation before the googles founded their own clans. A few of the older Primary clans still served aboard Pax vessels.
Perhaps his tongue had only slipped, but DeSoto cannot help but notice that the Captain referred to the Hershel Explorer expedition in the past tense.
Another click, and the faces are replaced by an animated diagram of the ship’s trajectory through the Saturn system. “The expedition spent the next three weeks conducting a flyby survey of Saturn and its moons,” Kinnard goes on, “then on April 8, Hershel made orbit around Titan. Its shuttle, Ulysses, went down to the surface on April 10, where it landed near the equator on Galileo Planitia, Titan’s single major continent.”
A succession of images taken from Titan’s surface: muggy and indistinct, shot through a dense brown fog that shallows the dim glow cast by helmet lamps and floodlights. Figures in pressure suits moving and out of light, trudging through red snow. A small cluster of domes. The lower fuselage and landing gear of the shuttle. Blurred views of small, open-seat rovers leaving deep tracks through cranberry slush.
“After the base camp was established,” Kinnard says, “the science team lived exclusively at Huygens Base. They frequently conducted sorties across the ice-pack, but never beyond a six-hour hike from the camp in case the rovers went kaput, and they always returned before nightfall. Although the flight crew remained in orbit, on at least three occasions various members of the Jones clan, along with Captain Baylor, visited the surface aboard the Ulysses.”
“Uh…pardon me, sir?” This from Doc Aaronvich, the squad medic. Kinnard acknowledges his raised hand with a nod. “With all due respect, sir, we saw all this during our briefing, before we left Highgate. So, ah…”
“So when are you going to tell us why we’re here?” Doc is interrupted by Patty Barnes…“Swee’ Pea,” the team’s not-so-sweet Spec. 2 demolitions expert.
“Like you got a date waiting back home?” Little Jimmy asks from further down the table.
Swee’ Pea pretends to throw one of her chopsticks at him. Everyone else—Power Chuck, Smoker, Slick Nick, No-Shit—breaks up at this. Swee’ Pea is notorious for being unable to keep a steady mate of either gender.
“Turn it off!” DeSoto snaps, and Bravo Squad freezes under her basilisk glare. “Sorry, Captain,” she says. “Go on, please.”
Kinnard seems unruffled by the interruption. “Sorry to bore you,” he says to Doc and Swee’ Pea, who contritely study the laces of their gripshoes. “Things will get more interesting, I promise.”
“More interesting than this google shit, I hope.” No-Shit idly poking a chopstick at his half-eaten plate of food.
Smothered laughter from around the table. Isidore glares at Howard and DeSoto is about to admonish the Spec. 3, when the hatch opens and several googles float into the wardroom.
Time itself seems to grind to a halt. Apes stare at googles and Superiors stare back at Primaries; neither side knows what to say to the other until Kinnard breaks the silence.
“My crew, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, then he does his diplomatic best by introducing each member of the Christ clan by name. Brief nods and acknowledgments from all around—but no handshakes, let alone smiles—as the googles find handholds or footholds on the walls and ceilings until they hover over Bravo Squad like weird angels.
When the wardroom is filled to capacity, the captain continues his briefing. “Just as well everyone is here,” he says, “because you all need to see this.”
He touches his wristcom again. The expedition footage vanishes from the multiscreen. “Daily reports were sent from Huygens Base to Mare Moscoviense via PADSS until May 29,” he continues, “then there was a two-day gap during which no transmissions were sent from either Titan or Hershel Explorer. The Pax attempted to contact the base camp and the ship, but no one heard nothing. All lines were dead, and that’s when Naval Intelligence started getting nervous. Then, on June 1, a signal was received from Huygens Base…scrambled, Priority One, code nine-niner.”
He hesitates, looking around the room. “It’s classified Top Secret,” he adds softly, “I’m the only one aboard who has seen it until now.”
He taps at his wristcomp again. The multiscreen lights once more, and they watch the final dispatch from Titan.
RECVD: 05.29.2069 1834.32.01Z PADSS MARE MUSC
CODE 01A-99/t98101/VS-29
DECRYPTED: 05.30.69 0100 NAVINT CLARKE CO
CLASS: TS
BEGIN TRANSMISSION
Close-up shot: a man seated at a console, staring straight into the camera lens. Background image slightly unfocused; seems to be within a small compartment. His eyes are wild; face haggard and unshaven, curly dark hair mussed. The T-shirt he wears is soaked with sweat; a dark red stain, like a smeared bloody handprint, is spread across his chest.
Subscript appears at the bottom of the screen: I.D.—Marquand, Henri P., Dr. (NAVINT Confirmed).
Marquand’s lips move silently for a few moments. He abruptly stops; his face registers bewilderment as he cups his right hand against his headset. He reaches forward to some point below camera range.
“…said, this is Huygens Base, Titan, to Hershel Explorer. Code nine-niner, mayday, mayday. I repeat, this is Huygens Base to Hershel Explorer, code ninety-nine, mayday…”
The mike picks up an irregular thumping noise from somewhere in the background. Marquand looks sharply to the right.
“Shit! Does anyone hear me? Answer me!”
Right hand moves out of sight below the console for a moment; it reappears, clasping an unidentifiable piece of metal which he wields like a club. He turns and shouts behind him.
“Back off!”
The thumping stops. His gaze returns to the camera. Terror in his eyes as he takes a deep breath.
“Hershel AI, this Marquand, Huygens Base. Emergency comlink override. Open PADSS gateway, transmission to lunar farside, code…oh, fuck, what is it?…code oh-one-a, priority nine-nine, message…”
The thumping recommences, louder now. Marquand glances away again, then back to the camera.
“Huygens Base under attack by hostile…no, I mean…alien presence…fuck, that’s not right, I mean…”
The thumping drowns out his words for a moment. Marquand pushes back his chair, stands up, hefts the metal bar. Eyes shift toward some source behind him.
“…something we found on the surface, we brought it into the AEL, and…I dunno, somehow it got into the base and I think it’s on the Hershel and now just about everyone is dead and I’m…”
Loud crash from behind him. Marquand whirls around, raising the bar defensively.
“Oh, God, they’re through the door! They’re…!”
He charges out of camera range.
“Goddammit, get back, get…!”
Sounds of a violent scuffle. Vague shadows thrown
across the console.
“Shit oh God please…!”
A loud, harsh scream.
A wet chopping noise.
Silence.
The unmistakable sound of laughter.
A vague form flits across the screen, too close and too fast for the camera to either capture or focus upon.
The screen abruptly goes dark.
END TRANSMISSION.
3.11.2070 1110Z
“So, Captain,” DeSoto says, “tell us the rest.”
Bravo Squad has been dismissed to its temporary quarters on Deck 5 to catch some rest before the Titan flyby. Intrepid’s flight crew has either returned to the command deck or gone off-duty. Only Kinnard, DeSoto, and Isidore remain in the wardroom, drinking coffee as they idly watch the spider-like galley ’bots clear the table.
Kinnard glances toward the hatch, making certain that it’s shut. “I don’t know what you mean, Colonel. I’ve briefed you on all aspects of this operation, including the classified details. I don’t know what else is left.”
She sips her squeezebulb of coffee. “C’mon, Captain,” she replies. “Someone took out the entire expedition…”
“Something, perhaps you mean,” Isidore interjects.
The colonel gives him a condescending look. “You’ve got another theory, First Officer? Hostile aliens, maybe?”
“Said as much, doesn’t he?” Christ-Ortega nods toward the blank multiscreen. “Said something came into the base through the ambient environment lab, then onto Hershel. Sounds like ETs to me, Colonel…begging your pardon, of course.”
Kinnard hides a smile behind his squeezebulb. Isidore’s conjecture may be wrong, but he allows DeSoto more respect than she or her people has offered her crew. The rivalry between the Navy and the Militia dates back to the Moon War almost twenty years ago, when both services were born during the Pax Astra’s war of independence, and the fact that the Navy has actively enlisted Superiors while the Militia is comprised almost entirely of Primaries hasn’t helped matters much. A little friction between military corps can be a healthy thing, so long as it doesn’t dissolve into uncooperativeness…or outright bigotry.