The Enceladus Crisis

by Michael J. Martinez

  Shaila looked at the door. “No idea. Where’s Stephane?”

  A pause. “Looks like he’s in Cargo Two, EVA prep.”

  What the hell? “Copy. Let me know if he moves. Jain out.”

  With that, Shaila dashed out of medical toward the common room once more, dialing up Stephane’s e-mail as she went. Screw privacy—the man just left medical quarantine without authorization.

  Then she stopped in her tracks, because he didn’t.

  “AS PER YOUR REQUEST, JSC MEDICAL SIMULATIONS SHOW NO POTENTIAL HAZARDS. QUARANTINE IS LIFTED,” the e-mail said.

  Shaila shoved her datapad into her pocket and clambered down the ladder into zero-g. So it was nice that those weird proto-proteins didn’t get him sick or anything. But there was still a long talk to be had about chain-of-command issues. And picking up the goddamn comm.

  She launched herself out of the access tube and down the length of the ship like the practiced astronaut she was, hurtling past storage compartments and the lander bays . . .

  . . . so quickly, in fact, she nearly missed Stephane, dressed in a pressure suit, loading equipment into one of the landers.

  “Hey!”

  She grabbed a handhold to arrest her flight and launched herself toward Lander Two. There, she saw Stephane loading large crates into the cargo area of the craft.

  “Cheri,” he said, smiling. “I’m free at last!”

  Her first urge was to literally pick him up and toss him out of the bay, but the look on his face stopped her in her tracks. He was smiling, cheerful as usual . . . but the circles under his eyes had gotten a little darker, and there was a very thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, for lack of anything more coherent to say.

  “I’ve been released from quarantine,” Stephane said happily as he continued loading crates. “I want to be ready for the next landing.”

  “You look like shit,” she said flatly. “Conti’s on the surface. She didn’t clear you.”

  Stephane gave one of his signature shrugs. “She’s busy. I felt better, so I asked the people in Houston to let me free. They agreed to do it. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is you should’ve come to me or the colonel first,” Shaila said, trying not to snap at him. “There’s rules for this sort of thing.”

  “Ah, I wondered, but you know me and rules,” he said, giving her another grin. “You are all very busy, and I didn’t want to get in your way because I was feeling . . . what is it? Cooped up. A little lonely, too. Besides, I have been going over the data from our preliminary sensors. There is something going on.”

  Shaila shook her head, as if trying to clear it. “Something going on?”

  Stephane pulled his datapad from his suit pouch and called up a holoimage. “The fluctuations in the subsurface water currents are developing new patterns. There is even more of a flow to the tiger stripes than when we arrived. Plus,” he added, calling up another image, “if these readings are correct, the density of the flow is increasing. There are far more particulates in the current flows, as if the moon’s currents are dragging more . . . stuff . . . up to the surface.”

  Shaila grimaced at him for several long seconds, even as he stowed his pad and continued to load the lander. “Why am I just seeing this now?” she said finally.

  “Because I just made sense of the data and put it into these simulations a half hour ago,” he replied reasonably, nigh obliviously. “And again, you are all so busy with the water transfers. You realize, I didn’t see a soul in medical for the past eight hours? Frustrating.” He stopped and looked up. “Yes, I should’ve made a report first. I’m sorry, Shay. I want to get down there. You have been on Enceladus, what, three times already? I was there once, and I’m supposed to be the expert!”

  Shaila regarded him steadily for several seconds before reaching for the comm button beside the lander bay door. “Jain to Hall. Where are Nilssen and Conti on their run?”

  Hall was quicker on the draw this time; Shaila wondered if she’d been eavesdropping. “They took off about 15 minutes ago. Should be back soon.”

  “Roger, Jain out.” She closed the comm link and turned back to Stephane. “How bad could this get, if these water flows continue?”

  “We haven’t had a cryovolcanic eruption in a while. When we do, I think it will be very big. But I won’t know more until I get down there.”

  “Are we in danger?”

  Stephane smiled. “Unless we are right on top of them, I doubt it. It will be a very big show, no more. But we should be sure our equipment is protected, and our landing sites should be further away, I think.”

  After a long pause and a fair amount of internal back and forth, Shaila decided. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You finish loading your gear, and I’ll notify the colonel and Conti about your release from quarantine. You and I are going down to the surface together. On the way, you’re going to write up a thorough report on all this stuff you just told me, and you’re going to make it sound like getting your ass back down there is mission critical. When you’re done, you’re going to suffer through a metric shit-ton of me yelling at you for being such a bonehead right up until we land. Then you’re going to get your ass in gear and do what you need to do. Clear?”

  “Oui, Commander,” he said, sounding sheepish. “I’m sorry.”

  Shaila quickly launched herself out of the bay and back up toward the command center. Even as she did, a small smile crept onto her face. Stephane had been pretty good about protocols and duties and such on the trip out to Saturn. But he was always an eager one to get out there and do things. It was part of the attraction.

  She’d just have to school him on how not to be an idiot now and then.

  October 15, 1798

  Weatherby hurtled down a plain gray corridor, sword in hand, hoping that the plaintive, dissonant cries of startled and upset Xan would continue to lead him to his quarry—and to Anne’s son, violently taken by what could only be a Xan partisan of some stripe.

  There—another scream, particularly deep and alarming, with a fusillade of contralto notes. Weatherby darted right, then left, and came into a wide area with a vaulted glass ceiling—and with many cloaked Xan singing, and occasionally screeching, loudly. But there were also several exits out of this massive place, rather like a covered courtyard with a strange plant-like . . . thing . . . in the middle, a million shades of purple with swaying tentacles and broad fronds that looked like feathers. It nearly stopped him in his tracks.

  Thankfully, some of the Xan were already gesturing toward one of the exits, and they seemed too genuinely alarmed to be anything but truthful. Thus, Weatherby ran off in that direction, praying for the continued honesty and good graces of the majority of the Xan.

  At least one of them, however, would meet his sword if he had any say in the matter.

  The captain burst through the door into another corridor, one that he could clearly see led to a pair of glass doors and, beyond that, the ring-city itself. Humans were never allowed into the cities proper; Weatherby thought briefly he was about to precipitate a rather messy incident, but reassured himself that the Xan’s actions would be considered far more grievous.

  Someone else had apparently drawn the same conclusion, for he heard a distinct clopping of booted feet behind him. He turned—and saw Anne, tears streaming down her face, hands clutching at her skirts, in rapid pursuit of her son.

  “How?” Weatherby panted as he attempted to speed up, for Anne was about to overtake him. She merely shot him a distraught look, one that folded his heart and seemed to give him a second wind. Of course, Lady Anne, the Countess St. Germain, would have the alchemical means to be in fine form—or even at the very peak of human endurance and strength.

  The two threw open the glass doors and ran out into the city, prompting a chorus of gasps, both melodic and dissonant from passer-by. Ignoring them, Weatherby and Anne dashed into what appeared to be a garden plaza, suspended
between various towers and linked by numerous walkways of gleaming white material. Above them loomed glass and metal reaching dizzying heights, while to their right, the clouds of Saturn loomed across half the sky.

  They stopped and cast about, looking for their quarry, and were rewarded with a very monotone, very human shout off in the distance. “Philip,” Anne breathed. A split second later, she was dashing down the Xan’s queer walkways, her skirts in hand, and a Royal Navy captain on her heels desperately trying to keep up.

  In the distance, Weatherby could see Philip literally tucked under the arm of one of the Xan guards from the meeting room—the one that likely assassinated Administrator Sallev. The Xan moved fast, but not overly so, for his gait was lumbering and Philip, brave boy that he was, struggled and squirmed mightly, going so far as to beat the Saturnine alien’s back with his fists.

  Then the Xan guard jumped . . . right off the path and straight down.

  Anne screamed and seemed to go even faster, while Weatherby, having looked down earlier, had a sense of what might have happened. Splitting off the main path, Weatherby loped across a bridge-like structure until he was over the great empty space between buildings that seemed to pass for Xan “streets.”

  As he drew his pistol, Weatherby saw he had guessed correctly, for the Xan and Philip had landed in some kind of conveyance—nothing short of a carriage without wheels, horse or apparently engine—that was now flying toward him, driven by a second Xan accomplice.

  One shot.

  Weatherby aimed . . . and fired.

  The driver slumped forward, and the vehicle—which looked like half an egg split end to end, hovering of its own accord—began to slow. But it did not stop.

  Cursing under his breath, Weatherby tucked his pistol back in his belt and prayed his timing would work. He could see the Xan guard shoving his injured compatriot out of the way in order to drive the vehicle with purpose once more.

  Weatherby clambered up onto the railing at the side of the walkway, with a web of walkways far below, and only the Void beyond. He saw the strange conveyance pick up speed, judged the distance as best he could . . . and leapt.

  His timing was dreadful. He managed to grab the very back of the vehicle by some kind of shiny, mirrored protuberance, one that seemed to be unable to support his full weight. Weatherby kicked and groped and tried to clamber aboard the open vehicle, only to find that he had miscounted the number of Xan therein.

  There was at least one more, towering above him now, with terrible smiles upon each of its mouths. In its hands was a long staff of some kind, aimed squarely at Weatherby’s head.

  Weatherby lashed out with his sword, neatly slicing the Xan’s staff in half, which caused it to spark in the alien’s hands. This prompted him to fall backward into the carriage once more, giving Weatherby the opportunity to drive his blade deep down into the carriage itself, using it as an impromptu handle to haul himself upward . . .

  . . . and apparently causing a severe malfunction, for smoke quickly began to billow from the hole made when he withdrew his blade.

  Distracted by this, Weatherby finally turned back toward the front of the flying carriage, only to be faced by a furious Xan once more. The creature dispensed with any sort of pleasantry, and quickly dispensed with Weatherby a second later, slapping him with a backhand that sent the captain clean off the vehicle and into the air.

  He fell.

  Glass, steel and light hurtled past him as he realized this would be his last moment. He thought of his daughter, his precocious, loving Elizabeth, who would now be orphaned entirely but would, he was sure, thrive in his sister’s care. He thought of his late wife with sadness and forgiveness, for her and himself both. He thought of his friend O’Brian, and of Anne, and how he failed them. More thoughts, jumbled together, flew through his mind, pierced by the occasional disharmonic gasp from the walkways he fell past.

  Oddly, it occurred to him he was falling quite a long time, even for the heights at which he started.

  Then his stomach lurched, and suddenly he felt as if he were falling upward. And for some reason, all of the Xan around him seemed to be upside down.

  Then he fell back down again, in the opposite direction until his stomach twisted a second time, and the sensation of falling upward returned, though for a lesser amount of time.

  The gravity horizon—that’s what Finch once called it, he remembered.

  Saturn’s ring-cities were set directly upon the gravity plane of the planet itself, and thus the city was built in two directions—up and down. Weatherby determined he must have fallen straight through the gravity horizon and was now bouncing back and forth through the different fields of pull. Eventually, he would even out.

  And so he did, finally slowing to the point where he could lay hands on a walkway and pull himself upward to his feet.

  That prompted more screams and screeches, as the Xan here were utterly unaware of the happenings several hundred feet above them. Indeed, Weatherby considered, albeit briefly, that he was likely the first human these worthies had ever seen. A Xan falling from the skies and landing in Brighton might warrant a similar reaction from even the friendliest of Englishmen.

  “I’m sorry,” Weatherby said pensively. “I did not intend any alarm.”

  His speaking, sadly, created much more ruckus, and soon he was surrounded by several dozen Xan, all singing and crying in a perfect discord, one that grated severely on Weatherby’s nerves. A few in the crowd tried making gestures that seemed peaceful, while at least one of the Xan appeared angry, its movements quick and seeming violent.

  Then Weatherby felt massive hands shoving his back, sending him staggering forward. He turned to see a hooded Xan screeching loudly, with intense minor chords. Others approached him, their hands outstretched, cooing melodically, while a pair of Xan stood in front of Weatherby apparently to protect him. The songs grew louder, and the belligerent one who pushed Weatherby began to shove others away, stepping toward the object of his ire.

  Suddenly, the crowd’s attention was drawn away from Weatherby by an approaching noise, an urgent and harmonic staccato coming from another of the Xan’s flying carriages—this one with strange markings upon it. Two Xan were inside, wearing medallions Weatherby had seen amongst those in the self-defense complex, and Representative Vellusk was with them. The crowd quickly dispersed, with the most angry of the Xan seeming to move away at the fastest pace.

  “Captain Weatherby, are you all right?” Vellusk sang as the vehicle came to a stop.

  “Quite so, surprisingly, thank you,” he replied. “The boy? Philip?”

  Vellusk’s voice took on a sorrowful harmony. “Lost, for now.”

  Weatherby frowned. “Please, if you would, can you take me back to Ambassador Morrow? And locate the Countess St. Germain as well?”

  The Xan gestured as a door materialized and opened on the side of the conveyance. Weatherby got in and sat, and the carriage soon whisked its way up into the skies. In any other moment, Weatherby would’ve marveled at the sights around him, and at the speeds at which he flew. But his thoughts now were inward, grappling with a death cheated, a mission given another chance.

  “We cannot take you back to our facility,” Vellusk said apologetically. “This incident has already caused a crisis amongst our people, one that is unparalleled in memory.”

  Weatherby nodded. “I understand. My ship?”

  “Your Fortitude has been directed to the Earth Quarter, where your ambassador and your woman will meet you,” the Xan said.

  “And the boy? Surely you can track him.”

  “It would appear not,” Vellusk replied, seeming as though its pride was wounded slightly. “The arkasht—the vehicle you damaged—left a trail of smoke behind. But this quickly dissipated. And the partisans may have the means to cloak themselves, much as we cloaked your entry and exit into the city itself.”

  Weatherby leaned back into his chair, oblivious to the wonders of the city around him. There were so
many things to consider, to worry about—what the French were planning, what the Xan partisans might do, how the Xan would react to the humans in their cities—but there was but one thing on the captain’s mind, and it was the look on Anne’s face as she desperately ran after the creature that had taken her son.

  The boy was somehow key, for if the partisans were simply looking for a prisoner, they would take the ambassador, or the Countess, or even himself. No, a boy was no bargaining chip, Weatherby realized. The Xan partisans needed him for something.

  The French ship was cloaked. As was the vessel the partisans were using.

  The Count St. Germain was with the French.

  “Sir,” Weatherby called up to Vellusk, who was sitting in front of him. “We must make all haste. I fear we may have little time.”

  The representative seemed to nod—or at least, moved its head in recognition of Weatherby—and soon the open carriage began to . . . close, much to Weatherby’s surprise. It was not the collapsible roof found on some more modern carriages on Earth. Rather, the walls and ceiling of the vehicle simply seemed to materialize around the seats, encasing all the passengers securely, with a window upon the front of the vehicle.

  For all the world, Weatherby felt as though he were in the inside of a chicken’s egg, writ large.

  Then the vehicle sped forward at an amazing speed, hurtling through the buildings on either side and away from the ring-cities entirely. With a deft twist, the vehicle was upright and heading for Mimas at speeds Fortitude would be well challenged to match. Perhaps at full sail, Weatherby considered, with a very light complement and no cargo . . .

  Then the vehicle sped up yet again, and Weatherby was left to wonder silently, and with a degree of concern, at the Xan’s strange alchemy and technologies. Thankfully, he did not have long to be weighed with such thoughts, for the small Ovoid quickly approached Mimas, and the circular crater-lake where most of the Earth ships docked when visiting Xanath. Indeed, compared to the ring-cities, the little harbors of Lake Herschel seemed entirely Earth-like.

  The Xan piloted the vessel down to the lake, opening the roof once more and allowing Weatherby to enjoy a cool breeze. Having not noticed it before, he now felt that the air around the ring-cities was seemingly hollow in comparison, as if it were as highly regulated and crafted as the city itself.