The Enceladus Crisis

by Michael J. Martinez

  The end of the corridor featured another door, more ornate than the last, with wood banded in brass and, perhaps, gold as well. Finch halted the party and conducted a thorough search of the portal, using his multi-colored glasses to find any imperfections, using a tiny brush to clean minute bits of dust from the masonry, and running his fingers gently across the entire surface. Behind him, he could hear Berthollet huffing slightly in impatience. Finch was quite ready to tell him to test the door himself, but thought better of it.

  Finally, Finch tried the door, which opened easily. He then looked closely at the floor on the other side, as well as the walls and ceiling, before allowing the rest of the group entry. At this juncture, Finch believed it quite safe, really, but he had always held to the mantra of making oneself appear as indispensable as possible. Especially when expendable.

  “Light!” cried Berthollet. “We need light!”

  The two remaining soldiers began breaking out additional torches, while Finch adjusted his lantern so that it would shine particularly bright, as well as forward. The room appeared to be quite large, the walls adorned with a wide variety of pictograms. Finch recognized some, including those said to represent Amon-Ra, which were of particular prominence. Unsurprising for Egypt’s late period of antiquity, prior to the rise of Ptolemy.

  The center of the room held a large, low altar. Finch had half-expected it to be similar in construction and size to the one he had seen on Mars, those many years ago, but it was nothing like it, and Finch found himself slightly relieved at this. While it would be an incredible find, it would also be one full of portent, and perhaps not for the good.

  The group quickly spread out to conduct a thorough examination of the room. Finch could see Dolomieu looking assiduously at the floor and ceiling, as well as the massive double doors at the far end of the chamber. Good—the geologist was applying Finch’s methods already. And that left Finch to make for the altar straightaway.

  Berthollet had the same idea.

  “I believe this is the main temple,” the Frenchman said.

  “It stands to reason,” Finch said neutrally.

  Berthollet ran his hands across the top of the stone altar, which had maintained a relatively smooth surface despite the intervening centuries. “Perhaps another trigger?” he muttered.

  Finch wracked his brain, trying to think of alternatives. This was a ceremonial chamber, not one for storage. There were no signs of cabinets or shelves, nothing that could be locked, so keeping sacred relics in here would require a permanent guard. That would be incredibly inefficient, and certainly would create a need for wholly reliable servants. If nothing else, the trapped back entrance told Finch a great deal about the ancient priests’ ability to trust.

  Simply put, any secrets the Egyptians wished to preserve would not be kept here openly. But where, then? Finch was sure the rest of the complex would bear clues, but that was days and days of work. Finch was many things, but exceedingly patient was not among them. And neither were the Franks.

  “The Vatican archives said nothing of this,” Berthollet muttered to himself in French as he continued to run his large, thick hands over the altar—now the sides, where there were numerous carvings.

  Something in that struck a chord with Finch. The Vatican . . . His thoughts turned to the trappings of the Holy Church and its cathedrals, how they were built, and what secrets they kept. A moment later, Finch was on all fours, looking closely at the floor under the altar, flipping through the lenses on his ocular device.

  There.

  Directly beneath the altar piece was a large, square block of stone in the floor, at least two-and-a-half feet per side. There was a small indentation within it, a hole that likely fit some sort of lever for moving it.

  Of course, it would be trapped to hell and back.

  “Deodat!” Finch called. “What have you found?”

  The geologist jogged back toward the altar. “There are mechanisms upon the main doors, Doctor. I have managed to disable them. There are also, I think, many places where spikes or some such may fall or fly from the ceilings and walls. There is something here, certainly.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Finch replied. He turned to one of the soldiers. “I have need of your musket and your bayonet, young man.”

  The soldier immediately sought to hand over his weapon, but was stopped by an outstretched hand from Berthollet. “What have you found?” he demanded of Finch.

  Finch smiled. “A possible trap, which may lead us to the prize we seek.”

  “Where?”

  “No, sir. I will disarm it or trigger it as safely as I can, but you will leave it to me, or else you may doom us all,” Finch said.

  Berthollet started to grow red in the face. “Dr. Finch, this is uncalled for. We have treated you with naught but respect and camaraderie! Why now do you endanger this?”

  “I endanger it before you do, sir,” Finch said coolly. “I have served you well, but I will not have you and your men about, potentially causing more chaos. Those are my terms. Otherwise, you may attempt this as you like.”

  It was, of course, something of a bluff. It would not take Dolomieu all that long to deduce what Finch had found. Triggering it might cost the lives of more soldiers, but that did not seem to bother Berthollet overmuch. In the end, Finch was counting on the fact that Berthollet would be as impatient as he.

  “Very well,” Berthollet said gruffly. “You may proceed.”

  Finch nodded. “Accord,” he said. “Now get out. Wait in the corridor.”

  Berthollet paused a moment, then nodded at Dolomieu and the two guards, who proceeded back into the corridor. Finch could feel Berthollet’s eyes boring into him from the doorway as he began his preparations. Of course, Finch knew the reasons behind Berthollet’s reticence. Finch would be the first to discover whatever treasures the ancients kept there, and Berthollet seemed quite keen on keeping him in the dark as long as possible. If practical, forever.

  Finch turned his mind to the task at hand. The stone would open toward someone standing behind the altar. There was a space there roughly large enough for one man to enter—or jump in, should something go wrong. Finch searched the altar in vain for some sort of safety catch, like the one in the back entrance, but to no avail.

  He then considered his options. His first impulse, to use a bayonet as a lever, seemed quite foolish now, as it would leave him standing and exposed. A rope and pulley, perhaps, to pull it open while he stood at length? Better, but there was no guarantee of safety. Indeed, the only safe place seemed to be directly under the altar, where the presumed trapdoor was housed. For if a priest were to be threatened, he could open the hatch and then duck under the altar, avoiding whatever hell would be unleashed upon his enemies.

  Finch opened his pack and pulled out a small case—a portable alchemical laboratory, perhaps one of the finest available. Laying it out on the altar, he mixed several ingredients, including Ionic sulfur and an extract from an acid-spitting plant from Venus, then boiled them quickly using a burner and a portable fuel admixture of his own devising. A few drops of Europan water cooled the resulting liquid just as quickly as it boiled.

  With his potion ready, Finch quickly stowed his lab in its case and tucked it under the altar. Crouching, he then carefully chanted a final prayer over his creation and poured it along the cracks in the masonry, then splashed it across the massive stone. Finally, he pulled out another of his own creations—a small stick of wood with phosphorus and sulfur at the end—and scraped it across the side of the altar. It immediately created a small flame at the tip, which Finch then applied to the center of the stone.

  The stone caught fire quickly and began to disintegrate as if it were made of mere paper—which, thanks to Finch’s alchemy, it very nearly was. Beneath, he could see a number of ritual items—and a package roughly two feet to a side, wrapped in thin bandages seemingly made of a kind of leather.

  Then the room went mad.

  A deep rumble perme
ated the floor, while stones and rocks fell from the ceiling and metal spikes flew from the walls. It was a gigantic death trap.

  And Finch was quite wrong—the underside of the altar was not safe, for a pair of very large spikes flew from the back of the chamber straight for where he stood . . .

  . . . except he had already thrown himself down through the flaming stone, and was crouched inside a hole no more than three feet deep. He saw the spikes pass overhead, and hoped fervently the altar wouldn’t collapse upon him.

  He saw just how wrong he was when a stone fell from the underside of the altar itself—a final check against would-be thieves, of which he was now one.

  There wasn’t enough room to duck. Finch reflexively raised his arms, feeling the lancing pain as the stone—a foot wide and nearly as thick—crashed into them.

  And then all was black.

  June 20, 2134

  Lander Two gently eased into the snows of Enceladus with barely an impact; Shaila smiled despite herself at how good she’d gotten at low-gravity landings. Plus, most of her vitriol had been spent during the hour-long trip down to the moon’s surface, as she ripped Stephane a new one before he even finished with his report. At one point, he had to plead with her to let him complete it before he could begin answering her questions. Even though they were largely rhetorical in nature—as in, “What the fuck were you thinking?”—she gave him just enough respite to get his work done.

  Barely. By the time Shaila fired up the landing sequence, Stephane seemed suitably chagrined. In fact, Shaila worried she might have overdone it, because he was almost too quiet as he looked out the side window at the snow-covered world.

  “All right,” she said as she powered down the engines. “You clear on why everything you did sucked so badly?”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling weakly.

  She stared at him for a long moment, gauging him. He seemed almost crestfallen. “Right, then.” She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “Don’t do it again. Let’s get out there.”

  A few minutes later, they were clear of the airlock. Stephane began unloading crates, while Shaila went to work on the water desalinization unit. She had the schematics on her datapad—putting them up on her HUD would’ve distracted the hell out of her—and she began poking around it to see if there was any way of getting it to suck up less salt and particulates.

  “You OK over there?” she asked Stephane over the comm.

  “I am,” he replied. “Moving over to the tiger stripes now. The seismic alarms are still in place. I will report in regularly, I promise.”

  “You better.”

  Shaila began taking apart the desalinization unit. Once she pulled out the main filter, a cloud of salt particles followed, spraying into the space around her and drifting off ever so gently. There was just too much in Enceladus’ water for the system to keep up. Someone would have to be replacing filters every few minutes to get the kind of clean water Archie needed.

  Unless . . .

  “Jain to Durand, come in.”

  “I’m not there yet,” he responded, sounding miffed.

  “Whatever. Question for you. If we let the water sit a while before filtering, would some of the salt and particulates move to the bottom?”

  “Not enough,” he replied. “It is in solution. Some of the heavier particulates, yes, but the salt? No. To get fresh water out of salt water, you have to . . . ah! Boil it!”

  Shaila smiled. “See? You’re a bright guy. Thanks.”

  She closed the link and hop-skipped back to the lander, the DIY part of her brain clicking along nicely. The only heat source they had was the laser drill they used to release the sensor bots into Enceladus’ undersea oceans. The drill would be overkill if used on freestanding water; it would vaporize it instantly, along with whatever else they were using as a container. But if she aimed it at the ground, well away from the tiger stripes, she could burrow through the icy crust of the surface and into the salty oceans below. Both the ice and the water would be turned to steam . . . which they could then try to capture. It would likely cool quickly, even in the insulated hoses used to channel water into the lander’s cargo bay. Boom—instant, pure water.

  Shaila picked up the drill. The problem was, of course, that the drill ran on battery power. It was heavy-duty enough so that it would probably only last five minutes on a charge—nowhere near long enough to get a decent amount of pure water in the tank.

  Multiple batteries? Probably weren’t enough onboard the ship to make it worthwhile. But the lander’s generator could probably feed the drill for much longer. She began calling up the lander schematics on her datapad, cross-referencing them with the drill schematics she put up on her HUD.

  Twenty minutes later, she had her solution. She could install a conventional power-plug onboard the lander, then rig a cord between the lander and the drill. Gin up a stand of some kind, then seal the whole thing off so that the steam would be contained, rising to the top and trickling down as pure water. Thankfully, the damned drill was certified waterproof, given its use on an ice moon. Hopefully that particular JSC contractor was on the ball.

  Shaila stowed the drill back in the lander, feeling rather victorious. They’d probably be delayed another four to six hours while they got their gear rigged, but once things got going, they’d be able to get some high-quality fuel aboard.

  Then she noticed the crates still in the lander. They were Stephane’s instruments.

  “Jain to Durand, come in,” she said.

  “Durand here.”

  “You forget something?”

  A pause. “Not that I know of. What did I forget?”

  “Most of your gear is still here in the lander.”

  Stephane laughed through the comm. “Most, not all. I am running with some ideas on these flows. I will be back soon for them.”

  Before she could respond, Shaila’s HUD came up with an urgent comm alert. “Hang on, Stephane,” she said. “Armstrong, this is Jain. I copy.”

  “Jain, you and Durand need to get up here ASAP.” Nilssen said. “We got a distress call from Tienlong.”

  “Say again?”

  “You heard me. Tienlong sent a distress call. We need you up here with all the clean water you can bring. Move it.”

  “Roger that. Jain out,” she replied. “Stephane, you hear that?”

  “Yes, I am coming.”

  An hour and fifteen minutes later, Shaila docked Lander Two back aboard Armstrong. It had taken a couple of stern exhortations to get Stephane moving; he nattered on excitedly about water flows and particulates and undersea currents throughout the trip back to the ship, so much so that Shaila found herself almost forgiving him for his earlier craziness.

  Once out of their pressure suits, Shaila and Stephane entered the common room, where Nilssen had convened the crew. “All right, let’s go. Archie?”

  “Nothing more on comm, except this message,” he said. He hit a button on his pad, and the holoprojector above the table flickered on. Shaila immediately recognized the UN-standard code for spacefaring vessels, including status reports on engines, life-support, personnel and cargo. Before she could dive in, the audio came on. “This is Chinese ship Tienlong. We are making a distress call. We have personnel on Titan. Requesting assistance. Repeat, this is Chinese ship Tienlong, with distress call. We have personnel on Titan and we cannot find them. Over.”

  The room was deathly silent.

  “It’s on a loop,” Archie said finally. “We tried pinging ’em back. Nothing. Not detecting anything more from Titan right now. No comms, no engine signature, nothing. Like they just said their piece and shut everything down.”

  “Visual from our sats?” Shaila asked.

  “They’re not in position. Won’t be for another twelve hours,” Nilssen said. “By that time, we could be well on our way there, only to find they’re just fucking with us. Or they’re all dead. Nice thing is, we’re still getting the automated feed from the depot ships. So if they’re i
n shit-shape and try to break in for supplies, we’ll know about it.”

  The comm signal pinged through the room, sending everyone looking to their datapads or HUD visors. “Packet from Houston,” Shaila said. “The Chinese have officially reached out to JSC to request assistance as well. Captain’s discretion as to whether we do it.”

  Nilssen smiled. “Nice to have someone to blame. Archie, how fast can we get to Titan?”

  “It’s not about how fast, it’s about the goddamn fuel,” Archie replied. “Tanks are 34 percent full, enough for a good solid burn for a quick transit orbit. But it’s mostly that salty crap. I don’t have simulations back yet from Houston on what it’ll do to our systems.”

  Nilssen pondered this. “Which is worse? Fast burn or slow burn?”

  Archie scowled at him. “Doesn’t matter. Either could fuck up our engines.”

  “Could?”

  The old engineer leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “Look, we’ll get there. We’ll make orbit. The ship won’t blow up. From there, we’ll have to see just how long it’ll take to get our engines back to normal. If we just have to scrub salt out of the engines, a day or two. If we have corrosion, could be weeks. Worst case, I’d have to cannibalize the depot ship engines. At least they’re the same model.”

  Nilssen turned to Shaila. “Jain, set a course for Titan. Soon as you get nav data for a transit orbit, go for full burn. Let’s get there fast. We’ll plan out our ops on the way over. Dismissed.”

  Shaila got up and checked the time—it would take a few minutes for Archie to give the green light before she was needed at the controls. So she followed Stephane down the hallway to the science lab. He looked pale and wan at the conference table, more so than before. “You OK?” she asked gently, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  He turned and smiled weakly. “I don’t know. I mean, I feel fine, but . . . I’m just tired. I’m getting new data from the sensors I dropped, but I’m still trying to figure out how the currents under Enceladus should work, and I’m coming up with nothing,” he said as they entered the lab. He flopped down in front of a workstation and waved up a holomodel of the little world. “You have these currents here, all swirling around the tiger stripes, as if they were rushing up to greet us when we arrived. And yet if you look at gravity, core temperature, all of it, I can’t find a reason.”