The Enceladus Crisis

by Michael J. Martinez

  The guards around the DAEDALUS team suddenly pointed their weapons at Diaz, Coogan and Huntington.

  “Always knew you were a bastard,” Diaz said quietly.

  Harry ignored her. “Dr. Greene, let’s get to work. Set up a link to the BlueNet control network and have General Diaz here provide you with all the necessary passwords. If she doesn’t, then we’ll flip a coin and see which one of her officers gets hurt first.”

  Harry stalked off, leaving Greene and Ayim looking at each other uncomfortably. Diaz saw Greene’s hand shaking as he held a datapad full of numbers.

  “You don’t have to do this, Evan,” she said as gently as she could muster. “Shut it down. You open the door, you have no idea what’ll come through.”

  Greene looked at the floor, then at his pad, and finally up at Diaz. “I’m sorry.” He gave a sigh. “We’ll need your command codes in about fifteen minutes.”

  As Greene walked off with his colleague, Diaz saw him start to smile as they discussed their data. Real science. Looked like it wasn’t that tough a decision for him after all.

  October 16, 1798

  The first thing Dr. Andrew Finch saw was his apprentice, Jabir, hovering over him and wiping his brow. The boy looked worried and altogether haggard. Any further contemplation was cut off by a searing pain in his head.

  “Christ!” Finch moaned, wincing. “What happened?”

  At this, Jabir actually smiled. “You are awake!” he said in Arabic. “Allah be praised.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Finch groused, but then events came flooding back into his memory. The altar, the explosion of traps. The stone that fell upon him . . .

  Finch looked down at his forearms, which were swaddled in bandages. As the pain in his head cleared, he could feel the throbbing ache in his arms. “How bad?” he asked.

  Jabir sat up and wiped his hands with the cloth. “Both your arms were broken, and you suffered a blow to the head,” he reported. “If not for your arms, your head would have been crushed. For an old man, you are quick when you need to be.”

  The patient smiled despite himself. “I assume the French brought me out of there?”

  “Your friend Dolomieu and one of the soldiers carried you out,” Jabir confirmed. “Berthollet, they say, treated you there in the temple, though whatever working he may have done was very little to my eye.”

  “I’m surprised he spared any time at all,” Finch said, gingerly sitting up despite the pain. His arms protested, but not overly so. “You healed the bones?”

  At this, the boy’s face lit with pride and accomplishment. “We did not have some of the more esoteric ingredients you prefer, murshid, but I made do with what you had in your portable laboratory. They will be sore a few days, I think. Your head was another matter, of course.”

  Finch nodded, and immediately regretted the reflexive movement as another wave of pain seared through his skull. For all the curative wonders of the Great Work, injuries to the head remained something of a mystery to all but the highest masters of the vitalis school. Finch had postulated that the mind was such an important and nuanced organ that it simply required more time—or greater understanding—for the mystic sciences to be truly effective.

  “What have I missed?” he asked.

  Jabir shrugged. “The French are very busy, murshid. They brought something up from the temple, but whatever it is, it remains with Berthollet. From what I have seen, it remains in the old doctor’s tent, with his savants visiting him there, then running off with papers and notes to do more work.”

  Finch shook his head sadly; his chess match with Berthollet was not going well at all. “What of the temple?”

  “None are allowed down the passage to see it, not even Sheikh Karim, and he has tried to go below many times, only to be turned away,” Jabir said. “The French left your things down there, and I had to beg your friend Dolomieu to retrieve your portable laboratory so I could treat you. He is a good man, your friend. He is worried, and I know not why.”

  Finch reached for a glass of water on the small table next to him, taking a sip and gauging his surroundings. He was in the tent he shared with Jabir, and his apprentice had managed to create a more comfortable bed for him by seemingly acquiring every spare pillow and blanket the French brought across the desert. He then picked up a small mirror, seeing a very pale, tired man with a bandaged head in the reflection.

  “You’ve done very well,” he said finally. “I thank you, Jabir. You are a fine alchemist.”

  Jabir’s grin threatened to overrun his entire countenance. “I have a fine teacher, thanks be to Allah,” he said. “And . . . oh, there is one thing I forgot. The French have brought a very large wooden box into Berthollet’s tent.”

  The French alchemist’s tent was, naturally, palatial compared to all others in their company. It had an actual bed, as well as a table that could comfortably fit four for supper. But, still . . . “How big?” Finch asked.

  “Nearly as tall as I am, and just as wide. They carried it from one of the supply wagons.”

  No wonder we traveled the desert so slowly! Finch thought. “They’ve found something, I’ll wager. Something quite impressive, no doubt.”

  “Do you think they will show you what they have found?” Jabir asked.

  Finch barked out a laugh, and winced immediately thereafter from the pain. “No! No, I think that unless they feel there is more under the ground, they have little use for me now. Berthollet will hoard his knowledge, as most alchemists so foolishly do. And it will do him no good, or get him into trouble of the absolute worst sort.”

  Jabir nodded gravely. “I fear these ancient things, they may be an affront to Islam.”

  Finch reached over and patted the boy’s shoulder. “I know. I fear they may be an affront to everything. Go now and find Dolomieu. Tell him I am awake and wish to thank him. Let’s see what he’ll tell us.”

  Jabir immediately bowed—as well as one could in a cramped tent—and dashed off, leaving Finch to lean back in his makeshift bed and further gauge the extent of his wounds. The bones in his arms, it seemed, knitted quiet well; Jabir always had a knack for curatives. His head would likely be tender for a few more days, but overall, he considered himself quite fortunate.

  Except, of course, for the fact that the French likely made an impressive find—or rather, he made an impressive find on their behalf, and then had the damnable luck of injury, which conveniently got him out of their way.

  A few minutes later, Dolomieu entered the tent and beamed at Finch. “You, sir, are entirely fortunate, you know!” He held up a bottle. “Let’s celebrate your return to us!”

  Finch smiled. “I was just contemplating my luck before you arrived, Deo. Come, sit and pour some of that wine. I’m to understand you’ve been quite busy of late.”

  Dolomieu sat near Finch and poured two glasses. “Not I, my friend. I have been allowed to make some further explorations of the temple below, but the real work has been above ground, with your find.”

  With a rueful chuckle, Finch took a glass and saluted. “Make no mistake. It’s Berthollet’s find. I may have had something to say about it had I not been injured, but since I was . . .”

  The Frenchman nodded and dropped his head slightly. “Yes, he has been very cautious with it. Even I don’t know what it is. He had me check the room once more for any un-sprung traps while he examined it. All I know is that it’s somewhat bulky, and wrapped in leather straps. He took it directly to his tent, and that’s the last I saw of it. Only a few of us have been granted access to him since, and he brought the stone into his tent as well.”

  “The stone?” Finch asked innocently, though he knew there was something to it. Dolomieu had always been a talkative sort, and that was precisely the trait upon which Finch relied in that moment.

  Dolomieu’s face turned red. “Pay no mind. Something he brought from Cairo with us,” he said quickly.

  “Deo, come now.”

  With a sigh and a swig
of wine, Dolomieu relented. “In the early days of our expedition, before the Battle of the Pyramids, some of our scouts near the town of Rosetta came across an artifact—a stone with ancient writings upon it. There were hieroglyphs, yes. But also in ancient Greek, and another language we do not know. Syriac, perhaps.”

  “On the same stone?” Finch marveled.

  “Indeed. We believe it is from Ptolemaic times, when the Greeks ruled here. If it was some sort of message or decree to the populace, written in each language . . .”

  “. . . then it is the key to unlocking the hieroglyphs of ancient Egypt!” Finch exclaimed, ignoring the throbbing in his head. “That is an extraordinary find, Deo!”

  Dolomieu smiled. “It is indeed, my friend, and Berthollet has had our language experts at work upon it since. Indeed, the supply wagon held not only the stone, but the two men assigned to decipher it. They have been at it for weeks.”

  Finch took a slow slip of his wine as his mind raced. There were said to be many alchemical—no one dared say magical—artifacts from the days of the Pharaohs still left undiscovered in Egypt. But this find was no mere artifact. It was something written.

  A book.

  “I can think of at least two finds that might require such extraordinary labors and extensive precautions,” Finch ventured. “You know of what I speak, Deo.”

  The other man’s eyes widened. “Surely not,” he said. “Those are legends, Andrew. There are plenty of finds to be had in Egypt without resorting to . . . to . . . fairy tales!”

  “Perhaps not,” Finch allowed, seeing that his friend had passed his little test. Deo had no clue what the French dug up—but then, Finch was likewise well in the dark. “But then, Alexander managed to find this place following the flight of a hawk, or so they say.”

  Dolomieu smiled at his friend. “I’m sure it is an excellent find, whatever it is. If it is indeed the Emerald Tablet, I’ll be sure to let you know!”

  “Or The Book of the Dead,” Finch added. “Either or, of course.”

  “Either or,” Dolomieu agreed, quaffing the remainder of his wine. “And now, my friend, I must go attend to the excavations once more. I expect you to stop lazing about as soon as you can!”

  Finch sent him off with the usual pleasantries, and let his mind wander. The tablet and the book were indeed the stuff of legends—but then, so were the ancient Martians. As he learned on Mars, the gods of old were in fact representations of Martian culture—or even individual Martians themselves—from before their destruction by the Xan. At what point, he wondered, does myth become history? Or history drift into legend?

  Whatever Berthollet found, there would be some alchemical use for it, Finch had no doubt. He was quite sure that the history of Alexander shown to him on the journey was but one piece of the puzzle, and Berthollet likely had more in his possession from the Vatican archives. They would not have risked all across the burning sands to simply find collectibles or curiosities.

  Finch was writing in his notebook when Jabir entered the tent once more. “What did you learn, murshid?”

  “Only how much more I need to know, which is quite a lot,” Finch said as he scribbled. “They’ve found something here, and God only knows what.” He ripped the page from his book, then folded it carefully. “Hand me the sealant.”

  Jabir handed over a small vial, and Finch dabbed the liquid all around the edges of the paper whilst chanting in Latin. He then took up the pen of his little envelope and wrote something in Arabic upon it.

  “Deliver this only if I am in any sort of peril, and only at the last possible moment,” he said quietly. “Until then, make sure it does not leave your person.”

  Jabir eyed the paper suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “Insurance.”

  CHAPTER 16

  June 21, 2134

  The Tienlong was an ungainly ship, at least when compared to the graceful lines and elegant ring on Armstrong. The Chinese survey vessel was blocky, ungainly, and reminded Shaila of old Communist-style architecture—blunt, unadorned, and altogether too serious.

  And there was no one aboard answering the comm.

  They tried everything, from old-style radio transmissions to using the ship’s running lights to transmit Morse code. The Armstrong’s sensors lashed the Tienlong every few minutes, but couldn’t penetrate the radiation shielding built into the hull of the ship. Tienlong represented a very different philosophy of space-faring. It wasn’t much longer than Armstrong, but it was much bigger inside. They brought all their food and fuel along with them. The artificial gravity was generated by a spinning crossbar of hull in the middle of the ship, providing two distinct areas of gravity on either end of the section. The rad shielding was achieved through ultra-dense polymers sandwiched into the hull, rather than electromagnetic shielding systems. At least the Chinese still believed in preventing asteroid collision; the Tienlong boasted a pair of microwave emitters to reduce incoming rocks to dust.

  Shaila studied the ship carefully from the cockpit of Lander Two, waiting for clearance to depart. Stephane and Hall were busy loading up their gear in the back; technically, they were going to the surface of Titan to conduct a search-and-rescue mission, likely followed closely by an investigation into Chinese activities there. But it made zero sense not to include the Armstrong’s corporate sponsor and planetary scientist. Hall was surprised to find that the Chinese had sent only one lander, and that it had landed well away from the most promising hydrocarbon deposits on the entire moon. That seemed to pique Stephane’s interest, as he quickly became interested in what was there. The Chinese had landed in a mountainous region near the northern pole, away from the large and impressive lakes that dotted the area. It was utterly unremarkable at first glance—which meant it warranted a second glance.

  As Shaila went through her preflight checklist, her thoughts kept coming back to Stephane. He’d spent the better part of their transit orbit either in the lab or in his little-used quarters. The orbit duty roster meant that they didn’t have down-time together—not uncommon during long spaceflights, when the captain regularly shuffled shifts and duties to pair up different people—but for the past several months, Stephane’s quarters were simply a place to store clothes; he was a social creature, and when he wasn’t in the common areas, he was in Shaila’s quarters, even while she was on duty.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the comm. “Lander Two, you ready to go?” Archie asked, seemingly annoyed.

  “Lander Two prepared for launch,” she replied, scurrying to flip the final few switches, lost as she was in her reverie. “Stephane, Liz, let’s get on board.”

  Her two colleagues floated down from the hatch above. Stephane took the seat behind Shaila’s, leaving Hall to ride shotgun. Shaila tried not to let it get to her.

  “Lander Two and Armstrong, this is One,” Nilssen called from the other Lander. “We’re ready over here. I want everyone’s runtime vids and audio linked to the recorders. Whatever happened, we’re going to want to have proof.”

  Shaila acknowledged the order briefly. While she ferried Hall and Stephane to the surface, Nilssen and Conti would head over to Tienlong to render aid as needed—and again, investigate just what the hell was happening. Archie would stay aboard Armstrong to babysit both operations while continuing to run diagnostics on his precious engines to see just how much damage, if any, their orbital burn had done.

  Lander One would take about ten minutes to head over to the Tienlong, and probably another ten to ensure it was safe to dock and open the hatch. After that, the commander and medical officer would see what surprises the ship had in store for them. Shaila, meanwhile, would take nearly ninety minutes to reach the surface of Titan. There, they would land about a kilometer from the Chinese lander, which everyone hoped would be a safe distance from . . . well, they didn’t know. Safe distances simply seemed prudent.

  “Clear for launch,” Archie said. “Go get ’em.”

  “Roger that, Armstrong,” Nilssen repli
ed. “Landers One and Two, launch.”

  Shaila gave the lander’s seals one final look, then disengaged the docking clamps. A moment later, both ships were free of Armstrong’s shielding and peeled off in different directions. Shaila did a full burn for Titan’s northern pole, while Nilssen crept toward Tienlong cautiously, with near-constant sensor sweeps all over the Chinese vessel.

  “No movement in any of the windows,” Nilssen reported. Shaila kept his channel open so they could hear and see them—a small holo feed was tucked into the corner of their HUDs. She could see Hall paying close attention, while Stephane seemed to be content looking out the window at the clouds of Titan below, though when she turned back, Shaila could see streams of data flowing across his HUD. Work is good, Shaila thought. Get him in gear again.

  “You’d think they’d notice us by now if they were in there,” Conti said. She had a point; Shaila could see that Lander One was close enough to the Chinese ship that they could make out faces in the windows. At that distance, Shaila knew Armstrong’s proximity sensors would be going off madly, and since Tienlong still had lights on, it was pretty likely the sensors still had power. So it was more likely that there was nobody aboard to see them—or they were simply in no condition to reply.

  “All right,” Nilssen said over the comm. “Docking ring looks solid. Thank God for international standards. We’re going to try to link up.”

  Shaila kept one eye on the vidfeed as she piloted Lander Two over the russet-orange clouds of Titan. The cloud cover was impenetrable, which made things a bit easier—she’d be wholly distracted tearing her attention from one vista to another. As it was, Shaila was quite content to let the computer do most of the flying; she watched the vidfeed intently.

  “Docking engaged. We have good seal,” Nilssen intoned. “We’re linked up. Conti and I are going seal up until we’re damn sure there’s nothing wrong with the environment aboard the Chinese ship. Transmitting standard docking and rescue protocols now. Jain, status?”

  Shaila started at the mention of her name, engrossed as she was in the holodrama projected onto her helmet visor. “Jain here. All systems nominal. ETA forty-three minutes to designated landing site. Over.”