The Enceladus Crisis

by Michael J. Martinez

  Shaila eyed the rubble pile, which stretched more than fifty meters up the side of the canyon wall. “You know, is it me or does it look like a ramp?” she muttered.

  “It’s the only path they could’ve taken,” Stephane agreed.

  The three began leaping up the strewn rocks, while worry nagged harder at Shaila. If they had the means to reduce a canyon wall to rubble, then the Chinese had them severely outgunned. Even if it was just standard drilling and mining gear, Shaila knew those kind of tools could be put to terrible use on people.

  They got to the top of the pile, and . . . there was nothing there.

  “What the hell?” Hall said. “Now what?”

  Shaila noticed a ledge about ten meters above them. “Ropes, you think? Or just a jump?” she asked, pointing.

  “You first,” Hall said with a smile.

  With a glance at Stephane, who simply shrugged, Shaila hunched down . . . and leapt.

  The canyon wall flew by in light gravity, but she ended up having to reach out with a gauntleted hand to catch the lip of the ledge. Once done, it was a one-handed job to pull herself up and onto it. Immediately, her zapper went out to cover her surroundings.

  There was a small crevasse in the canyon wall. Her suit lights illuminated a pathway deep into the mountain.

  It was a cave.

  “Fuck, I hate caves,” Shaila muttered. “Get up here, you two.”

  To Shaila’s surprise, Stephane made the jump with ease; she was always on him about his physical training during the voyage out . . . maybe he’d finally taken her up on it? It had been a busy few days, certainly. As for Hall, it took two leaps, but she managed to get up to the ledge. The crevasse seemed just big enough for a suited astronaut to squeeze through. Or was it? Shaila saw more rubble by her feet, and wondered if the Chinese had opened things up a bit to go inside.

  “Why would someone go into a cave on Titan?” Hall wondered. “I mean, there’s good stuff all over the place. No need to excavate for resources.”

  “Depends what you’re looking for,” Stephane said, taking the lead and edging into the crevasse. Shaila followed suit, her zapper before her. She chided herself for not taking point, but there was no room to maneuver around Stephane as he gingerly moved down into the narrow cave.

  Shaila could hear Hall moving into the opening behind her, and not without difficulty. “Something I should know, you two? Was this in some super-secret mission briefing?” she said crossly.

  “Not that I’m aware,” Shaila said with a little pique. It served to mask her own insecurities and fears. Flashbacks to a certain lava tube on Mars sprang unbidden into her mind. Rocks rolling uphill . . . a giant wall . . .

  The three astronauts proceeded down the raw, rocky corridor, which led into the side of the canyon. Occasionally, tiny shafts of light were seen high above—openings between rock walls that let a bit of sunlight in.

  Then the corridor grew more uniform.

  “Shaila, this isn’t normal,” Stephane said. “This rock’s been . . . carved.”

  “Roger that,” Shaila said neutrally. “Reading a slight increase in Cherenkov radiation. Armstrong, you copy that?”

  Silence.

  “Armstrong, this is Jain, come in. We are reading Cherenkov radiation. Please respond. Over.”

  Nothing.

  “Might be too deep inside,” Hall offered.

  “Maybe, or perhaps it’s something else,” Stephane said. “I feel like . . . this is something we’ve seen before, yes?”

  Shaila swallowed tightly and focused on the path ahead. “We’ll see. Keep moving.”

  The walls, meanwhile, continued to get straighter, until it felt like they were in a building rather than a cave. Thankfully, there was room now for Shaila to maneuver around Stephane, which she did without comment and which he allowed. She caught a glimpse of his face, and he looked . . . different. Not scared—she’d seen scared. He was wide-eyed, sweating inside his finely-calibrated pressure suit, looking inscrutably intense. Honestly, he was beginning to creep her the hell out.

  The walls continued to evolve as they walked, and the rough contours seemed to start forming patterns as they proceeded, like weather-beaten . . . runes. Carvings.

  “Armstrong, this is Jain. Come in. Repeat, come in. Where the hell are you?” Shaila said.

  Still nothing.

  “Increased levels of Cherenkov radiation,” Stephane reported. “Something is here.”

  Shaila felt a quiet vibration through her boots, and a split second later, a warning popped up on her HUD. The vibration was consistent with a laser drill used in mining operations.

  A moment later, a blue flash came from down the corridor, and all their sensors went haywire—Cherenkov radiation, among many other types, along with a very small seismic shift.

  “Shit. Double-time,” Shaila said as she bounded down the corridor. Dear God, it’s happening again.

  Suddenly, the corridor opened up into a room.

  It was about the size of a small holomovie theater, roughly 20 meters at a side. There were more carvings along the walls—Shaila couldn’t help but notice they were of a very different style from those she had seen on Mars—and a large platform at the front roughly two meters high. There was a very small opening in the roof, which was another 20 meters up, which let in some dim, orange-tinted light.

  And at the far wall, near the platform, two pressure-suited astronauts were clearing rubble away from something.

  Shaila decided not to stand on ceremony. She lifted her zapper and fired.

  One of the two astronauts went down, and the other turned in shock.

  He was holding a laser drill in one hand—and a large, ornately carved green slab in the other.

  Then he fired the drill.

  “Down!” Shaila cried out.

  Shaila dove to the floor in front of her, bouncing off the flat stone surface in the low gravity, then rolling over toward the wall for more cover. She saw Stephane hit the dirt opposite her. Her HUD showed that Hall had retreated back into the corridor somewhat to escape the fire. Smart girl.

  An explosion of pebbles and dirt centimeters from her face told her the guy with the drill was still busy. She rolled the opposite direction and fired blindly. She had one, maybe two moves left. It wasn’t a big room, but big enough for a smart guy to make the most of it.

  Then the laser stopped.

  Looking up, Shaila saw the Chinese astronaut—the characters on his suit were indeed Mandarin—looking down at his drill. “I think I hit the laser,” Hall said from behind her. “Meant to hit him.”

  “Still works,” Shaila said. “My turn.”

  She raised her zapper, but the Chinese astronaut had already dropped his drill and was on the move, literally jumping across the room in a single bound with the slab tucked under his arm.

  “Hall! Incoming!” Shaila warned.

  Stephane got there first, pushing himself off the floor and using the low gravity to hurl himself toward the door—and right at the Chinese astronaut. He grabbed a foot, then grappled upward until he had a hand on the man’s backpack, yanking him backward and sending them both flying back into the room.

  The two men rolled to a stop, the slab flying out from the Chinese astronaut’s arm. With a shove, Stephane got out from under him and scrambled toward where the slab had landed. It was translucent green, as if carved from a massive emerald. And there were more carvings on it.

  Those, Shaila saw with a flash of recognition, were very much like the ones she saw on Mars.

  “Stephane! Wait!” Shaila cried out.

  Heedless, Stephane reached the slab and picked it up.

  And the room was suddenly bathed in an impossibly bright blue light.

  When her eyes cleared, Shaila looked to see Stephane standing up and holding the slab, looking down at it and running his gauntleted fingers across its surface.

  And Shaila’s comm suddenly burst into life.

  “Jain, goddamn it, come in
!”

  Shaila shook her head and moved her zapper to cover the Chinese astronaut, who remained prone but was staring at Stephane intently. “I’m here, Archie. We have two Chinese astronauts here, one zapped and the other captured. Report.”

  “Nilssen and Conti found everyone aboard Tienlong dead. And there’s blood everywhere. Someone wrote something in Chinese on one of the walls—in blood. Can’t get it translated yet because of the comms. These guys are batshit crazy.”

  “Roger that,” Shaila said, a sinking feeling in her stomach. “They came for something down here. Some kind of tablet thing. I—”

  Stephane looked up at Shaila and smiled, completely derailing her train of thought.“It’s time,” Stephane said, looking down and nodding at the Chinese astronaut, who rose to his feet almost dutifully. And with a dexterity that seemed almost superhuman, Stephane began running his fingers across the green slab in some kind of pattern.

  Trembling, Shaila trained her zapper on Stephane. “Drop it. Please.”

  With a flourish, Stephane tapped on the tablet for a final time, then looked over at the Chinese man. Suddenly, the Tienlong astronaut leapt across the room once more—toward Hall, who had come out from cover.

  Shaila turned to fire at him, but an immensely strong hand gripped her wrist, twisting painfully. She dropped it and turned to see Stephane looking down at her, his face inscrutably calm . . . and still smiling.

  Hall’s scream pierced her headphone; the Chinese astronaut had tackled her and was clawing at her suit. A split-second later and her helmet flew off.

  Her scream died instantly. She followed a moment later, the fluid in her body evaporating and freezing instantly, rendering her a husk within seconds.

  Shaila turned back to Stephane, tears beginning to well in her eyes. “What are you doing, Stephane?” It was all she could manage.

  “This,” he replied, holding up the slab in the other hand. “It’s time to free them. And my name is Rathemas.”

  CHAPTER 19

  October 18, 2134

  How does one melt rock and steel?

  Weatherby found himself repeatedly asking this question as he led his small party from the Fortitude through the ruins of the ancient Titan city. The streets were broad and queerly uniform, the buildings high and straight. Yet this was a blasted, war-torn place that had seen destructive energies no man could fathom. Rock was reduced to slag. Steel was twisted and melted. Glass and rubble crunched under his feet as he led Anne, Vellusk and his two marines further into the city. Ahead of them, Gar’uk clambered over rubble and ruin with surprising dexterity. To Weatherby’s great surprise, his valet had volunteered for the mission, and it seemed his alien body had no need for protection from the poisons in the air. Prior to leaving, Hawkins and Anne had engaged in an animated discussion as to how Gar’uk could breathe there—a discussion that quickly left the ship’s alchemist at a loss for words again as Anne engaged in a dizzying array of alchemical speculations.

  Vellusk was providing direction for the company, for this worthy Xan had upon him a map of this particular place, though it was at times unreliable due to either misinformation or the placement of ruined buildings that blocked the party’s way through the orange fog. Weatherby could not help but second-guess his decision to leave Hawkins’ cloud-piercing working with the ship’s lookout. Of course, his primary responsibility was to his ship, and he did not want Fortitude set upon by Franklin or, even worse, any Xan conveyance that may have sided with the partisans who were apparently helping the French.

  But only Vellusk seemed to be equipped to see properly, and the creature led them quickly enough through the ruins, taking them uphill at a considerable pace. The rest of them could only see perhaps twenty yards in any direction, which is why Gar’uk took it upon himself to scout ahead as best as he was able. The lack of direction was disconcerting to say the least, and Weatherby was quite sure only Vellusk could lead them safely back to the ship, for he was already lost amid the twists and turns of the city.

  “We are close,” Vellusk sang, his harmonies taking on a tired, mournful tone. “We make for the ancient Temple of Strength, as it would be called in your tongue. It is upon the hillside ahead.”

  Weatherby nodded and stole a glance at Anne, who nodded in return. They were both present at a Xan temple upon the Jovian moon of Callisto those nineteen years past; that one was called the Temple of Remembrance, a shrine dedicated to cataloging and atoning for the Xan’s warlike ways of the past. Certainly, today’s Xan were a far cry from those long ago if this ancient place was dedicated to so blunt a purpose as strength.

  But the Xan who had slain Administrator Sallev was perhaps the most rage-filled creature Weatherby had ever seen, and it had shaken him considerably to see it. This was no mindless terror, like a Martian sand beast, but rather a large, powerful, sentient being fueled by bloodlust and power. Worse, there was a fervent zeal in that Xan’s eyes, a look all too familiar to Weatherby.

  Weatherby looked around and thought the lot of them should be rounded up and sent here, along with more than a few Earth men who seemed to welcome the fortunes of war. The ruins of Titan would make a fine lesson for them.

  “Captain,” Sgt. Black said, his voice muffled through the breathing apparatus they were forced to wear. The man’s voice dragged Weatherby back to the moment. “A word?”

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  The marine sidled up closer to Weatherby. “That girl there,” he said, nodding toward Anne, who was now in quiet discussion with Vellusk at the party’s lead. “Are you sure she knows how to use them weapons, sir?”

  Weatherby smiled. Anne had opted for one of the midshipmen’s uniforms for their sojourn into the city, as was her wont, he knew. As for the two pistols and smallsword she now carried upon her person . . . “Sergeant, I would wager she’s a better shot than half your marines aboard. She’ll manage, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, sir,” Black said, the tone of his voice registering doubt. “But should we be attacked, MacClellan and I may not have means to protect her.”

  “Then worry about the attackers,” Weatherby said. “In the unlikely instance that the Countess requires aid, I shall render it.”

  The sergeant made his obedience at this, leaving Weatherby to ponder once more as they continued through the mist-shrouded ruins. He had seen Anne lead the men of the Daedalus through a Martian desert to do battle with ancient evil. And indeed, thoughts of another frighteningly capable woman entered his mind with these memories. He wondered how the Hindu Royal Navy officer Shaila Jain had fared after their encounter. Nineteen years . . . he imagined she was an admiral by now.

  Vellusk stopped suddenly and held up his clawed hand, prompting the rest of the party to stumble to a halt. Immediately, the two marines had their weapons up and peered through the fog for any threats. And before them, Weatherby could see the ruined stairs of a rather large, pillared and canopied building. A nearly sheer cliff face—no mere hillside to Weatherby’s eyes—loomed behind it in dim, shrouded menace.

  “Is this it?” Weatherby asked the Xan quietly.

  “It is,” Vellusk answered in a very odd, harmonic whisper. “And I do believe I have seen a flash of light from inside, though it is difficult even for me to pierce this poisonous air entirely.”

  “But how?” Anne asked. “We did not see the Franklin upon our arrival.”

  “There are many places where they may have made port,” Vellusk responded. “And if they had thought to bring one of our . . . carriages . . . with them, they could travel far indeed in a very short time.”

  “At the ready,” Weatherby commanded his party, and the marines—and Anne—followed suit appropriately. Sensing the possibility of violence, Vellusk retreated toward the back of the party, while the redcoats took their place at the point and Gar’uk moved off to the side. His particular tribe of Venusians were considered accomplished hunters, and given the lizard-man’s quiet movement and small stature, stealth seemed to be his forte. Weat
herby drew his gleaming sword and, with a pistol in his other hand, quietly urged his people forward.

  They climbed the steps—no mean feat for the humans, as they were built for the much larger strides of the Xan—and made their way through the ruined columns. The temple was circular and, once, likely domed, though the roof collapsed long ago. The ruins of statuary could be seen in the dim orange light, and there was a raised area in the center of the room that likely served as a central focus of worship.

  Quietly, and with a care for their footsteps, the Fortitude party entered the temple proper, keeping to the columned sides of the building. Weatherby looked closely, hoping to find any clue as to where the French may have gone—or if they were there at all. The thought that they had acted upon faulty information suddenly cropped up in his mind; if they had, it was likely Philip and O’Brian would be lost to them entirely.

  A sudden blast, followed by a whoosh of air near Weatherby’s ear and the sound of a musket round burying itself into stone, was both shocking and surprisingly reassuring.

  “Return fire!” Weatherby shouted, all pretense of stealth forgotten. He raised his pistol and fired into the darkness, as did the marines and Anne. There was the sound of rapid movement on the other side of the temple—and a short cry of pain.

  “Move!” Weatherby ordered.

  Quickly, the group dashed across the open floor of the ruined temple, ducking between the larger pieces of rubble. Three more shots rang out before silence reigned—which meant that there were anywhere from two to four assailants before them, depending on how well they were armed. That silence, of course, meant they were reloading.

  Weatherby had already sought to reload his pistol while moving, but when he ventured a look toward the direction of musket fire, he saw very little in the dim light. They would have to get closer.

  The sound of steel upon rock told him how wrong he was.

  Instinctively, Weatherby brought up his blade in time to parry a second blow from the man who had come upon him so stealthily; the man had apparently climbed atop the rubble which sheltered Weatherby from fire, and had just missed splitting his skull. Instead, the man’s sword was split in two by Weatherby’s alchemical blade. The captain whirled around and lashed out again, and was rewarded by a cry of utter agony as the man’s sword arm was hewn clean at the elbow.