The Enceladus Crisis

by Michael J. Martinez

  “Tienlong is transmitting,” Archie said.

  “Jam it!”

  “We can’t!”

  Suddenly, all the surface sensors on Enceladus went blank, along with the underwater probe. But the survey satellite remained online . . . and what Shaila and Archie saw was nothing short of horrifying.

  A massive plume of ice crystals suddenly erupted from the tiger stripes on the southern hemisphere of the moon, stretching out nearly half the diameter of the world itself. It was followed by large chunks of ice being hurtled out into space. The plume grew wider . . . and wider . . . until just twenty seconds later, nearly a quarter of Enceladus seemed to be erupting.

  Then the entire moon began to slowly, inexorably fall apart. Ice floes spanning dozens of miles broke off from the surface every few seconds in gigantic puffs of snow and ice crystals. Alarms blared through the command center as the survey satellite began to lose orbital integrity—because Enceladus itself was losing integrity. In less than a minute, the moon had broken up into at least two dozen large chunks of rock and ice, surrounded by a haze of snow and ice crystals.

  And then a new alert came across the screen. Minute traces of Cherenkov radiation were detected throughout the Enceladus debris field. Millions of them, tiny pinpricks of blue light. Enhanced by Armstrong’s computer, they looked like millions of blue flashbulbs going off within the expanding cloud of ice and snow.

  Then a blinding flash of white light engulfed the image, and the satellite went dead.

  The two sat in the command center, stunned, for at least a minute until Archie finally reached up and trained Armstrong’s own telescopes and sensors at Enceladus. All that remained was a slowly dispersing debris field—ice, snow, rock—one that would likely be absorbed into Saturn’s rings over the course of the next several decades. “Confirm Enceladus is destroyed,” he said quietly, solemnly.

  Shaila stared at the images before her. “Confirmed,” she replied dully. “Any further Cherenkov readings?”

  “Can’t get ’em at this range,” Archie replied. “We’ll have to go there.”

  Someone else already had that idea in mind, however. Yet another round of alerts and alarms went off—Tienlong was firing up its main engines.

  “Fuck,” Shaila swore. “Where’s the emitter?”

  Archie went back to work on the reprogramming, his gnarled fingers flying over the holocontrols. “Hang on. I need to . . . aw, hell. They’re leaving.”

  With a massive burst of engine fire, Tienlong quickly sprinted out ahead of Armstrong, breaking orbit. The computer confirmed its course; it was headed for the remnants of Enceladus.

  Shaila sat bolt upright in her chair once more, her hands deftly moving over the holocontrols. “Setting course for Enceladus. Prepare for main engine burn.”

  Archie reached out and grabbed her arm. “Can’t do it, Shaila.”

  She turned on him, slapping his hand away. “What do you mean, ‘can’t do it?’”

  “We don’t have the fuel,” Archie said gently. “We burn now, we won’t be able to stop. We’ll either burn out of Saturn’s orbit or end up circling the planet until we crash into it.”

  I don’t care. That was Shaila’s first thought. Frankly, she was willing to plow Armstrong right into Tienlong if necessary. But Tienlong probably had the fuel to avoid Armstrong, and as much as she wanted payback, it wouldn’t bring back Enceladus. Or Conti.

  Or Stephane.

  “Set a course to rendezvous with the depot ship,” Shaila said finally, slumping back in her chair. “I’ll pack all this off to Houston. Soon as we’re refueled, set a course for Enceladus.”

  Shaila unstrapped herself from her seat and floated out of the command center. She wanted to chide herself for not staying with Archie—he was a shipmate, her last shipmate at that, and he was probably just as freaked out as she was—but she couldn’t bring herself to be around anyone in that moment.

  CHAPTER 21

  October 18, 1798

  The creature calling itself Rathemas slowly began to take a more solid form, seemingly leaching the very color and essence of the Emerald Tablet from its shards. The Martian looked around dispassionately at the humans in the room, but stopped when it saw St. Germain’s Xan conspirators.

  “Bend the knee,” the creature rasped, “and you may yet be spared.”

  To Weatherby’s great surprise, the three Xan immediately took to one knee before the ephemeral spectre of their ancient enemy. At this, Representative Vellusk let out a plaintive song, a stream of discord and pleading aimed at his fellows. Only one spared him a glance. The others merely made their obedience. Whether this was their plan all the while, or they simply sought to preserve their wretched lives, Weatherby could not say.

  Anne rushed to Philip’s side, cradling her son’s head in her lap where he lay upon the temple floor, tears flowing freely down her face. She looked up at Weatherby and gave a brief nod; the boy remained alive. For how long remained the question.

  One man here knew the answer, and Weatherby was quite prepared to drag it from him by any means required.

  The captain of the Fortitude jumped off the altar next to the Count St. Germain, and in a feat of strength fueled by anger and fear, slipped through the bonds around his hands in order to grab the alchemist’s arm and hurl him into the wall behind them. “You, sir, will put an end to this. Now.”

  Yet the count looked, for once, quite confused. “This was not how it was meant to be,” he said quietly. “I know not how this has taken place.”

  “Egypt,” Weatherby replied. “The French have invaded Egypt, and Anne says the counterpart of this tablet may be there. Could that be the cause, then?”

  St. Germain’s face changed in rapid sequence—confusion, calculation, epiphany . . . and anger. “The French . . . I have been played a fool, as have the Xan,” he whispered, his voice full of menace.

  The count sought to move away, but Weatherby shoved him back against the wall. “Then make this right, damn you! For your son’s sake. And her’s.”

  St. Germain shoved Weatherby backward—showing a strength greater than Weatherby’s own, despite the count’s advanced years—and strode forth before Rathemas. “I have heard your name, creature, spoken of as a curse by the Xan in ages past,” St. Germain shouted.

  “And I know yours, son of Earth. My master has whispered it to me in the dark place between places, and with curses that would destroy your mind should you hear them,” Rathemas responded. “Yet you have freed me here and now. The time is near, and the worlds move close together. Souls and forms have been brought forth. Bend the knee and be spared.”

  St. Germain just smiled. “I will not. And your time will end before it begins.”

  At this, the three Xan rose and began advancing toward St. Germain, hearing the menace in his voice. Weatherby moved to interpose himself between them, knowing full well he may only delay, not defeat.

  But then a rush of voices came echoing down the corridor, followed quickly by the clamber of men. “Fortitude!” came the cry.

  And Weatherby smiled. He knew that voice.

  Lt. Patrick O’Brian—dressed in the rags of his uniform and looking painfully thin besides—charged into the room, sword drawn, and followed by a handful of the men Weatherby had detailed to the Franklin those many weeks past. With them was Gar’uk, darting between their legs, the Venusian’s head-frills in full array, his eyes blazing, and a pistol clutched in two small, clawed hands.

  “Charge!” Weatherby cried, pointing toward the three Xan, whose alien expressions bore what could only be evidence of surprise.

  With a cry, the men of the Fortitude surged forward, O’Brian giving his captain a quick grin as he dashed past. But Weatherby had no time to respond, for a French soldier was upon him in an instant, the man’s blade slicing through his coat and leaving a thin red line across his chest.

  Someone gave the French these orders, Weatherby thought, even as pain lanced across his body. He fell backward,
but managed to roll out of the way in time to avoid the soldier’s thrust. Weatherby saw his opening, and although it was not a sporting move in the least, he felt the situation warranted it. His boot connected squarely between the man’s legs, sending him backward, howling, his sword dropped as his hands moved to protect himself.

  Weatherby grabbed the sword and brought himself painfully to his feet to face his adversary, but the man was in no condition to continue; a blow to the head with the sword’s pommel was enough to bring about relief from pain and consciousness.

  Meanwhile, St. Germain had quickly produced several vials from his waistcoat, and was crouched over the shards of the Emerald Tablet. He poured the contents of the vials over the relic’s remains, chanting in Latin all the while. One of the Xan attempted to rush him, but was tripped by Gar’uk and fell face-first onto the stone floor. The Venusian dashed forward, placed his pistol at the Xan’s head, and deftly pulled the trigger.

  St. Germain’s voice grew louder, even as the shards of the tablet began to give off a strange, bluish mist. The alchemist’s voice caused Rathemas’ head to snap around suddenly, and the Martian’s face contorted in hideous anger as his body began to become more translucent. Rathemas started to tremble, and arched its back as if in intense pain.

  But apparently, the Martian had one final gambit to play.

  With a final, terrible cry that would haunt Weatherby’s memory for years to come, the creature surged forward toward St. Germain . . . and into his open mouth, cutting off the alchemist’s chant and reducing it to a sickening gurgle.

  “Dear God,” Weatherby whispered.

  St. Germain’s eyes grew wide as his body started to convulse and shake. He looked about, his hands flailing, a man at war with his body and mind.

  And then it hit Weatherby. Rathemas had been in residence inside Philip. If he were to instead reside in St. Germain, the most powerful alchemist in the Known Worlds . . .

  Weatherby gripped his sword firmly and advanced on the count. As he raised it to strike, he looked into the count’s eyes, hoping he was wrong, that somehow the count could overcome this, as he had so many other enemies.

  And for a brief moment, those eyes focused, even as his body continued to shake uncontrollably. “Do it,” St. Germain said as he choked on his very words, his voice barely recognizable.

  Weatherby raised his sword to strike—and a shot rang out across the room.

  The Count St. Germain fell to the ground, a round in the side of his head.

  Weatherby turned to see Anne, tear-streaked but determined, holding a smoking pistol.

  Then a hand grabbed Weatherby’s boot.

  Looking down, he saw St. Germain, half his skull crushed by the shot, nonetheless grabbing his ankle and slowly, clumsily rising to his feet.

  Horrified, Weatherby reacted as only a man with twenty years of service to King and country could. He brought his blade down swiftly, cleaving St. Germain’s head from his body.

  The grip upon Weatherby’s ankle slackened.

  St. Germain’s headless corpse collapsed to the floor once more, and did not move again. Yet, out of the corner of Weatherby’s eye, he believed he saw a curious flash of blue light briefly emanate from the count’s severed head. But when he turned toward it, it was gone.

  Weatherby moved to help his crew—but they had managed the situation quite well on their own. Two Xan lay dead upon the floor, and a third had surrendered. Representative Vellusk was unharmed, and the two marines that had accompanied them from Fortitude had vouched for the Xan official with their fellows, along with Gar’uk, who bravely placed himself in front of Vellusk to protect him.

  Philip, however, remained unconscious. Weatherby quickly moved to Anne’s side, as she had gone back to tending to him.

  “How is he?” Weatherby asked gently.

  Anne was trembling slightly, the events of the past few minutes catching up to her. Still, she was handling it better than some officers Weatherby had seen after battle. “There’s no telling what his body has gone through, or what the effects may be. But he is alive.

  “And for that, sir,” she added, “I am forever in your debt.”

  Weatherby smiled slightly, which she managed to return. “Let there be no debt between us, my lady,” he said quietly. He then rose to his feet and addressed his men. “Well fought, all of you! Gather all the breathing masks you can find, and stretchers for the wounded.”

  As the men quickly set to their tasks, Weatherby went over and gave O’Brian a hearty hug, which prompted a muffled cry from his friend and lieutenant. “Sir, please. I’m in no state!”

  Weatherby quickly disengaged, especially after feeling just how thin O’Brian felt in his arms. “Quite sorry, Lieutenant. Your timing was excellent.”

  O’Brian looked over at Gar’uk. “You’ve the best damned valet in the service, sir. Makes me think we’ve done a disservice to his kind over the years.”

  “I always thought so,” Weatherby said. “How did it happen?”

  “The Franklin’s officers posed as mere seamen, sir,” he said, bowing his head. “We didn’t know. Their scheme cost us nearly our entire prize crew.”

  “’Tis not your fault, Paddy,” Weatherby said gently. “I was distracted by Nelson’s politicking. I should’ve been there.” He clasped O’Brian’s shoulder. “You did well here. I thank you. Do you know where Franklin is now?”

  O’Brian shook his head. “She put our party to shore and sailed off. There were other Xan aboard. Their captain met with them often, with and without St. Germain. I fear there may yet be more to this.”

  Weatherby nodded grimly. “When you’re well, you must tell us everything. For now, let’s get back to our ship.”

  June 21, 2134

  By instinct, Diaz trained her weapon at the tendrils of blue light sneaking into the lab from the containment chamber, even though her rational mind knew it wasn’t really likely she could destroy a series of miniscule wormholes with bullets.

  But she had nothing else to do, except look over at Greene and Ayim as they furiously worked to find a solution. “Guys, we need to do something now.”

  The two scientists swapped glowing holodata at a rapid clip, muttering to each other as they went. From their tone and voices, nothing seemed to be going all that well. “Working on it,” Greene said absently. “It’s that damn thing under the altar. It’s acting like a battery. We need to remove it.”

  Diaz turned to Harry, whose smug anger had been replaced with genuine concern. “Harry, you said you could blow this thing, right?”

  He nodded dully. “Thirty-second timer. The whole containment chamber gets vaporized. I—what the fuck is that?”

  Harry pointed to the containment frame; when Diaz turned, she saw an arm.

  And not just any arm. For one, it wore a blue coat with braiding on it . . . just like an old-time soldier or sailor might wear. And the hand was shriveled, skin tight against bone.

  And yet it moved. It was clawing.

  “Holy shit. Harry, blow it up. Everybody, time to go,” Diaz barked.

  Greene and Ayim quickly moved to gather datapads and printouts, while Harry called up a holoscreen and began punching in the authorization codes.

  Suddenly, Greene screamed.

  Diaz turned to see her traitorous colleague with a look of sheer terror on his face—and a tendril of light buried in his chest.

  “Thirty seconds to detonation,” an all-too-pleasant female voice intoned from the lab’s speakers.

  Huntington grabbed Greene by the shoulders, pulling him away from the miniscule wormhole. The string of blue light went with him, stretching further into the room. The physicist began to shake violently, spit coming out the sides of his mouth, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

  The young officer looked up at Diaz, who eyed the chamber warily. The arm was joined by two more, and she swore she could see a shriveled, desiccated face, its teeth bared, peering through the frame.

  “Twenty
seconds,” the computer said.

  “Leave him! Move!” Diaz ordered. “Out! Now!”

  Harry needed no further encouragement. He dashed out of the room, Ayim and Coogan on his heels, followed by Diaz.

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  Diaz turned at the door to see Huntington lifting Greene’s twitching body onto her shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Captain, I said leave him!”

  “Go!” Huntington said. “I—”

  Then she too began to twitch.

  Greene’s body tumbled to the floor as a blue light began to emanate from the marine’s chest.

  “Ten seconds.”

  Diaz started to sprint back into the room, but Coogan grabbed her arm and pulled in the opposite direction. “No time, ma’am!”

  Huntington looked down at her chest, then looked up, eyes wide . . . and then began shaking violently.

  “Five seconds.”

  Coogan pulled harder. “General! Come on!”

  Reluctantly, Diaz turned and followed Coogan as he ran down a corridor.

  Behind her, the doorway erupted with white light, and the ground shook. Dust and pebbles rained down on them.

  They kept running.

  A huge piece of stone fell a half-meter behind Diaz as she followed the rest down a maze of corridors. Ayim hustled past a number of doors, finally choosing one—a stairwell. They climbed as fast as they could, with Diaz taking Ayim’s arm as he began to tire.

  Below, fire entered the stairwell and began to move upward.

  “Move it!” Diaz yelled.

  Another doorway beckoned, one of the reinforced steel ones the Total-Suez people brought in. Diaz wrenched open the door and shoved Ayim inside, followed by Coogan. She dove inside and slammed it shut just as the flames reached her feet.

  They were in a large room, dimly illuminated by battery-powered emergency lights. A bright red exit sign hung over another door at the other end of the chamber. In between, inert holodisplays and a variety of artifacts under glass were scattered across the room.

  The Siwa museum.

  Diaz breathed a sigh of relief and slumped against the wall. Then she felt someone slapping her leg.