Killing Titan

by Greg Bear

  “Everybody, ma’am,” Bueller insists with a concerned expression, brooking no dissent, even from rank. “We’re really short and we need expert drivers. If they don’t get it, they won’t have the proper training, and they won’t have touch ID. The machines won’t recognize them, they won’t be able to coordinate with the team—they could all die down there!”

  Grunts love to watch command argue. Makes us feel warm and cozy. Bueller’s winning, but Borden isn’t happy. She backs off, head lowered, like she wants to butt someone, anyone.

  “Me, too?” Ishida asks, touching her metal cranium.

  “Yeah,” Bueller says. She delicately examines Ishida’s head, finger hovering, and studies the line between metal and flesh. “Plenty of room. You’ll be fine,” she says.

  “Arigato,” Ishida says.

  “What’s in them?” Tak asks.

  “Reflex learning, part one. Key ideas. Words and phrases that will speed your getting acquainted with seed product down on the Wax.”

  “Product…” Ishida says.

  “Weapons and vehicles,” Bueller says. “Seeds begin to suck up processed materials as soon as your glider connects with the reserves stockpiled on the base platform. If the base or the platform still exists. We’ll know that in a couple of hours, after we get there. We can’t see it from orbit. Understood?”

  “Vehicles and big weapons get assembled in place,” Tak says, as if this makes all the sense in the world. Joe watches us from forward, where he’s sitting between Borden and Kumar.

  “Starting with those seeds,” Jacobi says.

  “Right,” Bueller says.

  “Wax?” DJ asks.

  “Whole damn moon is covered with waxy residues, along with poisons, corrosive bases, and saline cesspools. Worse than you’d encounter in your worst nightmare. There’s even traces of something like sarin gas, and if that seeps into your gear…”

  Better and better. Bug is back and thinks it’s all very cozy. Saline solution ripe with metals? Mother’s milk to ancient life. Lightning and electricity? Once there were entire ecosystems that dined only on electrons and scavenged their dead to replace membranes. We’re all wimps compared to the great old ones.

  Thirty seconds.

  Borden, Jacobi, Ishida, Ishikawa, Kumar, and I share a number. That means we’ll cohabit a grape. We crawl inside, Borden last. The big blue sphere is heavily padded with thin, sun-yellow lamps hiding between the cushions. I see the swirly pattern, like being inside a soccer ball. The hatch closes. Ishida mutters and Jacobi looks around, anticipating the next slam. From our point of view, new tech has never implied comfort.

  “Resuming now,” Bueller says.

  Second-phase acceleration begins. It’s much gentler than the first. We shift to one side of the ball and bump the cushions. No straps, no drama. All there is to it. We’re cargo, packed and ignorant but so far comfortable enough. Warm and comfortable.

  “This is Big Vamoose?” Jacobi asks.

  The pressure grows in that same direction. Ishida closes her eyes, claps her hands, mutters. Maybe she’s praying again.

  We’re floating inside a soccer ball, wearing yarmulkes, hitching a ride on a Chinese warrior lady with long, burned skirts—about to fly off to rescue an entire moon. I’m still recovering from watching our bolts trim Box, from feeling Lady of Yue mess with Jesus and everything else about reality. I still can’t believe any of it. But then, I didn’t believe I was going to Mars the first time, either.

  Jacobi spread-eagles and bumps into Borden’s leg. Borden withdraws, tightening her space. Ishikawa’s taking it all in stride—no strain, no sweat. Kumar tucks his doilied head, folds his legs and arms into a lotus, and rolls to a point of stable rest.

  Finally, Crew Chief’s voice reaches us inside the sphere. “Guidance reports Box still tracking at a million klicks, so close your eyes. That’s what I do. Close your eyes and count backward from ten.”

  I get to five before my fingers tingle. I feel a weird crawling and tightening on my head. The cap, I assume. I sure hope my quantum junk has been scrubbed.

  Then…

  I black out.

  Don’t feel a thing.

  COBWEBS

  Darkness, close and warm. Air smells stale, like I’ve been here awhile. I remember where we are. A moment of concern, not quite panic, as I think the lights will come on and I’ll be surrounded by desiccated mummies.

  But the ball brightens and everyone’s fine. Borden thrashes, as does Ishida, who might hurt someone if she’s not careful—but she quickly regains motor control and looks embarrassed. “Gomenasai,” she says.

  “De nada,” Ishikawa says, rubbing her shoulder.

  I feel reasonably chipper. My scalp itches. I look around. There’s something silvery and dusty on our heads, like a net of gossamer threads. I pat my scalp. The others refuse to pay attention, so I thump my crown and say, “Cobwebs, ladies.”

  They reach up, hesitate in unison—kind of comical, like they don’t want to find a spider. Then they pat the gossamer and make disgusted faces.

  “What the fuck is this?” Jacobi asks, inspecting a clump of threads.

  “Laying eggs,” I say.

  “Fuck you!” Ishida says, and keeps plucking and balling up the stuff that comes out of her short hair. “It’s that goddamned cap.”

  Kumar wakes next, legs still tucked into a lotus. He reaches across to Jacobi’s temple and pinches up a thread. Jacobi’s reaction is swift; she grabs his hand, ready to crush fingers, snap wrist, break arm—

  Kumar freezes. Privilege does not precede him everywhere. He says, “Pardon me. Do you feel any difference?”

  “No.” Jacobi shoves his hand aside.

  He flexes his fingers. “Nor do I, yet.”

  Borden wakes last. Seeing the others, her hand goes to her scalp. Her expression is priceless. “Jesus Christ!” she says. “Is this it?”

  “Part one, the crew chief said,” Kumar observes.

  “I demand a raise,” Ishida says.

  The lights brighten. The hole in the soccer ball slides open. Bueller peers in. “I’m cracking my little eggs,” she says. “Chicks are bright and fluffy. It’s been two weeks. We’re about halfway. Come on out and get some food.”

  “Not hungry,” Ishida says.

  “Me, neither,” Jacobi says.

  “Mandatory,” Crew Chief says. “You’ve learned a lot in the last few days and we want to set it firm. Believe me, you won’t want to miss Lady of Yue at full sail.”

  Ishida, Jacobi, and Borden finish removing their gossamer. Ishida collects the threads, wads them up, and leaves a small, dusty clump about an inch wide suspended in the middle of the ball. We push out through the hole. More smart ropes offer themselves and we move forward between the white metal beams. All very efficient. No bouncing, no collisions, just straightforward transport beyond the spheres toward the big bell.

  The outer hull of the ship has darkened to a deep, cloudy-sky gray.

  Ishida glides past me. “Maybe we’ll ride centipede together,” she says. I can see it. A great big machine, bronze-colored and round-headed, big slit-port for an eye, with a thick, muscular body and a long crawling tail—machine or monster? Now residing as a seed in cargo stores.

  SNKRZ.

  Jacobi guides herself toward Ishida. “Gadget, how’s the equipment?”

  “Smooth and shiny,” Ishida says. “I feel innocent.”

  “Me, too,” Jacobi says, looking unsure of herself, and burps.

  Ishida lifts her real eyebrow. “Sir, your being innocent worries me.”

  For the moment, I also feel pretty good. That worries me. Nobody hauls grunts in comfort. There’s got to be misery. And here it is. My turn for a bilious belch.

  Jacobi looks green. “Not again,” she says.

  “What?” Kumar asks. He looks surprised, then turns a lovely olive. His stomach twitches. We’re all popping sweat, trailing a mist of salty drops.

  More rope lines appear fro
m the other side of the long vineyard. We’re joined by Ishikawa, then by a bare handful of Russians, but many of the ropes are empty—no Litvinov, no Mushran, no Joe and DJ. These Russians don’t speak English. Not having skintights and angels puts us at a disadvantage. We’re as dumb as we look.

  Crew Chief meets us at the apex of the rope ride, holding on to a steel ring mounted around a big circular opening. “Jump off and wait here,” she says. “We’ve got crew quarters beyond. Should fit you all in.”

  “Crew get a good sleep?” I ask, trying to avoid another heave.

  “Nobody sleeps but passengers,” she says. “Lady of Yue is a cranky girl.”

  “Who’s driving?” Jacobi asks.

  “Two rabbis,” Crew Chief says.

  “Rabbis?” Ishida asks.

  “That’s what we call them. They keep the ship right with the law.”

  I look aft and finally see Joe and DJ and Litvinov and more Russians, including Ulyanova. A gentle breeze wafts forward. Crew Chief tells us to release the circular rail and go with the flow. We tumble with the currents. I feel like a wet dandelion seed with a sour tummy.

  DJ moves up beside me, spreads his arms, flaps, and twists. “You’ll believe an asshole can fly,” he says.

  “Keep tight!” Bueller says.

  The opening takes us into a tube about five meters wide and maybe fifty long. Halfway along, the tube turns clear as glass and we end up in an outboard bubble just aft of the weapons pods.

  Lady of Yue’s skirts no longer ripple. They’ve moved forward a hundred meters, where they shroud the soda-straw vineyard and the cargo stores beyond like a stiff cape, with the gray bell as a great round hat. The whole Spook seems to have grown to maybe two thousand meters from stem to stern.

  “Where the hell are we?” Joe asks, pasty and damp, behind me and DJ. Bits of cap still fleck his scalp.

  There’s activity on the other side of the bell. Something large and pale and curved rises over the rim of the bell, then moves aft below the skirts like a hoop half-hidden by hanging laundry.

  “Here come the garters,” Bueller says. “Aren’t they perrr-ty?”

  The natural light this far out in the system is gray and indistinct. It’s going to be even darker out by Saturn. The stars, with so little competition, shine sharper and brighter than ever. We’re a hell of a ways from Earth, from Mars, from the sun. It’s lonely and empty out here.

  What’s the reverse of claustrophobia—agoraphobia?

  “Lady of Yue has three garters in nine sections. In part, they strengthen the holds and stability vanes aft during the next phase of flight. We’ll get to Saturn space, from where we are now, inside of three days. This is the hard part, ladies.”

  We watch the garters join section by section—what we can see of them. Jacobi huddles with her squad. Our Skyrine sisters cock their heads, listening girl to girl. The guys might as well not be here.

  Bueller says, “Matter down close to the sun acquires bad habits and old sin. Matter that knows sin is held back, but matter that is cleansed becomes young and fast. We have to get this far out from the sun to shed the last of it. That shit really starts to fall away when we hook up the garters.”

  The Russians are stony. The last thing any warrior needs is a feeling that our strength is tied to evil ways and fucked-up souls. We know what we’ve done and where we’ll likely go because of it. Only God has promised to understand. It scares me that out here, maybe we’ve passed outside His boundaries. I hate this fucking Lady of Yue, hate all ships that carry us into harm’s way—I really do.

  “Of course, it’s all temporary,” Bueller says. Again, her weird, Persian-cat look. “When we return downsun, matter reverts like a sailor on liberty. Now it’s time for pudding. After you eat, one more little nap. We’ll wake you in Saturn space about three hours from Titan.”

  COOK’S TOUR

  We get our pudding cups in the small cafeteria, really more of a coffee shop. The cups contain brown goo that tastes like chocolate or coffee or toffee or all three, pretty okay and makes us feel stronger. Crew Chief waits patiently.

  Ishida asks Bueller why we aren’t given a chance to inspect the cargo aft—the big insect-looking things. “Does cap training kick in when we see them, or when they’re finished?”

  “Won’t mean a thing to you right now,” Bueller says. “They’re seeds. They get finished on Titan. Saves a lot of mass.”

  Our tummies are full. Drowse hits us as we return to the vineyard and our soccer balls.

  “How long since you’ve been back to Earth?” Jacobi asks Crew Chief, eyelids drooping.

  “Too long,” Bueller says. There’s a wistful something in the way she says it. She closes the hole to our ball. The interior gets dark.

  “She can’t go home,” Ishida says. “Too many times out and back.”

  “Too many times stripped and reloaded,” Jacobi says.

  We sleep. We sleep in hopes all our sins will be gone when we wake up. Goddamn, what a sleep. If it’s all the same to you, General Patton, I’d rather shovel shit in Louisiana.

  PART THREE

  TITAN

  Again, we feel pretty good when Bueller pops the soccer balls and we spill out. This time, there’s an undeniable extra layer of youth and freshness, a new enthusiasm that comes from whatever’s happened since the garters were applied. Yet nothing about Crew Chief has changed. If anything, her outlines seem fuzzier. I look around. None of us are exactly crystal. Big Vamoose must have affected our vision.

  I hope.

  Bueller takes us back to the outboard bubble. Lady of Yue is a Sally Rand kind of gal, slipping her white feathers over the best parts, showing less than you want to see, less than you need to see, but enough to keep curiosity fresh. I vow that’s the last time I’ll think kindly of this massive, silk-skirted bitch—but in fact I can’t feel too down on anything because of that damned freshness. Maybe there is a long habit of sin way back in the old neighborhood, where so many terrible things have happened. Somebody once called that Karma. I don’t ask Kumar about Karma. Too alliterative.

  Fuck, I’m cheerful.

  Borden and Kumar and Litvinov form a little triangle in the passage forward, as if blocking the crew chief from exiting without more explanation. But she’s wrung out, and all that’s left to explain is that we’re on our last reserves. Lady of Yue is going to deliver us with all we’re likely to ever get to accomplish our mission—whatever that might be. We’re lucky to be alive.

  “Take it slow,” Bueller says. “Take a moment to find yourself again. Sorry to say that we’ve made you a very lumpy bed, my friends.” The Persian-cat look is gone. She seems so damned out of focus I want to rub my eyes.

  She peers forward and we rotate to see Kumar preceding a pair of small, skeletally thin figures in dark gray coveralls cinched around their waists—ugly but practical outfits, comfortable in zero-g. Both have prominent gray caps on their scalps—thicker than what we were given. They look permanent.

  Kumar says, “Our pilots want to pass along a last bit of information, and wish us luck.”

  “These are the rabbis,” Bueller explains in an undertone. “We call them that because of their relation to the law, to deep physics, and those caps. They get new ones every trip. Their caps don’t fall off, and they don’t take them off until they get new ones.” She sucks in a deep breath at the audacity of what’s happening. “Rabbis don’t ever meet with passengers. Socialize, I mean. This is special, so be nice.”

  Both of our pilots have short, kinky black hair, flattened noses, and rich umber skin. Except for their thinness, they might be Pacific Islanders, descendants of the first humans to navigate by the stars. It’s a strange meeting, leaders of a doomed crew to an equally doomed expeditionary force.

  The pilots take us back to the observation bubble. They want to join us in viewing our destination. At first, they say very little. They speak with their golden-brown eyes, and they point.

  Lady of Yue is descending
toward Titan, which right now is between Saturn and the distant sun. For the first time, we see all of Titan eclipsing the sun, a moody golden scythe cradling a dark brown ball, backlit by stars and other moons—and by Saturn. The full glory of Saturn and its rings holds our attention for a good long time. Everyone is transfixed.

  Almost everyone.

  I track Joe’s attention because Joe won’t let the pretty stuff get in the way. Both he and Litvinov survey Lady of Yue fore and aft to get a better picture of the damage. It’s bad. Two of the main cargo frames and two of the balance vanes beyond are marked with gray gouges and slashes. Hard to know whether anything in the frames can be salvaged, but the vanes do not look useful. Three of the six skirts are stiff and dark and one has a peculiar tear running its length, edges still sparking, which I might be able to understand if I knew just what they were made of in the first place—

  Then Litvinov and Joe turn. The pilots are actually going to speak to us. Bueller is astonished.

  The older pilot has streaks of gray around his temples and the skin of his face looks like soft leather. We settle in, grow quiet, and turn toward him like kids on a bus trip. It takes real presence to make Skyrines settle in so intently.

  “We would like to bring better news,” he says in a wispy voice. He has a strong, out-of-kilter gravitas—we can see him, we assume he’s there, but the light he reflects seems incomplete, and when we look sideways, he doesn’t quite stick to the background. “We’ve traveled here for seven seasons. First season, we had stations around the southern hemisphere, and Antags had stations around the northern. We were stretched too thin to fight. More of an exploratory season, learning how to survive, trying to figure the best way to carve down and access the seas—because that’s what both Antags and humans wanted to do.”