The Frozen Sky

by Jeff Carlson

  It was the beginning of peace between Top Clan Eight-Six and the ESA. It was a mutual step forward for humankind and the lifeforms inside Europa. Helping the sunfish, teaching them, would require years or even generations, but the two species were finally on a path to the common good.

  “Congratulations, people,” Koebsch said. In Lander 05, he clapped Frerotte on the shoulders, then gave a thumbs-up to everyone in 04.

  Vonnie met Koebsch’s gaze as the men and women around her exchanged smiles and handshakes, chatting too loudly. If Dawson was watching them, she hoped he got an earful. “We couldn’t have done this without you,” she told Koebsch.

  “You worked harder than anyone.”

  “No, sir. I don’t think so.”

  Nearby, Ash hugged Metzler and pecked his cheek, her hazel eyes relaxed and bright for the first time since the blow-out. It didn’t matter that she’d also kissed O’Neal. Feeling a twinge of possessiveness, Vonnie decided to interrupt before Ash grew any more physical with Metzler. First it was important to express her gratitude to Koebsch.

  “I’m sorry for everything,” she said.

  “I’m not,” Koebsch said.

  “Pärnits and Collinsworth…”

  “They’d appreciate what we’ve done, Von. You should be proud.”

  “Thank you.”

  Vonnie left her station and elbowed Ash with a sisterly nudge, not too rough, not too soft. The young woman opened her mouth to protest. “Hey!” Then she laughed and walked to O’Neal and Johal, hugging them.

  Metzler beamed. His dog-ugly face was handsome with victory, and, for once, he didn’t have a rude comment or a joke. He merely shook his head and grinned.

  Vonnie embraced him as she spoke the sunfish shape out loud, relishing it.

  “Treaty,” she said.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  Many of the usual suspects participated in the writing of The Frozen Sky; Ben Bowen, Ph.D, computational biologist with Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory; Michael Stein, Ph.D, neurologist with Diablo Clinic Research; Charles H. Hanson, M.D.; my father, Gus Carlson, Ph.D, mechanical engineer and division leader (ret.) with Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory; Matthew J. Harrington, evil genius, author of many of the stories and novellas in the Man-Kzin War collections and co-author of The Goliath Stone; and Penny Hill, plain old super genius.

  I’d also like to extend special acknowledgements to Ben “The Other Ben” Metzler, super fan, whose vision of Europa was integral to this project finding new life; Jeff “The Other Jeff” Quiros, who’s always in my corner; Jeff “The Real Jeff” Sierzenga, an excellent buddy and contributor, whose daughter Ashley earned her way into the adventure; and Diana, my best friend, wife, and strongest supporter.

  In the Czech Republic, Martin Sust and Karel Zeman must claim their share of responsibility for this story’s success. As editor of Pevnost Magazine, Martin brought the original novella to his country and introduced me to illustrator extraordinaire Karel Zeman, a man who knows his way around shadows and light. My thanks to you both.

  In addition, I’d like to offer gratitude and praise to the good folks at NASA and JPL. Their work in the real world is more exciting than my imagination, and I devoured mountains of their reports, articles, online discussions, and slide shows. Professor Ted Stryk generously allowed me to include his work on the cover. You can also find images taken by the Voyager 1, Galileo, and Cassini probes on my web site at www.jverse.com in a special Europa-themed photo gallery under the Galleries menu.

  Also included in the Galleries is “The Making Of Alexis Vonderach,” where award-winning artist Jacob Charles Dietz has arranged a spectacular art sequence. It shows his initial concept work through the final cover of The Frozen Sky.

  Last but not least, a tip of the hat and complimentary grapefruit (you had to be there) to my hard-working agents on all sides of the continent, Donald Maass, Cameron McClure, and Jim Ehrich.

  Without these people, The Frozen Sky would not exist, so thank you.

  Advance Praise for The Frozen Sky

  “I’m hooked.”

  —Larry Niven, New York Times bestselling author of The Fate of Worlds

  “A first-rate adventure set in one of our solar system’s most fascinating places. Jeff Carlson is a fine storyteller, and this is his best book yet.”

  —Allen Steele, Hugo Award-winning author of the Coyote series

  “Pulse pounding.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Tense.”

  —Locus Magazine

  “Nothing short of amazing.”

  —David Marusek, Sturgeon Award-winning author of The Wedding Album

  “Believable and compelling. This is the perfect eerie setting for Carlson to flex his creative muscle.”

  —Bookworm Blues

  “Highly recommended.”

  —Seanan McGuire, New York Times bestselling author of Midnight Blue-Light Special

  If You Liked The Frozen Sky…

  Look For the Bestselling Novels by Jeff Carlson

  Plague Year

  Praise for Plague Year

  The Next Breath You Take Will Kill You

  “An epic of apocalyptic fiction: harrowing, heartfelt, and rock-hard realistic.”

  —James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of Bloodline

  “Terrifying.”

  —Scott Sigler, New York Times bestselling author of Nocturnal

  “Chilling and timely.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Jeff Carlson packs riveting storytelling with a lot of fresh ideas.”

  —David Brin, New York Times bestselling author of Existence

  “One of the best apocalyptic novels I’ve read. Part Michael Crichton, a little Stephen King, and a lot of good writing… Carlson makes it all seem plausible and thrilling.”

  —Quiet Earth (www.quietearth.us)

  Plague War

  Praise for Plague War

  Finalist for the Philip K. Dick Award

  “Compelling. His novels take readers to the precipice of disaster.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Intense.”

  —SF Reviews

  “Excellent.”

  —SF Scope

  “A breakneck ride through one of the deadliest and thrilling futures imagined in years. Jeff Carlson has the juice!”

  —Sean Williams, New York Times bestselling author of Star Wars: The Force Unleashed

  “Carlson’s nightmarish landscape presents a chilling albeit believable picture of a post-apocalyptic world. Strong, dynamic characters bring the story a conclusion you won’t see coming.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Plague Zone

  Praise for Plague Zone

  The Next Arms Race Has Begun

  “Gripping. An epic struggle among desperate nations equipped with nano weapons.”

  —Jack McDevitt, Nebula Award-winning author of Firebird

  “A high-octane thriller at the core — slick, sharp, and utterly compelling.”

  —Steven Savile, international bestselling author of Silver

  “I can’t wait for the movie.”

  —Sacramento News & Review

  “This installment opens with a jolt. If you love dark SF, you can’t go wrong with Carlson’s great Plague trilogy.”

  —Apex Magazine

  Long Eyes

  Praise for Long Eyes

  Award-Winning Short Stories

  “Striking.”

  —Locus Online

  “Exciting.”

  —SF Revu

  “Chilling and dangerous.”

  —HorrorAddicts.net

  “An amazing collection.”

  —Sci-Guys.com

  “Captivating. Long Eyes packs a lot of adventure and entertainment.”

  —BookBanter.net

  Interrupt

  Praise for Interrupt

  “Let’s be honest: Carlson is dangerous. Interrupt is
riveting, high concept, and so real I felt the fires and blood. Thumbs up.”

  —Scott Sigler, New York Times bestselling author of Pandemic

  “This book has it all—elite military units, classified weaponry, weird science, a dash of romance, and horrific global disasters. Carlson writes like a knife at your throat.”

  —Bob Mayer, New York Times bestselling author of the Green Berets and series.

  “Terrific pacing. Dimensional characters. Jeff Carlson delivers everything and more in a killer thriller.”

  —John Lescroart, New York Times bestselling author of The Hunter

  “A quantum leap in storytelling. I love the concept unreservedly. Love the writing to the point of jealousy. Carlson is so ridiculously talented, he makes me want to poke my eyeballs out. Interrupt is a phenomenal read.”

  —Steven Savile, international bestselling author of Silver

  “The ideas fly as fast as jets. This thriller has brains!”

  —Kim Stanley Robinson, Hugo and Nebula Award-winning author of 2312

  An excerpt from the Long Eyes collection:

  “Pressure”

  They said I wouldn’t feel a thing, but my dreams were awful. I felt pain and tightness and smothering weight, none of which overcame my excitement. I also dreamed of flying — dreamed I dove right through the ground and smashed into a spectacular new universe — yet I caught only glimpses of brightness before my eyes ruptured and abrasive rock crammed through my mouth and sinus cavities.

  The mind persists in making sense of things, even when drugged and unconscious. It remembers.

  Waking was the real nightmare. I had no face, I weighed too little, and raw swelling in my throat choked my voice.

  The bite of a needle on one leg helped center me even before the tranquilizer took hold. I stopped thrashing and understood that I was submerged in a tank not much larger than myself. I knew it was a horizontal rectangle, knew I was in its middle — yet I had no eyes.

  Could my hearing be acute enough to measure distance? There wasn’t time to sort through my senses. The ponderous blood-weight of the tranquilizer could not subdue the breathing reflex and I dug at the water with every limb, moving up, up—

  A hard ceiling punched into the smooth metal protrusions of my face before I reached a surface. There was no air. But I could not drown. I snorted water through the generous filter plate where my nose had been, then expelled a shocking pocket of liquid through the gills beneath my armpits.

  For a moment I did nothing more than breathe, feeling each exhalation against my elbows. I almost touched my face, hesitated, then grew interested in my hands and brought them together. The index fingers and thumbs felt no different but my other digits were thicker, longer, webbed.

  “Garcia?” Stenstrom’s voice was too loud in the VLF transceiver buried high in my cheekbone, distorted by the mumble of other people around him. “How do you feel?”

  I thought I heard the vibrations of his enthusiastic tone directly as well, dulled by the water and walls of my tank.

  They’d told me the recovery tank would be glass. I imagined his entire research team all around my naked body, bristling with recorders and palmtops, every face intent.

  Andrea had always giggled when we skinny-dipped together, watchful for neighbors but emboldened by each other’s daring, in the early days when we lived at her parents’ house in San Diego. Before she got pregnant. “Shark!” she’d whisper, and grab for me. I can be a pensive son of a bitch and her teasing, her smiles, had always been what I needed most.

  The thought of her now helped me ignore my embarrassment.

  My scrotum had been tucked away, my penis shortened, protective measures that Stenstrom’s people swore were reversible, like all of the surgeries and implants. I had that in writing and an eight figure insurance policy to back it, but there’s not a man in the world who wants to be cut in that area, no matter the compensation.

  “Garcia?” Stenstrom raised his volume painfully.

  Answering, I almost swallowed a mouthful of water. Despite all of my training, subvocalizing into a throat mike was very different after the changes reinforcing my mouth and neck. Eating would be a chore.

  I croaked, “Drop volume!”

  Stenstrom was apologetic. “Is this better?”

  “Down, down. Lots.”

  “You’re more sensitive than we expected, apparently. Any other immediate difficulties?”

  I kicked through a tight somersault. “Feel great!”

  #

  My pride was my savior, my source of endurance.

  I spent the longest five weeks of my life in that tank and in a deeper pool, healing, testing, practicing. My feet and toes had been augmented much like my hands, my thighs shortened to maximize the available muscle. I was damned quick. Relearning construction techniques with my new fingers was sometimes frustrating, yet my progress was real and those periods of solitary labor became important to me.

  At the surface, in the shallows, doctors poked and prodded and put me through redundant tortures. I had been warned that the study of my new body would be extensive and I did my best not to fear or hate them, but I’d never imagined such intense scrutiny. During my years as a SEAL, I had been like a bug under a microscope, constantly evaluated and scored. Here I was the microscope, my body the only lens through which they could measure their work.

  Stenstrom tried to be my buddy, as he had always tried, joking and asking what I’d do with the money, yet his possessiveness was obvious. “We’ll be famous,” he said. “We’ll change the world.”

  I wasn’t a slave or a pet exactly, but I was anxious to get started — to get away from them.

  The project had almost selected someone else, a loudmouth much better at politicking than me, but the job would mostly be done alone and they must have thought he’d break without an audience.

  I’m sure my Navy files indicated no problems of that nature. I’m the private type, happiest diving or surfing with my laughing Andrea or teaching our boys to swim, feeling my heartbeat, finding the perfect ride, the perfect moment, away from other people and their squabbles and protest marches. I’ve never understood the urge to merge, never wanted to add my opinions to the bubbling stew of e-media or buy five minutes of fame on iBio. For me, a mob holds no power, no point. Running in circles won’t improve the economy, clean the environment, or affect the East Asian guerrilla wars in any way. Hard work is the answer. Honor. Persistence. A willingness to take risks.

  The project offered all that and more.

  I had to relearn how to chew and swallow, a slow process but strangely more flavorful. Stenstrom said that was only because of the premium foods they’d secured for me, but I had eaten well occasionally in the past and decided my improved palate must be a side effect of the surgeries that had strengthened my jaw and lips. Could taste buds be sensitized?

  Learning to see again was also a challenge. From old research with dolphins and orcas, Stenstrom knew better than to surround me with smooth walls. Many of those captives had gone insane over time. That wasn’t a concern here, but they didn’t want my brain to establish its new neural patterns in wrong or confused ways.

  Before activating my sonar receptors, which used ultra low frequencies far below my improved range of hearing, they put me in the deeper, irregularly shaped pool.

  It was beautiful. I’d lost color but the textures were vivid, stark, each shape imposing. My receptors could also see normally but had no better than 20/600 vision in that mode, which I’d use only for close-up work and to read instrumentation.

  I chose complete blindness when calling my family. Rather than face a showphone, I let a computer read and type for me, my throat mike patched into a voder. Site management had encouraged me to limit our exchanges to text only, which was easier to encrypt — and who knew what seven- and four-year-old boys would make of some stiff-mouthed monster claiming to be their father? Brent had only stopped referring to me as “step-dad” a short time ago, and
Roberto was still young enough to forget me. The portrait we’d had done before I left was not an image that I wanted to disturb, even though I had been caught in mid-blink and Andrea’s smile looked forced, too large.

  “I’m doing great, Hon, how are the boys?” I asked.

  Her response came in stuttering groups of syllables, all emotion masked by the machine: “I used part of the advance money to buy a DFender for our apartment.”

  It almost seemed like she was having a different conversation.

  “Why bother?” I asked. “The house should be ready soon.” Smart alarms cost thousands of dollars, just a speck of what I’d earn, but the money was supposed to last the rest of our lives.

  “We’re still here in the meantime,” she said.

  The boys gave me no chance to brood over the resentment that seemed so clear in her words. Maybe I only imagined it. “Are you in the ocean yet how far down can you go?” one of them babbled, without first identifying himself, and other said, “Greenpeace rated you a top ten on the widecast yesterday!”