The Titan Probe

by Brandon Q Morris

  “So we won’t have much time, will we?” asked Martin.

  “Correct. ILSE will only be sufficiently close to Enceladus for a few minutes. We would have to decide very quickly whether to launch the lander module or not. If we do so, the ground crew in the lander will be on their own and cannot expect any help from above until the spaceship can achieve a real Enceladus orbit after circling Saturn a few times.”

  The commander has planned a very risky maneuver, Martin thought. He imagined the sequence of events. The spaceship would first have to accelerate to escape from the gravity of the moon Titan and to reach an orbit around Saturn. Then it would have to decelerate and let itself be pulled closer by Saturn, all of which would have to be done like an intricate dance to ensure their course would intersect with the path of the ice moon Enceladus at some point. Luckily we have an AI that can calculate all the necessary maneuvers. The real stunt would come afterward, though. Enceladus and ILSE each moved along separate paths at their own speed—like two vehicles meeting on a highway. Then the driver of one car would throw an apple—in this case, the lander—through the open window of the other car, where it would land in the lap of the motorist.

  That would be faster, of course, than if both cars first stopped or drove alongside each other, which would allow the driver to simply hand over the apple. The moment must be chosen precisely or the apple would land in the bushes. Martin did not want to imagine where the lander might end up, when this illustration was applied to reality. Fortunately, Jiaying had not specialized in astrophysics—she either did not quite realize the complexity of the maneuver, or she was assuming they would decide against a landing. Knowing Amy, that was not an option to consider.

  January 3, 2047, Valkyrie

  What he would have given for a liter of fresh milk! In the supply closet he found some corn flakes, a very American breakfast cereal to be sure, but he liked them all the same. If only the flakes were not so dry! He tried adding water, but then it tasted awful. Back to dry. Marchenko carefully lifted the spoon and put it in his mouth. In the minimal gravity, the cereal quickly spread through the room. At least here it did not float forever, the loose flakes gradually descended nearby. Marchenko looked around and saw a scene reminiscent of a toddler having a meltdown during breakfast.

  He wondered how the commander’s baby, Sol, was doing. After all, he himself had been the first person to see the newborn. The doctor would have liked to watch him discover Earth. By the time ILSE arrived home, Sol might already be walking.

  Marchenko presumed he would not be able to avoid ending up in the history books. True, he was the obstetrician of the first human being born in space. But he would also be the first researcher to explore the interior of the Forest of Columns, and would have the added distinction of being the first human to be buried outside of Earth. He imagined future quiz shows with the one million dollar question, ‘Whose remains cannot be found on Earth?’ Marchenko laughed at this possible scenario, just to hear the familiar sound. It was not completely silent inside Valkyrie, since the machinery created a constant background noise, but he missed human voices. Later he would play one of the videos he had found in the media storage section. He would turn off the display, though, just wanting to have voices around him.

  Before his breakfast he had pondered for a long time, wondering what last night’s dream might mean. He did not believe it was a random creation of his brain. These images had been hidden for too long. Sure, maybe people tended to recover ancient memories in stressful situations. However, the story he had experienced seemed too symbolic, not like the normal dreams he dreamt at night.

  Most of all, Marchenko knew about similar experiences from the logs left by Martin Neumaier. Martin believed the intelligent entity occupying all the cells of this ocean had spoken to him in this way. Martin was sure about this, but strictly speaking it was not more than a possibility so far. It was also the reason Marchenko had decided to explore the Forest of Columns in detail. He imagined that the being living here must be very strange. For billions of years it must have assumed there was no other intelligence besides itself. Now these humans had arrived, with their diversity of thoughts. This must have been a quantum revelation for the entity, perhaps maybe a reason to call itself into question. Or did Marchenko take himself—his race—too seriously by assuming this?

  The thoughts of such a being must definitely be thoroughly alien. Even if it could communicate with other beings by electrophysiological means, it first would have to find common ground with them. His old memories might have been a specific means to this end. Maybe the being, whose name he did not know—who until now had not even needed a name, as it was so unique—had searched through fragments of his memories until it found images that fit its message.

  What was the content, and what was it trying to tell him? Marchenko did not wake up feeling he had experienced a nightmare. Rather, the basic sense of the dream had been one of curiosity. Should he interpret the dream as an invitation to open the door leading to the inner sanctum? That would be great, for he could encounter an alien intelligence. And he would not be utterly alone in the hour of his death. Ultimately, that was something he was truly afraid of, Marchenko finally admitted to himself.

  January 3, 2047, ILSE

  During the night Martin had lain awake alone in his cabin for a long time, after having explained to Jiaying exactly what Amy was planning to do. His girlfriend had been shocked at hearing his explanation, and he could understand why she felt this way. She was afraid, and for good reason. Up to now, even maneuvers they had initially considered to be child’s play had come close to catastrophic failure. Space was a pitiless environment and did not allow for mistakes. How would a plan fare that, from the outset, seemed so complicated?

  Martin laughed, which sounded odd in his tiny cabin. Maybe this is the trick, after all is said and done; attempt the impossible in order to achieve something feasible. Hasn’t someone famous said this before? As if space cares for such inspirational crap! Why don’t I agree with Jiaying as far as this plan is concerned? Shouldn’t I be as much afraid as she is? Did I turn old and wise without noticing it?

  No. It was the good feeling of knowing others were there for him. No one would be left behind. He had lacked this certainty during his childhood. His father disappeared, and his mother had been barely able to get her life under control. Naturally, Martin had taken over responsibility for her. Through the years, the idea of not being able to save himself, and being dependent on others, had absolutely frightened him. Later, he had found a true love and been powerless in the face of her suicide. All of this explained why he preferred not feeling responsible for anyone. Since he had never been very talkative, this had not been too difficult for him.

  Now, however, Martin felt he had found good friends, a substitute family of sorts. He would have to talk more with Jiaying. He really wanted her to understand his motivation.

  First though, there was some work to be done. The commander had ordered him and Hayato to repair the lander. The module needed something it could land on. In this respect, Enceladus was not very demanding, since there was no atmosphere and very low gravity. The main problem would be to compensate for the velocity differential. As long as ILSE traveled a different course than the moon, the velocities would also differ.

  They would have to spend most of the fuel to adjust for this difference, because in the end, the lander capsule could not just touch down on the surface—it needed new landing struts that could absorb a substantial impact.

  Martin met Hayato in the lab, the small module in front of the command capsule.

  “Watson has no idea where we could find material for landing struts.” The Japanese astronaut appeared to have been busy researching the issue with the help of the AI.

  “Then we had better get creative,” Martin said. He liked the idea of being smarter than the artificial intelligence. “Watson obviously did not find a single spare part that could replace the landing struts. But what if we c
obble something together?”

  Hayato nodded. “Let’s use the term ‘construct something’ when talking to the others, as it sounds a bit more reliable.”

  “Can you think of a material that is resistant to cold, of which we might have small quantities on board?”

  “My colleagues at Princeton Satellite Systems always swore by pantyhose and said they could repair anything with it. I am sure our three female astronauts have some on board.”

  Martin shook his head. “Not this time, as it wouldn’t resist extreme cold. At minus 150 degrees it would no longer be elastic, but we are thinking in the right direction. We just need another type of synthetic.”

  Hayato turned around and placed a hand on the ‘workbench,’ which was actually a simple table. “Watson, what material is this tabletop made of?”

  “Polyethylene—UHMW,” the AI announced.

  Due to the wood grain pattern, Martin had been so naive as to assume it was actually wood. If that had been the case, utilizing the tabletop would have been risky, because wood is flammable.

  “Specify thermal characteristics of PE-UHMW.”

  “Melting point 135 degrees, impact-resistant to minus 200 degrees.”

  “Thank you, Watson,” Hayato said excitedly.

  “The tabletop here won’t be enough,” Martin said.

  Hayato nodded in agreement.

  “Ah… I know what you are thinking,” Martin said, turning toward the entrance of the command module. “After all, this is not our only table. But what will the others say if we remove all of the tables?”

  “Just a moment, I am going to get it approved by Amy,” Hayato said, turning around. Instead of using the on-board communicator, which Martin would consider practical, Hayato obviously wanted to ask Amy in person. Well, let him, Martin thought, and started to unscrew the table in the lab. Ten minutes later, his fellow astronaut returned with a grin.

  “She is not exactly enthusiastic, but if it is necessary... however, I had to promise we would reassemble the tables after the mission.”

  Martin shook his head. “We are going to have to melt them down.”

  “Sure, and I think Amy knows it, too.”

  Hayato and Martin spent all afternoon removing tabletops and forming them into thick pipes. They did not even have to melt them completely—they just heated them enough so they could be rolled up like giant crepes. It was not easy reaching just the right temperature to achieve this effect, as each tabletop could only be rolled once it was hot enough across its entire length. How could they do this using a heating instrument that looked like a soldering iron?

  After almost destroying the first tabletop, Hayato had another idea. “What if we run a short-circuit current through a long metal rod? You can imagine how hot it will get.”

  Hayato and his experiments, Martin thought. I wonder whether they developed the fusion drive this way. The Japanese engineer used to work at the company that had developed the fusion drive used in ILSE.

  “And what if it suddenly gets dark in the ship because all of the fuses are blown?”

  “We have to do this on a separate circuit, of course,” Hayato said. “Watson should be able to provide one of the DFDs as an exclusive power source.”

  Hayato rerouted some cables on the floor of the lab.

  “Oh-oh,” Martin said. “Let’s not forget to change it all back afterwards.”

  At 19:00 ship time the two men had finished assembling the new struts. On Hayato’s suggestion they filled them up to two thirds with water and then closed them at both ends. This gave the new landing struts more stability, since at minus 180 degrees water became hard as iron, while they would still keep their elastic properties due to the polyethylene covering.

  Once they attached the struts, Hayato gave Martin an enthusiastic nudge with his elbow. “We should patent this,” he said.

  “Sure thing. On our first day back home… some day.”

  January 4, 2047, Valkyrie

  He only had 24 hours left, yet Marchenko felt strangely calm. He had made his decision, with no recollection of a specific moment of having done so. Does everyone who takes his fate into his own hands feel this way?

  By all objective measures he was a doomed man, but the feeling of helplessness he dreaded had not come. He decided to spend his last day with beautiful things. He was going to think of Francesca, eat a good meal—as much as the supplies allowed—read something, and write a letter.

  At first he considered writing an old-fashioned letter on paper. The idea seemed romantic to him at the time, until he remembered Valkyrie would be flooded by the ocean once he departed the vehicle through the emergency hatch. His unread letter would be doomed, since he could not expect the vessel to be salvaged in the foreseeable future. Perhaps a new expedition would eventually be sent here, but it would perhaps take ten years or more before it could arrive. This meant Marchenko needed to save his text in the computer system. The permanent chip storage was well-shielded against the environment and would survive the flooding of Valkyrie.

  Dear Francesca, he began. The cursor blinked on the screen. He deleted the salutation because it seemed so banal, but then he typed it again.

  I would like... No, he could not start the letter by talking about himself.

  If you read this... He also deleted this line. How could he approach Francesca using such clichés?

  He started twenty-seven other sentences. He deleted each one of them from the screen. Only the salutation remained. Wouldn’t this already state everything? Marchenko rubbed his temples. It was so hard to find suitable words. If Francesca was sitting across from him, the words would just flow, he was convinced.

  Dear Francesca. A new start, but he stalled out again. Maybe he should just accept it. Marchenko moved his head side-to-side and drummed on the desk in the rhythm of the blinking cursor. He would not need a complicated message because he did not have to explain himself.

  I loved you. This was the perfect sentence, he thought. It exuded the certainty he felt, and it did justice to his feelings, as well as his belief or disbelief. Just a moment, he thought, that’s not all. He added a sentence:

  And I know you loved me.

  Could he relieve Francesca from her presumed feelings of guilt? Should he even try?

  It is not your fault.

  No, he only had to read this sentence out loud to feel guilty himself. He tried again.

  I want to thank you for everything.

  This was better. Marchenko savored the feeling, for knowing he was loved would keep him warm, even in the ocean out there. He saved the text and added keywords to make it easy to find. The rest could be reconstructed from Valkyrie’s log. He hoped his text would reach Francesca during her lifetime. Of course he also had to accept the possibility of Valkyrie never being found.

  Two hours later the navigation system reported Valkyrie had reached the bottom of the ocean. Now he just had to move to the northeast and he would get there, to his journey's end, around noon. Then he would have six hours left for exploring.

  Marchenko activated the searchlights and the cameras. He was not exactly sure what he was seeing in front of him. It definitely could not be ice. The bottom was covered by a layer of material one might call mulch on Earth, and the jets were stirring up the stuff behind Valkyrie. Martin and Francesca had previously described the ocean floor as sheer rock. Marchenko used the laser-radar to create a 3D map, and he appeared to be in a depression where the material had gathered. Was this life? Or was it dead particulate matter, a cemetery so to speak? He would have to analyze the material, but he lacked the expertise to draw conclusions from it. He checked the area in the infrared range, and the mulch was a bit warmer than its surroundings. Perhaps there were some biological processes occurring here. On the other hand, it could also be a form of decomposition, or simply a chemical reaction.

  The one thing he noticed in the infrared picture was a network structure. Marchenko raised the resolution of the IR image and noticed somethi
ng strange. Thin lines emanated from small piles of mulch, ending in other mulch piles. It reminded him of paths between anthills. However, ant colonies did not cooperate with one another.

  Was this all there was to it? He shifted to the microwave radar. This allowed him to look a bit below the surface. He could clearly see the mulch piles as bright spots, but the thin lines had disappeared from this view. Besides this curious feature, he noticed wider but fainter stripes that only touched the largest of the white spots and were aimed straight in his direction of travel. He moved Valkyrie a bit higher to get a better overview. From this perspective he could still detect the broad stripes. They appeared to be parallel, but that could be an optical illusion. Could the stripes be in a star-shaped configuration, pointing to a center? He moved Valkyrie a few meters higher, but this time the range of the radar was no longer sufficient. Maybe he could answer his own question by regularly measuring the distance between two neighboring stripes. Just to be on the safe side, Marchenko took a screenshot.

  The ocean floor was slowly rising, and a few minutes later rock became visible. The white spots had disappeared, but the broad stripes still existed. They must be running through the thin, almost transparent layer of cells Martin and Francesca had analyzed. He could not detect them in the visible spectrum, so the stripes must consist of the same material as the layer that they were in. Maybe here cells specialized according to function without changing their form.

  Being a doctor, Marchenko immediately thought about the biological repercussions. Such an organism would be almost indestructible. If you chopped off its head, or any partial structure, other cells would simply take over the respective functions. He still remembered how long it took human researchers to get specialized cells on Earth to take on new and different functions. On the other hand, if only one type of cell existed, an attacker would have an easy time—a pathogen would only have to take out one kind of cell to destroy all life. This meant such an organism could only develop in a place where there was no competition. Now Marchenko regretted not having enough time to research this phenomenon. Enceladus once more proved to be a unique and fascinating environment.