Project Sail (9 page)

Despite his surprise at the conditions, Fisk fired back, “That’s crazy. They are pioneers, carving out a new future for themselves and the human race. I admire their hard work and bravery.”

“Fucking stupid,” Wren repeated. “Resources wasted trying to live where we can’t even breathe the air, when we need shit back home. Give me the money they spend on this base to use in England and we could clean up the country in months.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yeah, no one cares except for those of us who used to live there. We are just a bunch of fucking nomads and refugees; the world turned its back on England.”

“Now is not the time—”

“There are only a handful of us left to speak for the fucking ashes my country got turned into, and the dead entombed there. Until England is clean and living again, it is always the time.”

As much as Wren enjoyed listing the evils perpetrated against his people, a voice from the center of the crowd caught their attention.

“Oh lord, give us the strength to survive another day. Give us the vision to see the good no matter how desolate our surroundings or how heavy our heart!”

“That’s just fucking great,” Wren said as they circumvented the gathering. “A fucking bible-thumper.”

“Do you have to swear every other sentence?”

“Do I have to swear every other sentence? Fuck no. Do I choose too? Fuck yes.”

Fisk huffed and then checked the file again to pinpoint their destination. He led Wren to the Phoebe Inn where a glass awning played a loop of videos promoting the spa, holographic tennis courts, and private bathrooms available to guests who choose the Phoebe Inn. There also happened to be a marijuana bar and access to Earth’s web network depending on planetary alignment.

As they approached the counter, the sermon went on behind them.

“God cannot live for us. God cannot pay our bills or keep us safe from ourselves. God will not choose sides in a football game.” The last part drew chuckles. “But when we believe in our Lord and savior, when we accept that we are part of something far greater, then we will know a strength that cannot be taken from us through labor or stolen by disease. A strength that is personal and universal at the same time.”

“What a load of shit,” Wren reacted.

Fisk did not respond to his traveling companion. Instead, he addressed an older, slender woman with gray hair and violet eyes working for the hotel.

“Excuse me, we are searching for a guest named Dr. Ira King.”

She flashed a smile and tapped a small computer that projected information above the counter.

While the attendant worked, Wren asked, “So we’re here to recruit a doctor? A doctor of what?”

“We need a ship’s physician,” Fisk answered.

The woman behind the counter looked away from her monitor and pointed toward the congregation saying, “She is right out there.”

The preacher spoke loud but did not shout, “How many of you have taken god into your heart?”

Several responded, some more enthusiastically than others. Wren expected a donation hat to appear.

“Can you feel His love? Can you love your fellow man because he, too, is God’s child?”

The crowd responded with a mix of enthusiastic approval and reluctant acceptance.

“Then go my brothers and sisters and live in a way that will make God proud, that will bring peace to your heart and prosperity to your soul.”

The crowd parted, although many loitered to find and thank their preacher: an older black woman with short, straight hair, and twenty extra pounds. She accepted their thanks in hugs and handshakes, but did not accept any money.

Fisk called up a picture of Ira King on the e-paper.

Wren glanced over his shoulder, and then back at the preacher, and then at the dossier again.

“No. Fuck no. No fucking way.”

As the woman’s flock drifted off, she walked toward the hotel. Fisk intercepted her.

“Dr. Ira King?”

A big, genuine smile grew on her face and she replied, “Why yes, are you Reagan Fisk? Are you my new boss?”

Her voice sounded like grandma enticing the kids in for cookies and Fisk’s head slung in the physical manifestation of an “awe shucks” response.

She asked, “I have been looking forward to hearing about this assignment, what can you tell me?”

Before Fisk could respond, Wren answered and his reply had less to do with distance and more to do with aggravation: “It’s going to be one long fucking trip.”

12. Deep Freeze

Commander Jonathan Hawthorne rode aboard a troop train as it left Camp Conrad and headed north, toward the missiles and explosions.

This particular train did not ride on rails but was a series of attached compartments rolling on massive tires pulled by a tractor. Hawthorne found it strange that a military transport included big glass windows, but twenty miles out he saw the remains of a real military transport with armored window covers and gun ports at the bottom of a gulley. Obviously using a civilian train was a matter of necessity.

That necessity involved moving soldiers and materials from Camp Conrad to the front lines in the northern polar region, a sixty-minute trip.

Like the other passengers, Hawthorne wore hazardous environment gear including an egg-shaped helmet and a bulky suit. A hose from his outfit attached to a tube protruding from the floor so he could breathe oxygen provided by the train instead of depleting his personal supply.

Hawthorne’s suit was older and while the seals were tight and the helmet barely scratched, the heater made a dreadful humming noise. Still, the heater was as important as the oxygen supply; the surface temperature of Titan averaged minus three hundred degrees Fahrenheit thanks to the anti-greenhouse effect of the hazy upper atmosphere.

The suit and train ride came courtesy Colonel Curtis, who sat across the aisle. He was young and Hawthorne thought him scatterbrained considering it had taken five minutes for the Colonel to understand that Hawthorne had come to collect Lieutenant Thomas, despite receiving the transfer order days ago.

Curtis and the three dozen infantry onboard dressed in advanced suits with bulkier helmets equipped with high tech optics, heavy backpacks filled with combat gear, and armor plating.

Hawthorne spent the first part of the trip looking out his window. The lack of sunlight made it difficult to make out details, but he did see the waste management and power generation buildings at Camp Conrad’s outskirts, followed by a landfill where dump trucks and bulldozers buried humanity’s trash. He half expected to spot seagulls picking at the garbage.

Eventually, signs of human colonization disappeared replaced by various landscapes including rolling hills, rocky mountains, and then a wide plain seemingly made of black glass.

Next came Ligeia Mare, a vast methane and ethane lake stretching off as far as he could see. These hydrocarbon sources were the main reason man tolerated this dimly lit and horribly cold moon.

The lake was eerily still, making it seem more a solid surface than a liquid. There was nearly no wind during this time on Titan. Hawthorne once heard that as the seasons changed over the course of many Earth years so did the weather, leading to hydrocarbon rain and even hurricanes.

He saw three harvesters hovering over the lake, making him think of gigantic silver beetles with antenna poking the liquid like feelers. At the back of each hung a contraption of hoses and scoops stealing from the lake as the machine moved.

Not long after sighting those awkward-looking giants, they passed a depot where harvesters unloaded payloads into circular cisterns. Those cisterns, in turn, filled tanker trains, which would find their way to launch pads and then ion drive barges.

He remembered Horus’ warning about what space had become: a risky and spirit-draining sweatshop. The people at Camp Conrad and the other colonies across Titan were trapped in ships, buildings, and space suits. The sun was a tiny speck and the idea of fresh air a punch line.

Yet these people and their machines provided a sizable portion of humanity’s energy.

Hawthorne turned away from the window and such thoughts; he no longer cared about politics, hydrocarbon economics, or any part of the big picture. Life for Jonathan Hawthorne was a series of moments to be enjoyed or at least survived, and that might be a trick when the train reached its destination.

To take his mind off what might lay ahead, he fumbled with the e-paper containing Thomas’ background. Fortunately the suit’s gloves were nimble enough to work with the sheet and the train’s interior was heated otherwise the paper would freeze and shatter.

Fisk had not provided a complete dossier and Hawthorne did not feel like reading line for line, but a few highlights stood out.

First off, he noticed that this lieutenant was a highly coveted soldier, sought by just about every command in the Saturn region. From a weapons platform orbiting Iapetus to a training facility buried in a canyon on Tethys, Lieutenant Thomas had been transferred more often in the last two years than Hawthorne in his entire career.

“Who is this Thomas, some sort of super soldier?”

He did not realize he spoke aloud. Of course aloud meant inside his helmet, but the proximity radio meant others, including Curtis, heard.

The young Colonel jumped, as if electrified. “Um, yes, well the lieutenant is a favorite around here.”

“What do you mean? What is Thomas’ specialty? Wait a second,” he read from the information. “Barely passed basic marksmanship, average scores on hand-to-hand, and no piloting skills. The only good grade I see is for tactics and robotics and those are just okay.”

The questions lining up in his mind fell apart as a flash came through the window, a shock wave hammered the train, and the car spun. With sound traveling at half its Earthly speed, the boom from the explosion came last and because of Titan’s strange acoustics it sounded like a poorly tuned piano wire snapping.

Hawthorne’s seatbelt held him tight while others flew into the walls and ceiling, filling his proximity radio with screams and grunts. Several suits sparked and he saw a plume of pressurized atmosphere shoot out from one poor man’s helmet. For a moment, he feared sparks would reach the venting oxygen. Given the methane in Titan’s atmosphere, that combination could lead to a bad fire.

The car settled on its side with Hawthorne’s window facing the murky atmosphere, although a deluge of dust and rock rained on the glass.

Most survived the attack, but he saw one twisted body wedged between seats and another with a smashed faceplate.

As for Hawthorne, he shivered violently, not so much from the shock wave but fear. He had spent the last thirteen years of his life avoiding this type of situation. He should have told UVI to shove their contract and considered punching Fisk the next time they met.

“Goddamn it,” Curtis cursed on his proximity radio as he struggled with an oxygen hose wrapping him like a tentacle. “We got to be at least two klicks out! They shouldn’t be hitting us this far away!”

His tone sounded more like a child angry over a friend cheating at a game than a commander surprised by an enemy move. Still, Hawthorne worked to free the young man.

“We have to get clear, Colonel; they could hit us again at any second.”

Curtis produced a side arm and fire six rounds into the window, which barely managed to splinter the safety glass. Hawthorne then jumped up, drifting in the low gravity into the window, leading with his shoulder. Between the bullet holes and his momentum, he managed to break the window and climb out.

Hawthorne stood atop the overturned train that now looked similar to the destroyed military cars he had noticed on the trip out. He wondered if the army possessed additional trains or if they might have to call off the war due to a lack of transport.

Ahead to the north stretched small hills and shallow valleys, each composed of various shades of rock. He thought he spotted a structure built into the top of one rounded peak, but in the dim sunlight he could not be certain.

Overhead swirled Titan’s great north pole cloud, a gigantic mass of methane and ethane blanketing several thousand square miles. Below him was the path on which the train had driven; a flattened stretch of what resembled red gravel; a road of pulverized stone.

Of course, a big crater now existed between the tumbled transport and the Ligeia Mare sea. Hawthorne wondered why they used a low-yield explosive. Certainly, the Russians could have done more than merely topple the train. Perhaps the warhead had failed to arm.

As he climbed from the wreck, Curtis said, “The outer perimeter is just ahead.”

The sight of missile contrails and a swarm of small flying objects provided motivation to move.

Hawthorne and Curtis joined a line of survivors hurrying north. Titan’s low gravity gave the illusion that walking was easy, given the men weighed one-tenth of their Earth weight. But dealing with low gravity was an exercise of its own, particularly when fearing incoming enemy ordnance. It reminded Hawthorne of a nightmare in which he hurried to escape some shapeless danger but no matter how fast he moved his legs he could not increase his pace.

“The Russians, Colonel?”

“Yeah,” and again Curtis sounded unsure, as if he worried about saying the wrong thing or letting a piece of sensitive information slip. “They were expected to hit us again but I thought we had another day or two.”

“It must be nice to have an enemy who keeps to a schedule.”

Hawthorne worried that his sarcasm had not come across clear when the Colonel responded, “I always tell my men not to rely on it.”

The ground felt akin to snow with a layer of ice on top. Every so often Hawthorne’s boot stomped through that outer skin, sinking into dirt the texture of sand. He understood why they had built a road of crushed rock across the surface; it would have been like driving on a beach—a frozen beach—otherwise.

There was indeed a structure built into the side of a short hill. Based on its texture, Hawthorne guessed it constructed of self-repairing concrete, which would be a logical building block for a military facility in a war zone.