《A Hardness of Minds》
Chapter 1 Earth. Tensed
Dalton''s car pulled off the freeway, and by now he was late. No one was watching his time clock; he was self-motivated by something greater. Next time, I''ll leave earlier, he chided himself.
The day was already warming up. Approaching he office, he saw the mass of protesters which thronged the public sidewalk, leaving the parking lot¡¯s entrance open.
¡°Let them Eat Space-cake,¡± one inane sign read, with a large caricature of several trillionaires. It was on of the mass produced vinyl variety.
He didn¡¯t pay attention to them, or the other signs saying things like ¡°Earth 1st, Space Never.¡± ¡°Stop the Space Race, Save the Human Race.¡± ¡°Put the X over SpaceX,¡± and other such slogans.
Dalton hated the protesters, and protesting, but he didn¡¯t know how to show it. As long as they didn¡¯t jump in front of his automated car, he didn¡¯t even see them or their slogans. They were just static and white noise to the thoughts of his day. Their requests were senseless anyway. Furor far too late. The Trillionaire spent the money already building and boosting the probe off to Jupiter. Somehow, the opposition found out where their office was and paid for protesters, increasing as they approached the landing; then the bored mindless joined along (for free).
Dalton saw a protester drop their homemade sign, tense up, and then jump into the street. The automatic driver braked and the seatbelt dug into Dalton''s shoulder.
¡°You''re starving the children.¡± The protester yelled at the car.
Dalton looked back with a perplexed face while the car pulled into a nearby parking space.
He threw on his skinny, long blue polo shirt over his white undershirt and ran a comb through his hair. He walked swiftly towards the building, only to come right back, grab his lanyard hanging from the rear-view mirror, and set out once again.
¡°Look at him, he¡¯s starving himself,¡± another paid protester jeered.
The space hecklers looked at him with wary eyes and continued their protest, getting an occasional honk of support from the public road.
No coffee for the late, he thought, and hustled into his cubicle chair, donned his headset, and connected into the control room.
His heart was still rapidly beating when they did the last check of personnel.
The wallscreens lit up, and Dalton flung the second stream on his second monitor. A montage of various ¡®happy moments¡¯ from previous missions to the outer planets; New Horizons flyby of Pluto, Europa Clipper¡¯s orbital insertion, ESA¡¯s JUICE mission, Cassini / Huygens, and Voyager and Pioneer flybys. Each showing a high-resolution image of distant worlds no human would see in-the-flesh during Dalton¡¯s lifetime. Distances so far they were absurd to grasp; Jupiter was a half a billion miles away¡ªon average.
A few smiles and claps. Then everyone hushed. Dalton heard only the landing controller recounting velocity and altitude numbers on screen.
The morning mood was alert¡ªeveryone was tense and ready. Another snowball brake.
A timer showed on the screen with the countdown to the deorbit burn ticking away.
The head console shouted ¡°Go¡± for landing. Jim standing there. Top-dog today¡ªlike most days.
¡°Ion thruster. Safe detachment.¡± The spacecraft showed a red blinking wireframe around the detached part, then grayed out until the spacecraft became one unit less. Europa or bust, there was no return to a higher orbit.
¡°Orbit¡¯s at two clicks,¡± new voice replied.
Europa¡¯s topology varied only plus or minus 250 meters, with the occasional peak or mesa at one kilometer. Two kilometers altitude was the record low for any spaceship around anybody in the solar system but plenty for the ice moon. The absent atmosphere allowed for such a tight orbit.
¡°Retros firing,¡± said the voice.
On screen, the altitude decreased. At the inclined orbit, an impact was inevitable. A bead of sweat rolled down Dalton¡¯s temple and reminded him to breathe. The anxiety seemed to override his body. He would not impact the ice at fatal velocities, he told himself.
¡°One kilometer altitude,¡± another called. An unmuted mic relayed an audible gasp.
Don¡¯t gasp yet, Dalton thought. For fun, he and his buddies spent hours calculating the lowest orbit possible. Indeed, one line circled the planet; which enabled a 500 meter orbit. With gravity of less than one seventh Earths, they calculated how little delta-v needed to leap over a tightly orbiting spacecraft (if a human were to land on Europa).
The orbit decayed. Instead of an orbit, a single arc angled onto the surface with a red blinking red dot showing impact.
¡°Retros finished. Jettison normal.¡± Red outlines flashed, then went gray on the lander¡¯s wireframe. Another stage ghosted out. Less mass to brake. Dalton thought.
¡°500 meters¡±
¡°Twenty clicks out and closing.¡±
¡°Decline''s good.¡±
¡°Ventrals at 25%¡±
Dalton did the mental math, and looks like about 400 meters in distance for every 10 meters of altitude lost. They were really doing this!
¡°This zone¡¯s got bumps, we want a light touchdown.¡± Jim said.
¡°Losing too much altitude, ventrals to 100%.¡± A male controller called suddenly.
¡°50 met¡ªTouchdown. Hard landing.¡± He added.
¡°Wheel one¡¯s hot¡ª¡±
¡°Brake one failure.¡±
¡°Wheel one shredding!¡± Someone else called out to more gasps as the airbags deployed on the digital screen from simulated camera views. The lander was topping end over end. The weak gravity of Europa seemingly unable to hold on to the somersaulting craft which appeared to be flung back into orbit. A few more digitally rendered flips on screen and the vessel landed on bumpy ice. The craft¡¯s outline flashed bright red and the interior area of the wireframe turned a dark red.
¡°Damage report.¡± Jim said. Ignorant of the Star Trek reference. He looked around and made eye contact with anyone not glued to their workstation.
A few people pointed at their screens and hacked away at their keyboards.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
¡°Craft overturned and landed on its back,¡± said one. ¡°Severe tire damage.¡±
Over the next few minutes, they tested the systems on the crashed ship and simulated ejecting the airbags and wheels in order to give them the best chance of freeing the cryobot submarine probe from the wreckage.
¡°Okay, best estimate are up,¡± an operator said to Jim. The screens flashed a new simulated view. Some trusses deformed with other parts and the screen showed struts ¡®magically¡¯ intersecting in the middle of the truss (because of issues with the visualization software). The lander¡¯s left side peaked in the air, while the right, the odd-number wheels, had dug into the ice shredded wheel one gouged.
¡°Options? Shoot off the left side, then the bags?¡± Jim asked his operators. ¡°Then hope it levels out and detach the right side? Save point this.¡±
The lander¡¯s left detached all parts simultanously, as expected. Wireframes again flickered red, then ghosted out, but stayed phantom-white on the ruddy-white ice. The multi-ton submarine probe was still.
As the damage reports rolled in, Jim''s face got bleaker, until eventually he sank back into his black chair and observed. The explosive bolts failed to eject the lander. Jagged silver beams of aluminum stuck to the right side of the probe, the cryobot would never melt through now.
¡°We knew this was a bumpy plain. We¡¯ll try again.¡± Jim addressed everyone.
The feed went black as the simulation ended. The lander had broken, but the submarine was operative, but doomed to a life above the surface¡ªultimately trapped meters from its goal. For the rest of its brief life, it would give a fraction of the useful science data, until beat to death by Jupiter¡¯s titanic radiation belts. In the very end, one Trillionaire would gloat over another¡¯s failure. The media would run lurid stories of the failure then move on. Science would lose out and no one would explore Europa for decades. But it had sat unseen for eons.
Jim came back on screen to address everyone. ¡°We¡¯re an international team, but many of us pursued science for national pride. We¡¯re not stereotypical-looking patriots. But we are part of something far larger than ourselves. This is the pinnacle of Western scientific advancement. This¡¯ll sound sinophobic, but if we fail and the Chinese succeed in their martian lander, the media will skewer us and our sponsor. They will broadcast this failure of Western Science.¡± Jim waved his hands in an exaggerated motion. ¡°They¡¯ll ignore the fact we¡¯ve landed *people* on Mars. And worse, Europa will go unexplored for decades. Some of us won¡¯t live to know what¡¯s under the ice.¡±
The room was dead silent. His tone was not harsh or angry, but all sat like a shamed puppy.
¡°Okay, take fifteen. Then we¡¯ll try again.¡± Jim told everyone.
Coffee time, thought Dalton.
The kitchen was a drab windowless room in the center of the building between the stairwells and bathrooms. A typical sort with zero view. Whether in the private sector or academia, a provost, department head, or director took the exterior-wall square footage. All dead weight¡ªall talkers. Dalton had always thought. None were lifting science engineering the experiments or the landing rovers a billion kilometers away. But still he dreamed of a window office (when not working remote).
Dalton went straight to the coffee, but the last person drained it. At least they had restarted the new drip. Other engineers and graduate students were chatting but most were hurrying out, desperate to maximize the break.
A young woman walked in and approached. ¡°Hey, is the coffee ready?¡±
The woman didn''t seem a hair above twenty-five. Her thin cardigan obscured her lanyard.
¡°Uh, nope, that¡¯s why I¡¯m hanging here.¡±
¡°Oh, cool.¡± She replied, then tried to make small talk. ¡°I¡¯m new here, so what¡¯s your job?¡± She asked.
Hired for third shift operations, Dalton thought. He inspected the woman and then replied. ¡°Data engineer; synthetic data engineer.¡±
¡°Oh, cool...¡± With a bit of a hesitating emphasis on ¡®cool.¡¯ ¡°So, um, how did you get your job here?¡±
¡°Well, I was one of Jim¡¯s undergrad students. I helped him write the paper.¡±
¡°Oh wow. Jim¡¯s paper really inspired me to take up astrophysics,¡± the young lady said. ¡°Life in the IWOWs.¡± She quoted the paper¡¯s title. IWOWs being ¡®Interior Water Ocean Worlds.¡¯
Dalton covered the bottom of his quivering face with his empty cup. ¡°Yeah, well, without me Jim wouldn¡¯t have been able to publish it,¡± he said with exaggerated humbleness. Jim slipped Dalton¡¯s name in the acknowledgments section of paper. The Paper. The first plausible scientifically accepted paper on Non-Earth Life.
It was only a plausibility paper. The Europa Clipper had arrived in 2030 and immediately sent back data after the first flyby of Europa. One instrument, called SUDA (SUrface Dust Analyser), sent back confirmations of organic compounds. There was roiling chemistry on Europa.
Dalton wasn''t an author of the paper, his name wasn¡¯t on it either, more like ¡®in¡¯ it. Listed at the end under additional help¡ªthird from the last. At least at the very end, one¡¯s name would be marginally prominent. Not the first line, where someone skimming might spy it. Third to the last, blurred with all others, a space everyone skipped.
The dripping of the coffee pot cut through the awkward silence.
She looked down at his lanyard. ¡°Ok, Mr. Dalton. H. Chatsworth.¡±
¡°Yup, I¡¯m in the acknowledgments. I wrote the software which collected the data and did the time adjustments between JWST, Hubble, and Europa Clipper. Then I did all the relativity adjustments. You won¡¯t believe how complicated it was to combine adjust time for velocity, gravity wells, and even a timezone or two...¡± He sensed he was losing her. She glanced over at the coffeepot. No one cared about proper data collection and transformation could translate an impenetrable high dimensional dataset into a discovery business degree graduates could find. Nor did he ¡®write the software.¡¯ He committed four functions to production while an undergrad.
The coffee pot beeped and the sound of dripping tapered off. ¡°Ah, looks like it¡¯s done. You first.¡± Dalton said, but then grabbed the craft.
He poured coffee into her cup and now saw his conundrum. Was she a sort of woman who needed 5% more space for cream and sugar or just the standard 10% margin for walking without burning one¡¯s hand? At 60% he stopped filling and silently scolded himself. He should have let her pour.
¡°Thanks, um. Well, it was nice meeting you Dalton.¡± she said as she backed away slowly.
¡°Nice meeting you too¡¡± he realized he never asked her name.
¡°Claire,¡± she said and flipped her badge over, and then walked out.
Dalton saw the badge. Three prominent social media handles, InstaCourse, Grind.io, Tertabuzz¡ªall trendy startups that many of Dalton''s age cohort flocked to. A social media starlet, he thought. Hired to keep the buzz up. All for the Trillionaire.
He became sickened. They hired third shift communication interns. The problem with science nowadays was you had to spend billions of dollars and years of your life to refute any claim, then millions to market it.Take Europa. Scientists postulated life was possible under the ice. NASA had to conceive of the mission, lobby for money, sell it to the public, build it, test-test-test, deploy, launch, orbit, boost, and above all, wait. Wait for years! Once it got to Jupiter it had to maneuver, fly-by, hit a plume, sample, compress data, transmit to Earth, decompress the results, and finally wait for the instrument data to be interpreted, all to win a stupid bet with Sammy-Sideline-Scientist who was so sure Europa was lifeless. It didn¡¯t give an answer with finality! Perhaps Sammy was convinced, but the legions of his followers wouldn''t: ¡®Well, ackchyually the data''s inconclusive. The results are contested.¡¯
However, the proliferation of slickness in science was what Dalton was most angry about. Armchair nerds would never die (they would die, and be replaced). It was the high-gloss sheen, perfect hair, the plasticized shrink-film packaging on the produced videos of the science actors which had proliferated¡ªthose were the worst in his mind. ¡®Like¡¯ seekers, hit mongers, the marketer''s the lip-gloss polish of it all and the viewer just offloading trust to well-produced videos.
It left the viewer thinking they knew because they watched¡ªwithout the experience of ever doing. None of them got their hands dirty with science. None of them had dug a hole, no boots on Mars picking through the rubble of a collapse lava tube.
''Analysts are propagandists with databases,'' someone once said, and the Trillionaire had thousands under his employ.
Life on Europa would change it all, Dalton had hoped. Flood the comments of a thousand no-life-on-Europa ''science'' videos. All social media noisemakers. Even on his ''side,'' publishing weekly or daily recaps of the Europa Project, they were doing it for their channel, rather than the belief. He hoped the discovery would stand on its own merits and market itself.
He looked forward to the allied trolls¡¯ commenting on any no-life videos left up.
Their well produced clips would look good but be wrong. The sheen of science nowadays. And those smarmy, comments in their videos.
Besides, if I wanted to get attention on social media, all one needs to do is something outrageous. Preferably against someone else famous or powerful.
Chapter 2 Europa. Trials
Sounds reverberated around the underwater coral courtroom. The trial''s verdict was a foregone conclusion to everyone in the packed chamber; especially the accused astronomer¡¯s son, Ice-Driller. He still held out a small flicker of hope that this convening of the Grand Academy of Science would cause only a ¡®deep mark¡¯ on his father¡¯s name. The room was almost frothy, like a feeding frenzy, and Ice-Driller sensed the mob had other ideas. These were not cries for mercy. Dark colors of agitation flashed out from their skin. The bailiffs had already removed one agitated decapod, unable to keep his squeaks low.
The water was warm and trending hotter. The trial had already covered many topics, but the failure and death of a worker decapod was the convenient pretext to attack all of his father¡¯s writings. Construction deaths did not happen often. Decapods were quick, boneless, and flighty, but it was not impossible for one to be crushed by a slab of stone.
The courtroom was now quiet except for the designated pinger who sent out small bursts of sound so everyone could visualize the dark room. The walls, ceiling, and floor were coated with soft mats to keep echoes down. Only the furnishings and the people lit up to the echoes.
¡°Build-Strong, a construction manager for thousands of tides, is present.¡± The bailiff announced.
The last witness swam out from an antechamber to a spot near the floor under the adjudicator.
¡°And how long did you work for Ice-Gazer, the accused?¡± The prosecutor asked.
¡°I have worked with him for around five hundred sleeps,¡± the witness replied. The prosecutor clarified it was over 100 tides.
In the next series of questions, the witness described their prior relationship¡ªhis experience with chitin processing, construction of the pressure rooms out of chi-crete¡ªthings of no concern to the cosmological facts on trial. They were the minutia only to bolster the competence of the worker in the minds of the jury. The defense objected, the trial moved on. The prosecution moved onto the construction of the scientific station, built at the edge of the ice wall.
There, the construction worker was killed, wedged between the connecting the vertical hallway, and up to the last room. Discussions between the defense and prosecution bounced back and forth about who was actually at fault, but ultimately the liability for building such an extraordinary room, one that stuck out through the ice, was laid at the arms of Ice-Gazer.
¡°Now describe to me the last room. The Observatory, as the accused called it.¡±
¡°This was the trickiest. It was a conical room with a pointed dome made of clear cartilage. And on top of this dome was a small tusk, an ¡®ice breaker,¡¯ as the plans labeled it. We placed it in position, then pressurized the room. At the pre-estimated pressure, I released the holds. The room shot up through the last length of ice.¡±
¡°Did you inspect your work after installation?¡±
¡°Once it was safe, I entered the room.¡±
¡°Tell us now, what did you perceive, either through echolocation, or local heat-sense?¡±
¡°I dared not stay for long, but I pressed my sound melon against the last wall and sent out echoes into the room. When I was confident (the room would hold), I opened the hatch and listened. No sound of leaks or cracks. In fact, I couldn¡¯t sense much. So much so that the most noticeable thing was the silence. A blank world where no echoes returned. All the myths they taught us were true, the Nullworld exists!¡±
Pops and squeaks came from the crowd, and a few closest to the walls sent out targeted-sounds through the walls trying to communicate to waiting bodies outside the courtroom. The bailiffs swam up, and the crowd calmed down and floated quietly.
¡°So you could be visualize nothing past the ice?¡±
¡°No! It was the actual end of the Universe! Nothing was echolocated past the observatory.¡±
There you have it, ¡°Nothing exists past. The. Final. Room.¡± The prosecutor added staccato to the last sentence. ¡°Did you perceive anything else with any other sense? Smell, heat-color?¡±
¡°I went into the room and peered through my skin, my emotional vision, but detected nothing. Emotional darkness in the room. Cold.¡±
¡°Did you peer through¡ um, with one¡¯s¡ more intimate skin?¡± The prosecutor got out.
Laughter and snorts went up through the courtroom¡¯s coral stone amphitheater.
¡°No¡ Never.¡± said the manager. ¡°That¡¯s obscene.¡± They used infrared for very close range emotions. Blues for group cohesion. But the most sensitive skin was in a protected pocket on their underbelly and used for copulation.
¡°So you cannot confirm the defendant¡¯s claim that he saw something, a ¡®large striped ball,¡¯ a massive source of infrared?¡±
¡°No.¡±
¡°There you have it, nothing to support this mad clam¡¯s claims.¡± The prosecutor added triumphantly.
¡°Your honor, I object to that defamation!¡± Ice-Gazer¡¯s lawyer said.
¡°Noted. Please strike the remark. The decapod is not a clam,¡± the Adjudicator said.
¡°Also, please refer to the doctor by his full title: Doctor of Metaphysics¡¯ or Dr. Mpf.¡± (The title he was defending) the lawyer added.
Ice-Gazer took the stand for the last time. He shot his body up to the top center of the large room. Above the raised platform, here he was to perch. The accused began in a voice tired of the whole sick show. ¡°Esteemed Colleagues, Members of the court, and Citizens of Deepvent, and various barnacles here for the spectacle,¡± he signed. ¡°I have attended the same lectures as you all here at the best academy in our universe. I have gone through all the requirements to achieve our highest degrees that this noble institution can bestow on anyone.¡±
A pause and then he sloughed off his frustration and spoke his mind. ¡°Our whole cosmology is outdated. Our God, Aquarius, god of heat, magma, and the center, is not the only thing in the universe. There is something much larger just beyond the ice!¡±
The crowd burst forth in shouts. Loud knocks of the judge¡¯s rock mallet on the stone podium rang out. The bailiffs removed an agitated member and everyone settled down.
¡°Now, I realize this ruptures our commonly held theology,¡± he said as one remembering the situation he was in. ¡°But I cannot convince you using the facts, nor using my credentials¡ I can give you the instructions and then let you discover the truth for yourself. I am beyond disappointed that the ice has drifted and obscured the view. But we can still see other things. If you build at a different longitude¡ªtowards the bulge¡ªthen you will see a large striped crescent hanging in the Nullworld. You have the silver sonographic plates to guide you. You can work out the angles for yourself.¡± At that, the old decapod shot back to his stone in the front row and crossed his tentacles.
More pips and squeaks came from the audience. ¡°The rabble rouser seeks to implode our cosmology, not enlighten it,¡± someone exclaimed.
He looked for his son and sent out an ping to locate him. Many others nearby flashed their personal identities, but Ice Gazer did not see his son. He stayed on the dais awaiting further useless accusations.
Outside the courthouse building, Ice-Driller propelled himself away at high speed through the city of Deepvent. He sent out haphazard echolocations and others sensing his jerky movements, gave him a wide berth. Some other citizens replied defensively: ¡®don¡¯t hit me hot-soot¡¯ or a more sarcastic variety: ¡®look out for speedy-no-shark over there.¡¯ Ice-Driller didn¡¯t care. He was on the verge of losing everything he and his father had worked for.
Ice-Driller knew the Academy would shut down the research center; though the costs were manageable, the peculiar findings were difficult to align with the power structure. It poked too many holes through the thin reasoning of other fields of study, such as Sphereism, Coreology, to name a few. Ice-Driller hated the types who flocked to those positions, all theorists and no rock hard ideas.
Ice-Driller swam amongst the plaza population. Rumors flew between those he passed: ¡°I heard the project will destroy the universe. Breaking the ice-shell will erupt all water into Nullworld.¡± ¡°Me too, and we¡¯re being invaded because by Hotsmoke to prevent a cataclysm.¡±
Others were more superstitious: ¡°The ultimate battle is nigh. Our god versus the Nullworld deity. Nothing can stop it!¡± Read one sign in the plaza.
Ice-Driller almost stopped his swim to counter the vapid claims. But he knew from long tides of trying that a hard mind was impossible to change. Curse the Academy, well at least they will soon be out of power, he thought. The Royal Society funded the Academy, which maintained its status from the dual graces of the Monarch and the congress of leaders. The people worked, the military protected, the leaders led, but the erudite of science had failed to make progress. Now the swarming city-state of Hotsmoke had declared war, Hotsmoke and Deepvent¡¯s military leadership was in charge. Many valueless expenditures of energy were being culled. The military gave no quarter for any idle thinking, let alone the universe upending kind.
The thought, the inverted paradigm¡ªthe insurrectionist idea¡ªthat their Universe was not a bounded sphere had been slowly moving the minds. Imperceptibly at first, like the silt in slack tide, barely progressing. But in the last dozen tides, Ice-Gazer and his allies had moved this infectious idea into the public superstition and carried everyone¡¯s mind in a strong current. But not everyone was convinced. Ice-Driller had heard every variation of caution. In his mind, it was idle theorizing from the deep-dwellers who never decompressed and ventured from the seafloor.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Bottomdwellers! He thought, but it was not much of an insult. ¡®Rockheads¡¯ would have been a better snub.
They disgusted him, and he was going to do something about it. If they wouldn¡¯t swim up, he would bring reality down. His plan was going to be executed. His research would force them to recognize. That was the plan before this talk of war. He was making it up as he swam. In Ice-Driller¡¯s mind, ¡®dangerous research¡¯ was a poor pretext for war. That thought would ¡®push over in gentile tides,¡¯ as the decapods might say. The real motivation was to capture another vent to replace theirs rumored to have gone cold. Hotsmoke was less hot, and intelligent life hung on a spear¡¯s tip of balance. Society had become intelligent enough to see how little energy was available for surplus. It was eat or be eaten.
As he darted through the coral city, they released the news from nearby megaphones. ¡°ICE-GAZER FOUND GUILTY OF THEOLOGIC DISTURBANCES¡± the announcer said. Echoes resounded. Writers were already etching those words in tonight¡¯s sonopictorial news.
Ordinarily theological disagreements inside the Academy were ignored, but since the war with Hotsmoke, Deepvent¡¯s military establishment clamped down on idle thought. The Military wanted results, and if it didn¡¯t produce more spears, armor, or victuals, then it was culled. They would push any idle body, refusing to work or fight, into torpor. And an ice-shell research station was not strategic.
The announcers moved on to Ice-Gazer¡¯s penalty: imprisonment in a soundproof dungeon. Induced torpor. A sealed box with heavy insulation to dull any sounds, in a cold location elevated from the seafloor. Sensory deprivation and hibernation.
I¡¯ll free you, Ice-Driller thought.
He turned a corner and was startled by an ping.
He failed to suppress the reflex, and his bioluminescent skin flashed out his unique chromatic imprint. This decapod was uninterested, and ignored Ice-Driller, not knowing his name or the relation to Ice-Gazer on the megaphone news.
Ice-Driller darted around the decapod, and barreled through the narrow alley.
Good, Ice-Driller thought and darted towards his goal.
Squeaks and pings rang out. Ordinary noise for a bustling city, but then a targeted echolocation, a tight beam of sound, hit him from behind. Someone noticed him from afar and glared at him.
Ice-Driller got out of the swimlane, darted down, and threw up silt. Then he pushed his body flat against the coral wall as he expected another echolocation attempt. His siphon pushed water in and out quickly as he respirated heavily from the swim.
Another targeted ping rang out. It hit the nearby wall, and the echoes muffled around him. How little silt in the water could obscure the ground¡¯s truth. He thought.
Up ahead, the city glowing warm and thin streams of hot water leaked up past cooler walls and coral circles marking in negative the swimlanes most used to traverse long city distances. He was near the city¡¯s foundry complex, and past the loud mechanical sounds the foundry made, his research institute¡¯s building sat.
He walked on the seafloor under the swimlane. City decapods glided back and forth, and Ice-Driller stalked from below where ordinary decapods might mingle without impeding those traveling fast. Down on the street, he¡¯d swim slowly to not attract attention. He turned a corner and detected a few other decapods and the large foundry building in front of him.
¡°REGISTER WITH YOUR LOCAL MILITIA LEADER. YOUR DUTY IS MADATORY.¡± The megaphone rang out and lit the surrounding area with echoes.
Two decapods were in front of him, conversing. One shot out a friendly but Ice Driller suppressed his response.
Those two did not interfere or ask to identify again. In less populated locales, not showing your colors was rude. But, in this city, it was different. He jetted on past toward the foundry. He hesitated, swimming up, as it might reveal himself, so he continued the crawl towards his goal.
Behind him, another sound, and the two decapods he passed flashed their personal colors. Ice-Driller had low perception at his angle, but someone was searching, checking everybody.
¡°City Patrol. Show your colors,¡± a decapod said.
With his tentacles, he kicked up sediment on the seafloor and swam faster in open water. Around him, there were hatches leading to many small homes.
Ice-Driller swam faster, kicking up more sand. He followed under the swimlane, which would take a hard turn ahead. He darted around the corner, straight into another two-decapod patrol. ¡°City Patrol. Identify,¡± said one. Ice-Driller suppressed his identity. The decapods themselves flashed their colors. Ice-Driller could see a small section of their body was blocked by their uniform, which was a coral stone of double overlapped curves: ¡ì. This blocked their bioluminescence, revealing their ranks.
Not flashing your identity at a decapod of authority was worse than rude. It was suspicious. And on the eve of war it certainly was here in Deepvent¡ªit was criminal. The officers spread out and sent out a long distance call to summon other officers in the vicinity. The alert was repeated and echoed down the street as upstanding citizens rebroadcast the sound for others to hear.
The patrolmen split up and attempted to corner Ice-Driller against the building. They called . He lit up.
It took the patrolman a second to respond. ¡°He¡¯s the one we¡¯re looking for!¡±
¡°You are under arrest. Come quietly now,¡± the other said. The other office unfolded a net.
Ice-Driller knew another patrol was behind him, so he darted straight up at full speed. Echolocation pings and replies erupted from below him. The two followed him up.
The industrial structure was several dozen body-lengths high. Ice-Driller could make out the mechanical sounds through the rock walls. Near the top, his infrared sense saw a hot water leak. Ice-Driller swam and found a small opening. He pushed his arms in quickly and wrested the rest of his body through, using his arms for leverage.
The rough opening scraped over his marbled skin. It hurt, but the sound was worse. As he forcibly contorted his sound melon (the largest semi-solid structure in a decapod body) through the narrow opening, his perception of reality became distorted. Ow! Something popped in his melon.
With his head fully in, he and found a small round tool and wedged it into the hole. Then darted toward the far wall. Behind him, an officer was removing the tool and trying to pursue.
Ice-Driller darted around the various pieces of equipment: strainers, condensers, accumulators, and other metallurgical hardware to separate metal spewed by the hydrothermal vent many basements below.
He swam towards the hot water, now becoming uncomfortable. In front of Ice-Driller was an enormous industrial press. Pipes around glowed hot.
The long trapezoidal press head hit the stone slab, instantly about ten long metal poles¡ªspears for war¡ªwere pressed into existence.
¡°Stop,¡± he heard behind him over the drone of the machinery. The patroller was through the hole and pursuing.
Ice-Driller swam towards the stamping press.
The bottom slab jerked and the metal poles rolled off. A focused worker dropped new metallic pellets on the press bottom.
the press slammed down, the rush of current slowed Ice-Driller down as the massive rock displaced the water and struck the metal shavings. High pressure impact left a die-cast part, which the operator removed with several of his arms, while another loaded pellets into the die. The retracting rock press sucked Ice-Driller in and he used this momentum to shoot through the press open press. The officer did not follow and instead swam around to a locked safety gate.
¡°Open this gate!¡± The patrolman asked the press operator.
¡°Security,¡± the press operator said. ¡°Who are you?¡± He asked.
¡°Open this now!¡± The officer shot back.
¡°We can¡¯t. It¡¯s locked for safety reasons!¡±
Pressures from other presses pushed and moved currents around in unexpected ways. Safety cages and holds let a worker know where to stand, to keep them from being sucked in into the exposed machinery. Ice-Driller had darted through, over, and around all the machines with disregard for his safety. The heat was unbearable. The rich pay for hot water, while these workers get it for free, he thought.
He detected cooler waters and exited the building into the anonymity of the bustling swimlane.
Another ping swept over the lane from above the building. It hit those around him, but he continued. Ahead was the Institute of Ice Sciences, and at the top of the building was an ascender, readied and waiting. The institute was a normal stone building, three above-ground stories, with another ten below. Considered odd by his colleagues, Ice-Driller¡¯s office was on the top floor. Higher levels were far from the heated water circulated below and (potentially) more exposed to predators.
He let out clicks and visualized its location¡ªyes; he recognized exactly where he was. The external hatch to his office was open. It was the predesignated signal that she was ready.
Now another patrol was coming over the top of the foundry, and swept over the nearby decapods with targeted sound. He was swimming perpendicular to the traffic for the last dash to his building. Their sounds hit him, lighting him up for everyone to distinguish. The patrollers raced toward him, over the traffic in the swimlanes and towards Ice-Driller.
At the top of the building, his accomplice waited, wrapping four of her prehensile arms together in angst, five more arms wrapped around the ascender¡¯s basket, and the final one gingerly holding the release. She had been out in cold water, exposed on the top of the roof for what seemed like an entire sleep, waiting for Ice-Driller. The commotion was unmistakable.
¡°Quick! The entire city can see you swimming.¡± the assistant said.
¡°Did you grab everything?¡±
¡°Yes, get in.¡±
¡°¡ªThe pressure suits?¡± Ice-Driller said while climbing in.
¡°Yes! And too late if we didn¡¯t.¡± She said and pulled the release.The craft¡¯s vertical ascent pinned them to the floor. One roped harpoon hit the ascender, but bounced off ineffectually. ¡°Good for him,¡± she said. ¡°We¡¯d have pulled him up to his doom.¡±
¡°Thanks my mate.¡± Ice-driller said between breaths. He flashed a more intimate signal to his spouse.
¡°There¡¯s no time for that!¡± She flashed red back rapidly. ¡°Help me with the pressure wraps.¡± Study-Up said. She opened a storage box and dumped out their counter-pressure wraps, made of elastic webbing.
The ascender was a small tube used to ferry materials vertically through Europa¡¯s oceans to the ice-shell above. It had a few small hutches at the bottom for them to sleep in, supplies tied down in the center, and a pilot¡¯s cockpit where the controls were. It was pill shaped except for small fins to change the plane of ascent.¡°Here¡¯s your hard-shell,¡± Study-Up said. She passed a custom formed shell to Ice-Driller, grown from the periostracum of domesticated gastropods.With their ten adroit tentacles, they dressed themselves quickly. Already they felt the effects of lower pressures: the noises they made changed in pitch as one of their sound-making organs expanded, and the pains. Blood pressures lowered, and any exposed skin expanded. The counterpressure devices, both the wraps and the hard-shell worked. They no longer felt underpressured. No one could follow them, not at their speed. The average decapod from the city had never been so high, nor so fast.¡°What a jam you¡¯ve got my name into.¡± Study-Up said.
¡°Your father warned you about me.¡±
¡°But did I listen?¡± She shot a chirp at him.
¡°Nope.¡±
They both scurried to the cockpit. Then Ice-Driller released gasses, slowing their vessel¡¯s climb. They settled in to the long ascent up to low pressure.