On the Shores of Titan's Farthest Sea Page 3

  She knocked on a small patch of metal that wasn’t covered by plastic or paper. “Yo, Troy. You in there?”

  “No,” the muffled voice behind the door replied, “but I’ll be back just as soon as you leave.”

  He opened the door a crack.

  “Gave yourself away.” Abby pushed her way in.

  “Come in, please,” Troy said to her back. As she glanced over her shoulder at him, he motioned to the only chair in the room. “Something on what’s left of your mind?”

  “Yeah.” Abby sat on the floor. “You take the chair. You look like you need it.” She frowned. “Seems to me there is one way to get to the bottom of all this stuff about Kevin.”

  “Which is?”

  Her eyes drilled Troy. “We need to find out what he was doing in the western hills.” She stood. “What are you doing right now?”

  “Anything but that. I have two words for you: luna, tick. If you’re planning on going out to regions not on the work map without backup and travel plans and—”

  “And you know you want to. You want to find out as badly as I do.” She let the quiet grow between them, and then added, “Am I right?”

  Troy nodded in surrender. “Yeah. Somebody needs to.”

  “Look, Troy, I know you weren’t that crazy about the guy.”

  “I was in the minority, apparently.”

  “Stop pouting. You said yourself, his death creeps you out. You want to know what happened. So let’s find out.”

  “But should we run it by the Director?”

  “She’d have kittens. She’s under the gun about silly things like profitability and accountability and all those other ‘bilities. Donors are watching. Doc Mason just gave me the same sad story. Doc’s feeling the economic pinch these days.”

  “So is the Planetary Science Foundation. All the Director needs are a few more government rules and regs.”

  “Just what she told me last time I saw her,” Abby said. “So let’s not trouble her unless—or until—we have something concrete.”

  “Can’t we wait until it warms up? Oh, wait, this is Titan.”

  Abby scowled. “You like doing that, don’t you? Reminding me of how rotten the weather is out there.”

  “Only because I can tell how much you love it. Besides, you should love it. You’re the atmosphere person.”

  “Let’s suit up.”

  “I’ll sign out a rover. But Apps, there are good reasons for people to file route plans.”

  Abby grinned and raised her eyebrows. “Hey, we’re going out across treacherously slick ice on a very used rover less than a thousand miles from the north pole, with nothing but an environment suit between us and asphyxiation or instant cryogenic freeze. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Troy hesitated. “Actually, how about if we get some more data first. A good scientist gets data before conclusions, right?”

  “Right. And you’re being a chicken. How do you propose to do that?”

  “We need to see what’s in Kevin’s room. What he was really doing. Maybe there’s a clue.”

  “Clues are for murder mysteries.”

  Troy lowered his tone. “Apps, maybe that’s just what this is—a murder mystery.”

  Titan’s chilled air seemed to roll down her spine. “I suppose I’m still hoping it was an accident, natural causes and all that. But I can’t do anything important without coffee.”

  © Springer International Publishing Switzerland 2015

  Michael CarrollOn the Shores of Titan's Farthest SeaScience and Fiction10.1007/978-3-319-17759-5_4

  4. Demian Sable

  Michael Carroll1

  (1)Littleton, CO, USA

  “You really should get some nicer furniture. I would think the warden of a place like this would rate something better.” Demian Sable sat on the worn couch in the Spartan office of Warden Dennis Delvin, head of the maximum-security campus at Morrow. Sable leveled a calculating stare at a second man, seated in the corner. “And you must be Lucas Messier.” Messier reached over to shake Sable’s hand, then flinched with a look of embarrassment. Sable caught it, and reveled in the fact that the overseer with the Tri-Planet Bureau of Investigation would act in such a submissive way to a mere convict. But then, Demian Sable was no mere convict. The thought brought a smile to his face.

  Messier consulted a pad. “Well, let’s see, now: Since the incarceration of its illustrious leader here, it appears that the Spiritual Enlightenment Network has survived.”

  “Oh, they’ve thrived,” said the warden. “Despite the fact that Mr. Sable is in the hoosegow for some time to come.”

  “Mr. Sable, it looks like you‘ve got quite the list.”

  Delvin ticked off the items from memory. “Convictions of illegal mining, conspiracy with the Ishtar ecoterrorists, and attempting to export Martian artifacts across interplanetary lines.”

  “Not to mention manslaughter for the unlucky people who got in the way of the bombing. C’est la vie.”

  Sable spread his hands generously. “As they say, there are no guilty ones in prison. There were extenuating circumstances surrounding each of those incidents.”

  The warden turned to Messier. “Quite the celebrity here. For his part, Mr. Sable plays up his position to advantage. He compares himself to Gandhi, the apostle Paul, and that twenty-second century guru from France.”

  “Maharish Tala,” Sable said. “It is not I who draws that parallel, but them.”

  “Yeah, that guy. He especially likes that one, because of the guru’s associations with battles against oppression and totalitarian rule and all that.”

  “I’ll bet the parallels aren’t lost on his happy band of followers,” Messier said, but his tone was gentle, almost respectful. He was staring at Sable, sizing him up. Could this man possibly be involved in the many activities that the Tri-Planet Bureau of Investigation suspected he was? He seemed so calm, relaxed, self-assured. In short, this incarcerated prisoner seemed on top of the world.

  “My followers run an active campaign to secure my freedom. They have legitimate issues.”

  “It also seems that your personal economy has not been bruised too badly by your stint at Morrow, either. You seem to crank out a new book just about every year, and your shares in the various stores and coffee houses associated with the SEN look like they’ve grown handsomely.”

  “You’ve been keeping track,” Sable said with a sly smile. He stood and began to circle the room, much as a hawk circles its prey. “Gentlemen, I’m gratified that you wanted to have a chat, but I have a visitor coming this morning. Just what was it we were meeting about?”

  Messier lowered his pad and said, “I’m required to check in periodically with—”

  “Your celebrity inmates? Is that it? I’ll bet you don’t give this treatment to just anyone. I am truly flattered, but I feel we must bring this meeting to an end. Unless there was something else?”

  Messier looked at Warden Delvin. “Could I have a word?”

  “Certainly,” Delvin said, puzzled. He left the room.

  Messier pulled out a small remote wand and clicked a button. Leaning conspiratorially toward Sable, he lowered his voice, despite the fact that he had disabled the room’s monitoring devices. “I just had a question about your latest book. About personal fulfillment.”

  “I didn’t realize I had fans in the Tri-Planet Bureau of Investigation.”

  (*)

  Today, it would be business as usual for the spiritual leader. He waited for a few minutes before asking to be led to the visitor’s windows. He liked to keep his visitors waiting, especially the important ones. His image passed across a monitor along the corridor’s ceiling, looking fit and trim. The workouts in Morrow’s gym had paid off. His dark hair, sculpted by the prison’s top stylist, framed his strong jaw nicely, if he said so himself. As he took his seat, he gazed through the glass at a tall man in a nondescript gray jumpsuit. The man probably liked to be as nondescript as possible, Sable supposed.


  Sable steepled his fingertips and looked at the visitor without expression. He waited.

  “Mr. Sable?” the man said through the port mic.

  Sable smiled. “Mr.…James, is it today?”

  The visitor looked around nervously. Sable waved a hand.

  “Don’t worry, Horf. They trust me here. I have a certain influence. You will note the absence of people watching.”

  “They listen.”

  “Of course they do. But we have nothing to hide. Now, Horf, to business.”

  “Don’t use that name,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  “As you wish, Mr. Smith, er, James. Very creative: ‘James.’” The lanky visitor was right where Sable wanted him—off balance.

  Sable knew all about him already. Horf was a Vesta man, born and raised. The low gravity had gifted him with a tall, thin frame so common to those who had matured in a low g environment among the asteroids or smaller moons. Training had draped steel-strong muscles on his bony scaffold. According to his files, his deceptive appearance had gotten many an attacker in trouble. It seemed Horf usually had the upper hand. But not today. Not if Sable could help it. He said nothing, letting his visitor simmer until the man couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Look, I feel like I’m talking to a room full of people. Am I having a meeting with Demian Sable, spiritual leader, or is it the entrepreneur’s hat you’re wearing? Or the terrorist?”

  “Terrorist,” Sable mused. “Such an overused term. I happen to be spiritually gifted, and many people gain comfort from that. My business dealings are varied—shall we say?—and pay me well. I can’t help it if I’m a talented man in that arena, too, now can I?

  “You mean selling books or trading in contraband?”

  Sable didn’t deign to answer. Despite his condescending tone, there was truth to what Horf said. Sable’s link to the Spiritual Enlightenment Network dovetailed nicely with his smuggling operations, and provided a nice cover for other clandestine operations. When things got hot in one area, he was always able to shift seamlessly back to his role as popular teacher/writer. His affiliation with Ishtar was occasionally unfortunate, but more often advantageous.

  Still, Sable could not let the man think he had a point. Horf’s connections in the world of piracy and smuggling would prove invaluable. Much as Sable hated to admit it, he needed him. Sable studied him with cool eyes.

  Horf fidgeted some more, and then leaned forward. “Well? Are you interested?” His baritone seemed incongruous with his steel-wiry form. As his breath fogged the glass, Sable noticed a scar running from the man’s chin to his left ear.

  Sable folded his hands indulgently. “What interests me more is how you’re going to keep it out of the hands of our competitors.”

  “We have the authorities figured out or paid off.”

  “Not them.”

  “If you’re talking about Montenegro, the guy’s crazy. A complete loose cannon, if you believe what they say. All we can do is cruise with guns loaded and radar on.”

  Sable let out a long breath, shaking his head. “That does not give my people much confidence. Several of these shipments have been lost—allegedly to Montenegro and the ‘Family’—in recent months. Mineral-rich shipments from Chiron and Pallas, maybe even one or two from Vesta. Your old stomping grounds, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll tell you one thing: nobody’s getting anything off Vesta directly. Security’s too tight. They are really, really good at what they do. Their mines are the best, and they have security to match.”

  “Be that as it may, our mineral-poor friends back on Earth and Mars really can’t afford much more of these supply interruptions, can they?”

  “Agreed,” the man said.

  “Of course, we are offering a sweet deal for you and yours. The outer system is poorly patrolled. The authorities’ concern is with getting things into the terrestrials from out there, not the other way around. So attention is already pointed away from where we want our goods to go.”

  The scarred man leaned toward the glass. “Yes, but that’s balanced out by the distance and the cold. The distance takes costly fuel, and the cold is hard on equipment. Makes it all quite expensive.”

  “We have already come to a more than generous agreement on compensation, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Horf paused, then nodded silently.

  “Just what kind of guarantees will we have?”

  The Vesta man smiled. “Mr. Sable, this business does not deal in guarantees. It deals in track records and odds. Ours is a good record, or you wouldn’t be chatting with me now. And as for this Montenegro, seems like no one has ever seen the guy. He’s just a ghost, an imaginary hero for the pirate entrepreneurs to rally around.”

  “Perhaps. You know, of course, that if you start knocking over cargoes in the Main Belt, people will believe it’s the work of Montenegro’s ilk, imaginary or not.”

  “Let them think it’s pirates. Fine with me.” Horf spat the words. “Sometimes I think you worry too much, Sable.”

  “Sometimes I think you forget your place, Horf. I’m a successful businessman. Very successful. On several planets and moons. I have a lot of experience in such things. You know your situation, don’t you, Horf? Your, shall we say, choices? Riches beyond the dreams of Croesus, or something far less appetizing. Yes?”

  Horf fidgeted in his chair. After a moment, he said, “Sorry, Mr. Sable.”

  “But you are correct on one count,” Sable said, holding up an index finger. “We can use this to our advantage. While the corporations are arming their transports against piracy, the pirates themselves have let down their guard somewhat. I’m thinking of a slightly different strategy.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Horf said skeptically.

  “You see, once the pirates and privateers do the heavy lifting, our job is that much easier.”

  “You mean hit the pirates instead of the transports?”

  “And why not? It saves sorting cargo. The plunderers will take only what is most valuable, and in the current market, that’s asteroidal minerals. No shopping for us. Just picking up after the fact. I am assuming your people are up to that?”

  Horf nodded slowly, as if awakening from hibernation. “Yeah. Yeah, I see that.”

  “Tell the others,” Sable said. “I understand you have a contact on Ganymede.”

  A look of panic washed over Horf’s battered face.

  Sable smiled and leaned forward, as a cobra studies its prey. “Let me give you a little advice. Never, never underestimate me.”

  Horf interrupted. “Don’t start with that spiritual drivel.”

  Sable raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Don’t tell me you lack a spiritual side, Horf. How surprising.” He pushed his fingertips together, prayerlike, with a reptilian smile. “Aside from those connections, I have at my disposal an entire interplanetary network. You have no idea. Now, let’s get that cargo flowing our way, shall we? Toward the outer system, away from the home world, where I can make use of it. And please communicate with me through Circe. It will be so much easier for the both of us.”

  “Kay.”

  “Report as soon as you are organized.” Sable stood, pivoted, and exited through the back door of the visiting cell. He could just hear Horf in the intercom.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Sable,” Horf growled.

  Sable knew, from his many and varied sources, how much Horf enjoyed intimidating people. But Sable was certain that Horf would leave the penal facility disappointed. That suited Sable just fine.

  © Springer International Publishing Switzerland 2015

  Michael CarrollOn the Shores of Titan's Farthest SeaScience and Fiction10.1007/978-3-319-17759-5_5

  5. Break-in

  Michael Carroll1

  (1)Littleton, CO, USA

  Abby and Troy stood in the shadowy passage between the main habs and crew quarters, the light of the concession unit painting their faces in green and yellow. Abby sipped at a
cup. Troy scanned his wristchip and leaned in toward the machine.

  “Double caramel macchiato latte white Russian, dark—tall—extra vanilla, with the cinnamon on the side.”

  The machine dispensed a small cup of something black. He grabbed it and slurped. “Ahh. Just as I expected.”

  “Coffee?”

  He nodded. “Black.”

  She pointed at the dispenser. “It does say ‘coffee’.”

  “Yeah, well, I keep hoping. They have a real Delilah’s Coffee House with robot baristas at the Sino-European launch complex.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m in Belet. Shall we?”

  Abby led the way down a corridor. Their footsteps echoed off the metallic walls and floor. These walls were curved; engineers had made no attempt to disguise the original shape of the 4-m-high by 20-m-long tubes. Apparently, the space architects reserved their homey facades for the living areas. Overhead lamps spilled pools of light on the floor, creating a slow-motion strobe as they made their way toward the living quarters. The passageways of Mayda Station smelled like machine lubricants, ozone, and recycled air with that stale edge one always found in closed habitats. Air fresheners were also reserved for the living areas.

  They passed through an airlock hub. As one door closed behind and another opened ahead, the air became warm and fresh. They counted off room numbers. A poster hung askew across Kevin’s door. The scene was of a great stone sculpture covered in glyphs and freakish creatures. Across the top scrawled the words, YEAR OF THE JAGUAR.

  “Was he into archaeology, too?” Troy asked.

  “Yep. northern Native American and Mayan stuff. Said he went down there as a tourist a lot.”

  “You sure seem to know a lot about the guy.”

  She hesitated. “We…spent some time together. After.” Troy was studying her, and she didn’t like it much. She never had. “If this is the ugly green ghoul of jealousy rearing its head, that ship has sailed.” She said it with more of an edge than she had intended.