Phil stirred in his seat. “Okay, people,” he intoned, “RPC2 coming up. AIM takeover engaged?”
“Engaged.” Panab replied. Inwardly he heaved a sigh of relief. He knew Phil’s old-school ethos made the skipper insist on human supervision wherever possible, but as far as Panab was concerned this whole thing could have been handled by the computer, and they all could have been… well, he could have been in bed, damn it. Automatic Insertion Mode was important now, though – if Titan’s orbit proved to be harbouring something hostile, it’s doubtful the humans in the loop would be able to react quickly enough. Panab could hand over to the ship’s systems with a clear conscience, and would do so gladly; he hated feeling like the weak link in the chain. But there was still the RPC2 checklist to go through… and as he worked his way down the task list, he couldn’t let his mind wander. Somewhere out there, four weeks ahead of them, the Ganymedans’ first probe to Titan was about to give them a first hint of what they were really in for.
This was obviously on Phils’ mind, too. “Panab.”
“Skip?”
“Looks like a quiet couple of minutes – you’ve got the conn.”
“Yes, sir.” He replied automatically.
Phil grunted – Panab heard him doing something, then suddenly Phil’s voice boomed out across the ship’s PA.
“Crew of the good ship Wednesday’s Child, listen up.
“We’re about to get our first good look at what Titan has in store for us. It’ll be a peek through the keyhole, no more than that, but it should help resolve a few, uh, issues that I’m sure have been weighing on your mind as much as they weigh on mine.
“As you all know, Jovian Combined Security satellites picked up a ship from the inner system making a course change towards the Saturn system six weeks ago. Since then we’ve been under a communications embargo, which I know has not made things easy for you, and I’m very proud of the calm, professional way you’ve all conducted yourselves under that burden of silence. Obviously, whoever launched that ship did so under conditions of great secrecy. Our own launch was as secret as we could make it, and at this time I’m informed that whatever happens out there, in our little backwater of the solar system, will be between us and whoever else is in Titan orbit.”
He let that sink in for a moment. To Panab, the implication was obvious. This little game has no referees – it could get rough..
Phil continued. “Now, I know it wasn’t what we hoped for, but this is one outcome that received planning attention, and I’m confident we are not underresourced. More importantly, though, I’m confident that I’m facing the future with the best crew I could possibly have. I’m very proud of the way you’ve conducted yourselves to this point, and I have no doubt that we can and will surmount all obstacles to achieve our goal – a goal, I’ll remind you, which could have enormous benefits for us and for all those we left behind on Ganymede.
So let’s go to it. God bless us, and our cause.”
There was silence throughout the ship for several seconds. Then Panab heard a distant noise like waves breaking, drifting up from the depths of the Wednesday’s Child. It took Panab a moment to place it; down in the canteen, one hundred and fourteen people – the entire crew - were applauding.
It was time. Panab gave his checklist a quick onceover, then tapped in the AIM arm codes. On the screen in front of him, the animated top hat perked up, and shook gently. One oversized eye peeked out from underneath it.
“Heatshield temperature decreasing – all systems nominal for heatshield sep.”
“Roger that. You have a go for heatshield sep.”
A few moments delay, then the top hat was magically lifted off the little logodog. It blinked one eye sleepily. As more sensors came on line, it cocked an ear, then opened the other eye, until finally it was awake and alert, wagging it tail and glancing from side to side – waiting for something to happen
It didn’t take long.
The little animation sprung up, it’s cute little nose in the air, one foreleg poised over the ground in alert. “Okay, we’ve got a transmission, it’s weak but readable, 113 kilohertz. I’m buffering it now,” Chris announced. Panab could hear him tapping away. “Seems safe enough – broadcast English, mono audio, no band outliers. Wanna hear it?”Phil waved a hand. “Just to the bridge.”
The sound of tapping again, and then a deep, jovial Santa-Claus voice began to declaim across the room, its mellow tones thinned by the crackles and pops of distance and of Saturn’s savage electromagnetic field. To Panab, its measured, loving tones perfectly evoked feelings of happiness and security, of trust and faith, of some pre-Diaspora happy family on Earth, a fire crackling in the grate, loved ones all around. It was undoubtedly machine-generated.
“…know the vastness of space to be an inexhaustible treasure house of knowledge and riches, beyond the imaginings of the Capitalist Roaders and their oppressive dogma! Titan can be so much more than merely another world to be exploited and oppressed by the megacorporations! Titan can be red! Titan is red! Titan is red! Titan is red! Message ends. Message begins: All those in Titan space, it is imperative that we make all efforts in our mission to create a scientific paradise on Titan, a world as yet-”
“Okay, that’s enough Chris. Turn it off.”
“-of human capitalistic exploitation, by the murderous cancer of humanity’s bourgeois demands for lebensraum! We must strive to preserve, and-“
There was an audible click, then silence. Finally, Phil sighed.
“Oh man,” he muttered wearily, ”it would just have to be, wouldn’t it?”
Panab looked over in surprise. It was the first time he’d ever heard Phil sound disgusted, or angry.
“It would just have to be the fucking Martians.”
6 comments:
How does it end? How does it end?
Mars is Marxian? ...That's a little on the nose, isn't it? (Your writing is good, though!)
How the heck should I know? I'm only the writer. I've got another fortnight to work that out.
Hah, yes, well... I have a phrase in my head, which up until this very moment I couldn't remember where it came from - someone referring to "those little red-green pipsqueaks". I remember now that it's actually from a Bruce Sterling novel, referring to the Dutch - but it was my inspiration for a communist, eco-rabid Mars. The baddies of the piece ;)
...and they pay you to do this, eh?
I wish. I get paid to sit in front of a computer swearing, it's true - but that's engineering swearing, not literary swearing. Literary swearing I do on my own time.
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