Jupiter Project

would bring me into the Can with minimum time.

“How much did I pick up?”

“I make it seven, no, seven point four minutes.”

“That enough?”

“It’s close. Damned close.”

“Better than frying.”

“Yes, but…”

“Yeah. I know. What’s my reserve?”

“None.”

“What?”

“None. It will take just about every gram of fuel to get you to the top of the Can, instead of flying by at several klicks further out. You may have a few seconds of juice left at the bottom of the tank, but it can’t be more than a small fraction of what you need.”

“Geez.”

“Son. you’ll come into the top pancake.”

“With no brakes.”

“Right.”

“Damned magnetosphere. What’s causing all this, Dad? I mean—” I pounded my gloves on the steering column—“why in hell does the solar flux have to stack up on us just when Jupiter is throwing out this crap? What’s happening at the poles?”

“I don’t know. We’ve never seen—”

“I know that. But, but—” Then I shut up. I was just whining, and I knew it. The universe plays for keeps. It doesn’t give a damn if you’re a screwed-up kid who has gone off on a dumb stunt. Whining wouldn’t help.

The minutes crawled by I made the course correction and watched the Can grow from a bright dot into a slowly spinning target. I fidgeted. I planned. I talked to Dad, but there wasn’t much to say.

I had somewhere between zero and maybe ten seconds of burn time left. Not enough to slow me down much.

I climbed over the rig, detaching every unit and pouch and box that I could shove overboard. The less mass I had, the more braking I could get out of those few seconds of impulse.

I took the Faraday cup and put it in my carry-bag, tucked on the inside of my left leg so nothing could easily bump it. They’re mechanically pretty strong, anyway.

Then I looked at the stars for a moment, trying to think. I had to stay calm and I would have to move fast. I kept thinking that there had to be some way out of this.

The bridge was sending a team out to help. There wasn’t much they could do, of course. There wasn’t much time to deploy a shuttle and boost it out to meet me, match velocities and make a pickup.

The Can arced across from my left, swelling. I swung my scope forward. I could make out the pancake. I was coming in almost edge-on. Were those specks moving? Maybe they were the team that was waiting for me. Or maybe just my imagination.

“Thirty seconds.” Dad’s voice was stiff, tight.

The silvery skin of the Can looked like a Christmas tree ornament. Funny, how I’d never noticed that before. The big cylinder grew and grew against the flat black of space. Stars beamed silently at me. The pancake was spinning serenely, faster than the Can. It was just a big bag of water, but at these speeds—

I saw the idea at the last possible moment. If I ran into the right side of the pancake, its spin angular momentum would be directed against me. But on the left side, the spin would be with me. The relative velocity between Roadhog and the pancake would be less. So if I could—

I spun the attitude jets to the right. The pancake was growing, dead ahead. How much should I give it?

Too much and I’d miss entirely. Miss, and shoot past the Can. And the radiation would fry me. When they finally fetched me back home and cracked my suit, I’d look like a potato chip.

But if I gave it too little, the shock of impact would shatter Roadhog and me along with it.

I fired the jets. One second, two, three—

I cut it off. We glided leftward. The pancake was a huge spinning sack of water, and I was flying toward it and now laterally across it, closing fast—

—too fast—

I saw specks of light. People. Waving. The pancake became a vast spinning plain. I came shooting toward the edge of it. I could see the thick organiform skin sliding away below me, moving the same direction as Roadhog, but slower. We were vectoring down into the plane, like a needle falling toward a spinning record—

There was shouting in my suit phones. I ignored it. I had been so worried about hitting the pancake, but now I wanted to hit it, wanted it so bad I could taste it.

I had the engine into braking mode already. But when should I fire? Distances were hard to judge. I could see stenciling on the pancake’s skin now, numbers shooting by below. Closer. Closer—

I jammed a thumb down on the firing stud. One, two…five seconds. The silvery wall of the pancake edge rose up before me. blotting out the stars. Seven—Eight—

Dead. The engine gurgled to a stop.

The pancake was turning, sliding away. But I was catching up with it. And suddenly I saw that the physics wasn’t as simple as I thought. Once I hit the organiform, what would keep me there? There was no gravity. I would rebound from the pancake and go tumbling off into—

But I could use the friction of the grainy organiform. And maybe grab a handhold. Maybe—

My adhesive patch. It would help hold me to the rough surface. I reached up toward my neck and yanked down. Then I slapped my knee with the tab and—

We hit.

The forward strut caught the pancake skin. It dug in.

I ducked my head and wrapped my arms over my neck. Standard position. A shock ran through Roadhog. I felt a grinding tremor—

A pipe smacked me in the ribs. I slammed into something that gave slightly. All around me bright, glittering debris was tumbling, like a luminous shower. Sparkling bits of Roadhog plunged by me. Soundless. Soundless, and tumbling.

I rolled over and over, along the face of the pancake. My adhesive patch caught, gave way, caught, gave way, making a small ripping sound inside my suit. It kept me on the pancake, reduced the recoil momentum, but it wasn’t slowing me down much.

I snatched at a handhold. Caught it. Lost the grip. The organiform is rough but flexible. I rolled, arms curled over my head, legs out straight. A waterfall of junk was tumbling with me. My right side and arm hurt, but there was no jabbing pain. Maybe the organiform had cushioned me enough; maybe nothing was broken.

The adhesive patch was snatching at the organiform, holding me to it. But I wasn’t stopping. I was rolling in a soundless shower. Outside my helmet was a blur of gray organiform, then a blur of black sweeping by, then organiform again. If it went on I would roll off the top of the pancake and out into space.

I brought my arms down, dug in with my elbows. At once I got a jarring and my arm twisted painfully. I tried again. Another wrenching jolt, a flash of pain in my shoulder.

If I wasn’t careful, I’d push too much against the pancake and knock myself off entirely, out into space. I fought against the sickening revolution and tried to scan the pancake skin ahead. I was near the edge. Friction with the pancake was trying to swing me around, give me some angular deflection. But ahead of me I could see pieces of Roadhog flying off into the blackness.

Ahead, something—A blur. No, a bump. A set of handholds in the plastiform.

It came looming up. I thrashed toward it. The white bumps shot toward me. I kicked in their direction without thinking. I began to rise off the pancake. I was rebounding off. I snatched—Missed. Another handhold came