Jupiter

That’s why it looks so small inside, he realized. The section where the crew worked and lived was only a tiny part of the submersible’s total volume.

The reason for immersing the crew was to allow them to withstand the immense pressure of the Jovian ocean. The higher the pressure that the crew could take, the deeper the submersible could go into the Jovian ocean. So, under Wo’s watchful eyes, the pressure of the perfluorocarbon mixture in the crew’s space was gradually increased.

With all his lights green, Grant spent the time watching the crew on the wallscreen display. Lane looked a little apprehensive, he thought, although that might have been merely a projection of his own tension. Zeb was checking out the computer programs that digested the sensors’ inputs. He looked as calm and at ease as always, methodical, capable. The only difference that Grant could see was that Muzorawa’s trim beard was gone.

Patti Buono, at the medical console, peered fixedly at her readouts. “Any discomfort?” she called out again and again. Karlstad complained of a headache. Pascal said she felt a tightness in her chest.

“Psychosomatic,” Buono proclaimed. “The monitors show blood pressure, heart rate, all your physical readings are well within normal range.”

Pascal, looking strangely gnomish without a wig covering her bald dome, turned to look into the camera. “And just what is normal range under immersion?” she asked, her voice a deep baritone.

Krebs snapped, “Stop this bickering.”

Pascal shook her head but said nothing.

When the pressure reached 90 percent of the design goal, Krebs said, “Hold it there for one hour. Give them a chance to adjust.”

Wo agreed, “We will hold at ninety percent for one hour.”

* * *

The next morning Buono asked each crew member how they had slept. The worst impact of the full pressurization, apparently, was that O’Hara suffered a slight nose bleed and Muzorawa—of all people-reported he had experienced a nightmare.

Buono had no interest in Zeb’s dream; she concerned herself only with the crew’s physical condition. After a careful check of her medical sensors, she pronounced the crew fully fit for duty.

“In that case,” Krebs announced, “we are ready to begin separation sequence.”

“Wait,” said Dr. Wo, raising one hand, palm out, fingers splayed. “This is the proper moment to name the ship.”

“Name it?” Krebs stared into the camera. Grant could not tell from her frowning expression whether she was perplexed or irritated.

“Yes,” Wo replied, perfectly serious. “On the first mission the ship had no proper name. That was unfortunate. The ship should have a name of its own, a name that will be propitious.”

Krebs’s frown soured. Grant could see that she was annoyed with the director’s sudden burst of Chinese superstition.

Unperturbed, Dr. Wo announced, “The name of this vessel will be Zheng He.”

No one said a word. They’re all puzzled, Grant thought. What in the world does “Zheng He” mean?

At last Krebs said, “Very well. Zheng He is ready for the separation sequence.”

“Proceed,” said Wo.

Grant felt a tightening in his chest. The ship’s disconnecting from the station, going out on its own. They’ll be heading down into Jupiter’s clouds and then deeper, into the ocean. If they get into trouble we won’t be able to help them. They’ll be on their own.

The separation sequence was automated. Grant could not hear the latches releasing or the connectors unsealing themselves. He watched the wallscreen, with quick glances at his console board to make certain all the propulsion and power systems were functioning properly. Zheng He disconnected from the access tube and used the station’s magnetic shield to push it free of the great toroidal mass of Research Station Gold.

Grant almost smiled. That magnetic screen was intended to repel energetic subatomic particles that the Jovian magnetosphere sometimes spat out during a magnetic storm. Now it was pushing a somewhat larger “particle,” Zheng He, away from the station’s hull.

The submersible and the station remained side by side, separated by a mere kilometer, for two orbits of Jupiter, slightly more than six hours. Grant watched the wallscreen that showed the sub, a tiny metallic lenticular shape against the gigantic, overwhelming background of Jupiter’s tumultuous, turbulent cloud deck. The crew rechecked all the ship’s systems. Then Krebs reported they were ready for entry into the Jovian atmosphere.

“Insertion burn,” Krebs ordered.

Grant saw a tiny flicker of light at one side of the saucer. For a heart-stopping moment he thought the insertion rockets had failed. Zheng He seemed to remain alongside them, hovering helplessly. But within a few eyeblinks he could see that it was indeed moving away, faster now, allowing Jupiter’s powerful gravity to pull them along, down into those swirling clouds.

Dr. Wo said something aloud, in Chinese.

“Good luck,” said Frankovich, his voice slightly husky.

“Safe journey,” Kayla Ukara called to the departing crew.

Grant licked his lips. His throat was suddenly dry. Then he found his voice and said, “Godspeed.”

REVELATION

All five of the controllers watched Zheng He disappear into the clouds of Jupiter. For several minutes Grant simply stared at the wallscreen showing the planet’s colorful cloud deck. The ship had gone. It was as if it had never existed.

But my friends are in that submersible, Grant said to himself. They’re going down through those clouds right now, while I sit here with nothing to do but watch over this dumb console. If anything happens to them, I’ll be powerless to help them.

“Status reports,” Dr. Wo called out, his rasping voice sharper than usual. “Life support?”

“Functioning within nominal limits,” replied Frankovich.

“Structural integrity?”

Nacho Quintero answered, “No problems.”

The medical monitors and sensor systems were all showing completely normal performance. Even the troublesome infrared telescope’s coolant level was back to normal. When Wo asked for the power systems, Grant swiftly scanned his monitor.

“Power all green,” he reported.

Wo swiveled his gaze across the cramped, stuffy compartment, from one controller to another, and then looked up at the wallscreen. It still showed nothing but Jupiter’s endless clouds.

“Should we call them?” Patti Buono wondered aloud. “Make voice contact?”

“They are due to report in three minutes,” Wo pointed out, gesturing to the mission schedule timeline displayed on his main console screen.

The time ticked by so slowly that Grant thought his console clock might have stopped. Not a word was spoken in the control center. No sound at all except the electrical hum of the monitors and the distant whisper of the air circulation fans. Wo seemed to turn into a block of wood, a statue, unmoving, unblinking. Grant wondered if the man was even breathing. Sweat beaded his own upper lip and brow; he felt it trickling along his ribs.

“Control, this is Zheng He.” Krebs’s voice shattered the silence.

“I hear you,” Wo said, as calmly as if she were sitting next to him.

“All systems functioning normally. No problems.”

“Good,” said Wo, with a satisfied nod of his head.