Jupiter

“We are preparing for the descent. Communications blackout will prevent further”—she seemed to search for a word—“further communications.”

“I understand,” Wo replied. “We will track your beacon as long as possible.”

The sub actually carried two beacons, Grant knew: a long-wave radio transmitter and an infrared communications laser. Both would be absorbed by Jupiter’s deep, turbulent atmosphere, swallowed up in the raging storms and lightning strokes that awaited Zheng He’s crew. By plotting the signal strength and dispersion of the beacons, though, Grant and the other scooters aboard the station could learn more about the dynamics of the Jovian atmosphere.

Even if it kills the crew, Grant heard a sardonic voice in his head whisper.

The submersible also carried half a dozen “torpedoes”: small, self-propelled automated capsules that could be fired from the sub to pop up to the top of the cloud deck and broadcast a prerecorded message.

None of the controllers left their consoles as long as the submersible maintained communications contact. But after six more hours, even the radio beacon was drowned out by the constant flicker of Jovian lightning. They would hear nothing more from Zheng He unless and until the crew popped a message- bearing capsule.

Wo pushed his wheelchair back from his console. “There is nothing more to do here,” he said, sounding tired, weak. “They are on their own now.”

He wheeled himself out of the control center. The plan was to have one person at the central console— Wo’s usual post—throughout the mission. Quintero had drawn the first four-hour shift; Grant was last.

“Let me make a quick run to the toilet,” Quintero said, squeezing his bulk past Grant’s console.

“I’ll sit in until you get back,” Grant said to Nacho’s rapidly disappearing back.

“Even Macho Nacho has to pee sometime,” Patti Buono said, trying to lighten the tension that had smothered them all.

“Don’t you?” asked Ukara, heading for the corridor right behind Quintero.

“Now that you mention it …” Buono got up and followed her.

Grant didn’t bother bringing a chair to the central console, he simply stood in front of its darkened lights and stared up at the wallscreen. Might as well turn it off, he told himself. The radio speaker built into Wo’s console hissed static that crackled every few seconds from a lightning bolt.

Quintero came back and hauled his own chair over to the central console. “Thanks, amigo. I’m okay now.”

“Good,” said Grant, suddenly realizing that his own bladder needed relief.

The nearest rest room was a dozen meters down the corridor. Grant headed for it, but saw that Dr. Wo was sitting in his powerchair near its door.

“Uh … do you need help, sir?” Grant asked.

Wo looked up at him disdainfully. “What I need—” he began in a snarl, then stopped himself. For a moment Grant didn’t know what to expect. Then, much more softly, Wo said, “Come with me, Mr. Archer.”

He followed Dr. Wo to the director’s office. As always it was overheated, uncomfortably warm. But Grant saw that the vase atop Wo’s desk was empty.

Wheeling himself behind the desk, Wo gestured Grant to sit, then said, “I understand you have run into a setback with the gorilla.”

Nodding, Grant admitted, “I’m afraid I’ve thrown away several weeks’ work.”

“Patience, Mr. Archer. Patience.”

“Checking the neural net before I put it on her would have saved me this setback,” Grant muttered.

Wo nodded. “So you must start over.”

“I suppose so.”

“Just as the crew is doing in Zheng He. We failed in our first attempt to explore the ocean, and now they are trying again.”

“Before the IAA inspectors can stop them,” Grant said.

Wo exhaled a sigh and nodded once.

“May I ask a question, sir?”

“You may ask,” said Wo.

“What does ‘Zheng He’ mean? Is it the name of a person, or what?”

The director actually smiled. “A good question. An excellent question!”

Grant waited for more.

“Zheng He was a great explorer. Commander of the Ming emperor’s navy in the fifteenth century. Fifty years before Columbus and his pitiful little boats crossed the Atlantic, Zheng He’s treasure fleets sailed all across the Indian Ocean, to Africa, Arabia, the islands of the East Indies, even to Australia.”

“I never heard about that,” Grant said.

“Great ships, ten times bigger than the Spanish caravels,” Wo continued. “Hundreds of ships! Thousands of sailors! Half the world was in China’s sway while the Europeans still believed the Earth was flat!”

“Then why—”

“But the emperor Zhu Di died, and his successor had the great ships burned. They destroyed the fleet! They forbade exploration and commerce! China turned inward and decayed. By the time the Europeans reached China’s shores, the Empire of Heaven was weak, poor, divided, easily conquered.”

He fell silent. Grant thought over what Wo had just told him, then said, “It could have been the other way around, then, couldn’t it? If they had allowed Zheng He to continue, China could have conquered Europe.”

“Easily.”

“Why did they stop?”

Wo took a deep breath and ran a weary hand over his eyes. “Zheng He was a eunuch.”

Grant felt shocked. “You mean he’d been castrated?”

“Many were, in those days. In Europe, also. Boys with sweet singing voices were castrated well into the nineteenth century, I believe.”

“Zheng He was a eunuch,” Grant repeated in a whisper.

“Most of the palace officials who promoted his fleet were eunuchs. The Confucian bureaucrats who ran the rest of the government opposed the eunuch’s position of power with the emperor.”

“Palace politics.”

“Yes,” said Wo. “Palace politics. And the losers were often executed.”

“The Confucians won?”

“Eventually. When the emperor Zhu Di died, the Confucians tightened their grip on his successor. The great treasure fleet of Zheng He was destroyed.”

“And China crumbled.”

“It took China more than five hundred years to recover. Even today China is not as rich or powerful as it could have been.”

“It was lucky for the Europeans, then.”

“Yes, very fortunate for them,” Wo grumbled.

Grant tried to lighten the mood. “But today we’re beyond all that. Asians and Europeans and Africans— we’re all working together.”

“Are we?”

“Aren’t we?”

“If your Zealots had their way, this station would be closed … destroyed just the way Zheng He’s fleet was destroyed.”

“They’re not my Zealots,” Grant retorted, as firmly as he could manage.

“I feel very close to the spirit of Zheng He,” Wo said, closing his eyes. “His spirit touches my own.”

Grant said nothing.

“In a way, I am also a eunuch. My manhood was destroyed in the accident.”

“I didn’t know,” Grant blurted.

“So I sit here, weak and helpless, while others sail into the unknown sea.”

“You’re not helpless.”

“They blame Krebs for the accident. It was really my fault. I panicked.”