Jupiter

The medical dictionary’s text vanished from the wallscreen. In its place the blue-and-white symbol of the International Astronautical Authority appeared, quickly replaced by the scowling face of a man in a gray tunic, sitting at what appeared to be a workstation aboard a spacecraft.

Grant twitched with surprise. He knew that face. It was Ellis Beech, the New Morality official who had recruited him to spy on Dr. Wo.

Beech’s dark eyes were steady and calm, his long narrow face looked composed, almost indifferent. Yet to Grant there seemed to be something seething beneath that impassive cool exterior, something unrelenting, implacable.

“Dr. Krebs, I am the chairman of the IAA inspection team approaching the station. You have previously been ordered by Dr. Wo to abort your mission and return to Station Gold. He gave that order at my insistence. Now I personally order you to return to the station. In the name of the IAA, I order you to abort your mission and return at once! We know that the message you sent with the data capsule is a deliberate falsehood. You are still able to maintain communications contact with the station. Return at once or you will be stripped of your position at Station Gold and your professorship in Heidelberg will be forfeited. Abort your mission and return immediately!”

Grant stared at Beech’s icy image on the wallscreen. How could he be chairman of the IAA team? he wondered, his mind spinning. The New Morality must have taken control of the inspection team. Maybe they’ve taken over the entire IAA!

Karlstad also stared at the wallscreen, mouth hanging open in shock.

“They found out about your tapping the medical computer,” Muzorawa said softly. It wasn’t an accusation, merely a statement of lamentable fact.

“That they did,” O’Hara agreed sadly.

Karlstad closed his mouth, shrugged, then said, “Okay, so they found out. What do we do about it?”

“I don’t know,” said Muzorawa. “This is an awful situation.”

“For Krebs,” Karlstad said.

“For all of us,” Muzorawa corrected.

“Maybe not,” Karlstad said. “She’s in command, after all. We’re just following her orders. She’s the one who told us not to acknowledge Wo’s order to return to the station.”

“Dr. Wo gave that order under duress,” Grant said heatedly. “It’s obvious they were forcing him to make that call.”

“That still doesn’t help us to decide what we should do about this,” O’Hara said. “Should we—” She stopped, her eyes going wide.

From behind him, Grant heard Krebs’s harsh voice. “So you’ve put me into the meatgrinder, eh?”

Grant whirled around. How long had she been standing there at the hatch? How much had she heard?

“Let me assure you, all of you,” Krebs snarled, “that if I go down, the four of you go down with me.”

DETERMINATION

“We are here to explore the ocean,” Krebs said firmly. “We are not turning back because some bureaucrat in the IAA has allowed the politicians to overrule his own sense of responsibility.”

“But, Captain—” Karlstad began.

“Silence! Men and women have died in this effort. Do you think that I’m going to spit on their graves by turning back? Not before we’ve done our damnedest to find out if there’s life down here.”

“Yes, Captain,” Karlstad said, as if he’d never considered any other course of action.

“I agree completely,” said Muzorawa.

“It doesn’t matter whether you agree or not,” Krebs spat. “We are going deeper. Now.” She leveled a finger at O’Hara. “And no communication with the station! Nothing! For no reason. Even if we are dying in this coffin we make no attempt to contact the station unless I tell you to. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear,” Lane answered.

“Good. Now take your stations. We are going down to ten kilometers.”

Wordlessly the four of them began to link up to the ship’s systems. Krebs did also. Grant felt almost relieved. At least she knows it all now. We’re not sneaking around her back anymore. The visual amnesia or whatever her condition is doesn’t affect her ability to run this ship.

“Ready for linkage,” he reported. Before the others, he noticed.

“Very good, Mr. Archer. You may link.”

As Grant reached for the console switch that would unite him again with the power and propulsion systems, he realized that Krebs couldn’t possibly be a Zealot terrorist. She doesn’t want to destroy this mission, she wants to carry it through, no matter what the consequences afterward.

He felt better about her. And about the mission. He tried not to think about what would happen to them after the mission, when they returned to the station and the waiting Ellis Beech.

Once the others were linked, Krebs gave the order to dive to ten kilometers. After several hours, the headache behind his eyes was throbbing through Grant’s skull. The pressure’s building up, he realized. As we dive deeper the pressure outside the hull goes higher, which means the pressure here on the bridge goes up to compensate.

How deep can we go? he asked himself. He knew the submersible’s specifications, but those were merely numbers. How much pressure can we stand? Zeb was wrong: This vessel can take a lot more pressure than we can. We’ll crack long before the hull does.

He glanced at Karlstad, tending the life-support console. Egon looked tense, his lips a thin tight line, his face even paler than usual. If we weren’t immersed in this fluid he’d be sweating, Grant thought. Egon can feel the pressure squeezing on the hull; it must seem like a giant vise trying to crush his body.

“Ten kilometers,” Lane sang out.

“Maintain descent angle,” said Krebs. “We’re going deeper.”

Grant heard a groan. It didn’t come from anyone on the bridge. It was a metallic, grinding complaint.

“Pay no attention to that noise,” Krebs told them. “It’s not important.”

As if in obedience to her, the grinding noise stopped.

“Support cylinder nine needs lubrication,” Krebs said, trying to reassure them. “Nothing to worry about.”

The nested shells that comprised the Zheng He were connected by buttressing cylinders that contained hydraulic pistons within them. They compressed slightly as the pressure outside the hull squeezed on the ship. Grant began to wonder how well the cylinders would support the shells if one of them was already showing signs of strain.

Maybe I’m the one who’s wrong, he realized. Maybe the ship will fail before our pain becomes unbearable.

After a tense four hours of steady descent, Krebs told Muzorawa and Karlstad to take a rest period.

“One hour, then report back here to relieve O’Hara and Grant,” she commanded.

Grant took over Karlstad’s life-support systems. True to his expectations, he could feel the pressure inside each level of the ship building, mounting, pressing in on him, slowly crushing him to death like a giant boa constrictor wrapping its coils around him. It was getting difficult to breathe; it took a conscious effort to lift his chest to inhale.

Stop it! he chided himself. It’s 90 percent imagination. Ninety-nine percent! Look at the pressure graph; it’s only gone up a couple of percentage points since we entered the ocean. You’re letting your emotions overpower your brain.

Still he felt as if he were being smothered. His headache pounded. He glanced at O’Hara. She seemed normal enough, intently piloting the ship deeper into the sea, watching with glowing eyes the sensors that Zeb normally monitored. Grant fought an urge to tap into the sensor net and see what she was looking at. No, he told himself, you’ve got enough to do. Don’t allow yourself to be distracted.