Ben Bova - Jupiter

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JUPITER

BEN BOVA

TOR(r)

TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either

fictitious or are used fictitiously.

JUPITER

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Tor(r) is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bova, Ben.

Jupiter / Ben Bova. - 1st ed.

p. cm.

"A Tom Doherty Associates book."

ISBN 0-312-87217-8 (acid-free book)

1. Jupiter (Planet) -Fiction. 2. Astrophysicists-Fiction.

3. Space stations -Fiction. I. Title.

PS3552.O84J86 2001

813'.54-dc21

First Edition: January 2001

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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To Danny and T.J., my favorite "Jovians."

To Thomas Cold, who would rather be wrong than dull.

And to Barbara, always and forever.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to Mark Chartrand, George W. Ferguson, and Frederic B. Jueneman, who offered invaluable

advice and assistance in writing this novel. The technical accuracy of this story is due in large

part to their generous assistance; any inaccuracies stem from my stretching the known facts.

Details of the life of Zheng He and the Ming Empire's "treasure fleet" can be found in Louise

Levathe's fine book, When China Ruled the Seas, published in 1994 by Simon & Schuster.

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The rash assertion that "God made man in His own image" is ticking like a time bomb at the

foundation of many faiths.

-Arthur C. Clarke

JUPITER

PROLOGUE

ORBITAL STATION GOLD

It took six of them to drown him.

Reluctantly, grudgingly, Grant Archer had stripped himself naked, as they had ordered him to do.

But once they pushed him to the edge of the big tank, he knew he would not go into it without a

fight. The augmented gorilla grabbed Grant's right arm; she was careful not to snap his bones, but

her powerful grip was painful all the same. Two of the human guards held his left arm while a

third wrapped him around the middle and still another lifted his bare feet off the deck so he

couldn't get any leverage for his wild-eyed struggles.

All this in nearly total silence. Grant didn't scream or roar at them, he didn't plead or curse.

The only sounds were the scuffing of the guards' boots on the cold metal deck plates, the hard

gasps of their labored breathing, and Grant's own panicked, desperate panting.

The guard captain grimly, efficiently grasped Grant's depilated head in both big meaty hands and

pushed his face into the tank of thick, oily liquid.

Grant squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath until his chest felt as if it would burst. He was

burning inside, suffocating, drowning. The pain was unbearable. He couldn't breathe. He dared not

breathe. No matter what they had told him, he knew down at the deepest level of his being that

this was going to kill him. No air! Can't breathe!

Reflex overpowered his mind. Despite himself, despite his terror, he sucked in a breath. And

gagged. He tried to scream, to cry out, to beg for help or mercy. His lungs filled with the icy

liquid. His whole body spasmed, shuddered with the last hope of life as they pushed his naked body

all the way into the tank with a final pitiless shove and he sank down, deeper and deeper.

He opened his eyes. There were lights down there. He was breathing! Coughing, choking, his body

racked with uncontrollable spasms. But he was breathing. The liquid filled his lungs and he could

breathe it. Just like regular air, they had told him. A lie, a vicious lie. It was cold and thick,

utterly foreign, alien, slimy and horrible.

But he could breathe.

He sank toward the lights. Blinking, squinting in their glare, he saw that there were other naked

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hairless bodies down there waiting for him.

"Welcome to the team," a sarcastic voice boomed in his ears, deep, slow, reverberating.

Another voice, not as loud but even more basso profundo, said, "Okay, let's get him prepped for

the surgery."

BOOK I

My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?

Far from my deliverance are the words of my groaning.

-PSALM 22

GRANT ARMSTRONG ARCHER III

Despite being born into one of the oldest families in Oregon, Grant Archer grew up in an

environment that was far from affluent. His earliest memories were of watching his mother

rummaging through piles of hand-me-down clothes at the Goodwill shop, looking for sweaters and gym

shoes that weren't too shabby to wear to school. His father was a Methodist minister in the little

suburb of Salem where Grant grew up, respected as a man of the cloth but not taken too seriously

in the community because he was, in the words of one of the golf club widows, "churchmouse poor."

Poor as far as money was concerned, but Grant's mother always told him that he was rich in the

gift of intelligence. It was his mother, who worked in one of the multifarious offices of the New

Morality in the state capital, who encouraged Grant's interest in science.

Most of the New Morality officials were suspicious of science and scientists, deeply worried about

these "humanists" who so often contradicted the clear word of Scripture. Even Grant's father urged

his son to steer clear of biology and any other scientific specialty that would bring the frowning

scrutiny of New Morality investigators upon them.

For Grant there was no problem. Since he'd been old enough to look into the night sky with awe and

wonder he'd wanted to be an astronomer. In high school, where he was by far the brightest student

in his class, he narrowed his interest to the astrophysics of black holes. Although Grant thrilled

to the discoveries on Mars and out among the distant moons of Jupiter, it was the death throes of

giant stars that truly fascinated him. If he could learn how collapsed stars warped spacetime, he

might one day discover a way for humans to use such warps for interstellar journeys.

He longed to work at the Farside Observatory on the Moon, studying collapsed stars far out in the

cold and dark of deep interstellar space. Yet Grant had been warned that even at Farside there

were tensions and outright dangers. Despite all the strictures of the New Morality and the stern

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rules laid down by the observatory's directors, some astronomers still tried to sneak time on the

big telescopes to search for signs of extraterrestrial intelligence. When such prohibited

activities were discovered, those responsible were inevitably sent back to Earth in disgrace,

their careers blighted.

That did not bother Grant, however. He intended to keep his nose clean, to avoid antagonizing the

ever-present agents of the New Morality, and to study the enigmatic and entirely safe black holes.

He was careful never to use the dreaded word "evolution" when speaking about the life cycles of

stars and their final collapse into black holes. "Evolution" was a dangerous word among the New

Morality eavesdroppers.

By the time he was finishing high school, he had grown into a quiet, square-shouldered young man

with a thick thatch of sandy-blond hair that often tumbled over his light-brown eyes. He was good-

natured and polite; the high school girls considered him a "delta" in their merciless rating

system: okay as a friend, especially when it came to help with schoolwork, but too dull to date

except in an emergency. A shade under six feet tall and whipcord lean, Grant played on the

school's baseball and track teams, no outstanding star but the kind of reliable performer who made

his coaches sleep better at night.

As his senior year approached, Grant was offered a full scholarship in return for a four-year

commitment to Public Service. The service was inescapable: Every high school graduate was required

to do at least two years and then another two at age fifty. The New Morality advisor in his high

school told Grant that by accepting a four-year term now, he could get a full scholarship to the

university of his choice, with the understanding that his Public Service would be in the field for

which he was trained: astrophysics.

Grant accepted the scholarship and the commitment, his eyes still on Farside. He went to Harvard

and, much to his delighted surprise, fell in love with a raven-haired biochemist named Marjorie

Gold. She made him feel important, for the first time in his life. When he was with her, the

quiet, steady, sandy-haired young astronomy student felt he could-conquer the universe.

They married during their senior year even though he knew he'd be off to the Farside Observatory

for four years while Marjorie would be doing her Public Service with the International

Peacekeeping Force, tracking down clandestine biological warfare factories in the jungles of

southeast Asia and Latin America.

But they were young and their love could not wait. So they married, despite their parents'

misgivings.

"I'll come down from Farside at least every few months," Grant told her as they lay together in

bed, contemplating the next four years.

"I'll get leave when you're here," Marjorie agreed.

"By the time I'm finished my four years I'll have my doctorate," he said.

"Then you can get on a tenure track at any university you like."

"And after the four years is over we can apply to have a child," Grant said.

"A boy," said Marjorie.

"Don't you want a daughter?"

"Afterward. After I learn how to be a mother. Then we can have a daughter."

He smiled in the darkness of their bedroom and kissed her and they made love. It was a safe time

of Marjorie's cycle.

They both graduated with high honors; Grant was actually first in his class. Marjorie received her

Public Service commission with the Peacekeepers, as expected. Grant, though, was shocked when his

orders sent him not to the Farside Observatory on the Moon but to Research Station Thomas Gold, in

orbit around Jupiter, more than seven hundred million kilometers from Marjorie at its closest

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approach to Earth.

"...WHICH SIDE YOU RE ON"

Grant's father counseled patience.

"If that's where they want to send you, they must have their reasons. You'll simply have to accept

it, son." I Grant found that he could not accept it. There was no patience in him, despite earnest

prayers. His father had been a meek and accepting man all his life, and what had it gotten him?

Obscurity, genteel poverty, and condescending smiles behind his back. That's not for me, Grant

told himself.

Despite his father's conciliatory advice, Grant fought his assignment all the way up to the

regional director of the New Morality's Northeast office. "I can't spend four years at Jupiter,"

he insisted. "I'm a married man! I can't be that far away for four years! Besides, I'm an

astrophysicist, and there's no need for my specialty at Jupiter. I'll be wasting four years! How

can I work on my doctorate when there's no astrophysics being done there?"

The regional director sat behind a massive oak desk strewn with papers, tensely upright in his

high-backed chair, his lean, long-fingered hands steepled before him as Grant babbled on. His name

was Ellis Beech. He was a serious-looking African American with dark skin the color of sooty

smoke. His face was thin, long with a pointed chin; his eyes were tawny, somber, focused intently

on Grant without wavering all through his urgent, pleading tirade.

At last Grant ran out of words. He didn't know what more he could say. He had tried to control his

anger, but he was certain he'd raised his voice unconscionably and betrayed the resentment and

aggravation he felt. Never show anger, his father had counseled him. Be calm, be reasonable. Anger

begets anger; you want to sway him to your point of view, not antagonize him.

Grant slumped back in his chair, waiting for some reaction from the regional director. The man

didn't look antagonized. To Grant's eyes, he looked as if he hadn't heard half of what Grant had

said. Beech's desk was cluttered with paper, from flimsy single sheets to thick volumes bound in

red covers; his computer screen flickered annoyingly; he was obviously a very important and very

busy person, yet his phone had not beeped once since Grant had been ushered into the warmly

paneled, carpeted office.

"I was supposed to go to Farside," Grant muttered, trying to get some response out of the brooding

man behind the desk.

"I'm fully aware of that," Beech said at last. Then he added, "But unfortunately you are needed at

Jupiter."

"How could I be needed-"

"Let me explain the situation to you, young man."

Grant nodded.

"The scientists have had their research station in Jupiter orbit for nearly twenty years," Beech

said, stressing the word "scientists" ever so slightly. "They have been poking around with the

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life-forms that exist on two of the planet's moons."

"Three," Grant corrected without thinking. "Plus they've found life-forms in Jupiter's atmosphere,

as well."

Beech continued, unfazed. "The work these scientists do is enormously expensive. They are spending

money that could be much better used to help the poor and disadvantaged here on Earth."

Before Grant could respond, Beech raised a silencing hand. "Yet we of the New Morality do not

object to their work. Even though many of those scientists are doing everything they can to try to

disprove the truth of Scripture, we allow them to continue their godless pursuits."

Grant didn't think that studying the highly adapted algae and microbes living in the ice-covered

seas of the Jovian moons was a godless pursuit. How could any attempt to understand the fullness

of God's creation be considered godless?

"Why do we not object to this enormously expensive waste of funds mid effort?" Beech asked

rhetorically. "Because we of the New Morality and similar God-fearing organizations in other

nations have seen fit to establish a compromise with the International Astronautical Authority-

and the global financial power structure, as well, I might add."

"Compromise?" Grant wondered aloud.

"Fusion," said Beech. "Thermonuclear fusion. The world's economic well-being depends on fusion

power plants. Without the energy from fusion, our world would sink back into the poverty and chaos

and corruption that spawned wars and terrorism in earlier years. With fusion, we are lifting the

standards of living for even the poorest of the poor, bringing hope and salvation to the darkest

corners of the Earth."

Grant thought he understood. "And the fuels for fusion-the isotopes of hydrogen and helium-they

come from Jupiter."

"That is correct," Beech said, nodding gravely. "The first fusion power plants ran on isotopes dug

up on the Moon, but that was too expensive. Jupiter's atmosphere is thick with fusion fuels.

Automated scoop-ships bring us these isotopes by the ton."

Grant asked, "But what's that got to do with the scientific research being done at Jupiter?"

Beech spread his hands in a don't-blame-me gesture. "When we of the New Morality pointed out that

the money spent on those scientists could be better spent here on Earth, the humanists of the IAA

and the major money brokers of our global economy demanded that the research be allowed to

continue. They absolutely refused to shut down their research activities."

Good, thought Grant.

"So the compromise was struck: The scientists could continue their work, as long as it was paid

for out of the profits from the scoopship operations."

"The fusion fuels pay for the research operations," Grant said.

"Yes, that's the way it's been for the past ten years."

"But what does all this have to do with me? Why are you sending me to Jupiter?"

"We know what the scientists are doing on the moons of Jupiter. But last year they sent a probe

into the planet itself."

"They send lots of probes to Jupiter," Grant pointed out.

"This one was manned," said Beech.

Grant gasped with surprise. "A manned probe? Are you certain? I never heard anything about that."

"Neither did we. They did it in secret."

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"No! How could-"

"That is why you are being sent to Jupiter. To find out what those godless humanists are trying to

achieve," Beech said flatly.

"Me? You want me to spy on them?"

"We need to know what they are doing- and why they are not reporting their activities, not even to

the IAA."

"But I'm no spy. I'm a scientist myself!"

Beech's solemn expression deepened into a scowl. "Mr. Archer, I'm sure that you assume that you

can be a scientist and a Believer, both at the same time."

"Yes! There's no fundamental conflict between science and faith."

"Perhaps. But out there at the research station in Jupiter orbit, scientists are doing something

that they don't want us to know about. And we must find out what they're up to!"

"But . . . why me?"

"God works in mysterious ways, my boy. You have been chosen. Accept that fact."

"It's going to ruin my life," Grant argued. "Four years away from my wife, four years wasted out

there doing God knows what. I'll never get my doctorate!"

Beech nodded again. "It's a sacrifice, I realize that. But it's a sacrifice you should be glad to

offer up to heaven."

"That's easy for you to say. I'm the one whose life is being turned upside-down."

"Let me explain something to you," Beech said, tapping the paper-strewn desk with a fingertip. "Do

you have any idea of what the world was like before the New Morality and similar organizations

gained political power across most of the world?"

Grant squirmed slightly in his chair. "There were lots of problems . . ."

Beech spat out a single, sharp "Hah!" His eyes were the color of a lion's, Grant realized. He was

staring at Grant the way a lion watches a

"I mean, economically, socially-"

"The world was a cesspool!" Beech snapped. "Corruption everywhere. No moral leadership at all. The

politicians gave in to every whim that any pressure group expressed. They took polls and strove

for popularity, while the people's real problems festered."

"The gap between the rich and poor got wider," Grant recited, re-culling his high school lessons.

"And that led to terrorism, wars, crime," Beech agreed, his voice rising slightly. "Civil wars all

over the world. Terrorists with biological weapons."

"The Calcutta Disaster," said Grant.

"Three million people killed."

"And Sao Paolo."

"Another two million."

Grant had seen the videos in school: piles of dead bodies in the streets, emergency workers in

space suits to protect them from the lethal biological agents in the air.

"Governments were paralyzed, unable to act," Beech said firmly. "Until the spirit of God was

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returned to the corridors of power."

"It was something of a miracle, wasn't it?" Grant muttered.

Beech shook his head. "No miracle. Hard work by honest, Godfearing people. We took control of

governments all around the world, the New Morality, the Light of Allah, the Holy Disciples in

Europe."

"The New Dao movement in Asia," Grant added.

"Yes, yes," said Beech. "And why were we successful in bringing moral strength and wisdom into the

political arena? Because religion is a digital system."

"Digital?"

"Digital. Religious precepts are based on moral principles. There is right and there is wrong.

Nothing in between. Nothing! No wiggle room for the politicians to sneak through. Right or wrong,

black or white, on or off. Digital."

"That's why the New Morality succeeded where other reform movements failed," Grant said, with new

understanding.

"Exactly. That's why we were able to clean up the crime-ridden streets of our cities. That's why

we were able to put an end to all these self-styled civil rights groups that actually wanted

nothing less than a license to commit any sinful acts they wanted to. That's why we could bring

order and stability to the nation-and to the whole world."

Grant had to admit that from what he'd learned of history, the world was far better off with God-

fearing, morally straight governments in power than it had been in the old, corrupt, licentious

days.

"We are doing God's work," Beech went on, sitting even straighter than before, his hands splayed

on the desktop, his eyes burning. "We are feeding the poor, bringing education and enlightenment

to all, even in the worst parts of Asia and Africa and South America. We have stabilized world

population growth without murdering the unborn. We are raising the standard of living for the

poorest of the poor."

His mind spinning, Grant heard himself ask, "But what does this have to do with Jupiter . . . and

me?"

Beech eyed him sternly. "Young man, there comes a point in everyone's life when he must make the

choice between good and evil. You've got to decide which side you're on: God or Mammon."

"I don't understand."

"The scientists out at Jupiter are up to something, something that they want to keep secret. We

must find out what they are doing and why they are trying to hide their actions from us."

"Shouldn't that be a task for the IAA?" Grant asked. "I mean, they're the organization that

directs the scientific research."

"We have representatives on the International Astronomical Authority."

"Then shouldn't you leave it to the IAA?"

With an almost pitying expression, Beech said, "The price of great power is great responsibility.

In order to maintain stability, to make certain that no one -no scientist or revolutionary or

terrorist madman -can threaten all that we've worked so hard to achieve, we must control everyone,

everywhere."

"Control everyone?"

"Yes. Those scientists at Jupiter think they are beyond our control. We must teach them otherwise.

You are our chosen agent to begin this process. You will help us to learn what they are doing and

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why they are doing it."

Grant was too confused to reply. He realized that the decision had already been made. He was going

to Jupiter. They expected him to find out what the scientists were doing there. He could not avoid

this duty.

He sat before Beech's desk, his mind awhirl, torn between the duty that he knew he could not avoid

and resentment at having absolutely no voice in the decision that would determine the next four

years of his life.

Like it or not, he was going to Jupiter.

Then Beech added with a slow, unexpected smile, "Of course, if you find out what they're up to

quickly enough, perhaps we can arrange to transfer you to another research facility-such as the

Farside Observatory."

"Farside?" Grant clutched at the straw.

Nodding solemnly, Beech said, "It might be arranged, in return for satisfactory performance."

Grant's sudden burst of hope faded. Carrot and stick, he realized. Farside is the carrot that's

supposed to encourage me to do what they want.

"You will act alone at the Jupiter station, of course," Beech went on. "No one will know your true

reason for being there, and you will tell no one about this."

Grant said nothing.

"But you will not be alone, Mr. Archer. You will be watched constantly."

"Watched?"

Smiling thinly, Beech said, "God sees you, Mr. Archer. God will be watching your every move, every

breath you take, every thought that crosses your mind."

THE ENDLESS SEA

It is a boundless ocean, more than ten times wider than the entire planet Earth. Beneath the

swirling clouds that cover Jupiter from pole to pole, the ocean has never seen sunlight, nor has

it ever felt the rough confining contours of land. Its waves have never crashed against a craggy

shore, never thundered upon a sloping beach, for there is no land anywhere across Jupiter's

enormous girth: not even an island or a reef. The ocean's billows sweep across the deeps without

hindrance, eternally.

Heated from below by the planet's seething core, swirled into a frenzy by Jupiter's hyperkinetic

spin rate, ferocious currents race through this endless sea, jet streams howling madly, long

powerful waves surging uninterrupted all the way around the world, circling the globe over and

again. Gigantic storms rack the ocean, too, typhoons bigger than whole planets, hurricanes that

have roared their fury for century after century. It is the widest, deepest, most powerful, most

dynamic and fearsome ocean in the entire solar system.

Jupiter is the largest of all the solar system's planets, more than ten times bigger and three

hundred times as massive as Earth. Jupiter is so immense it could swallow all the other planets

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Ben Bova - Jupiter

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