They called it Flipper and it swam the oceans of Enceladus.
As man began to spread through the solar system, he discovered that for every answer he found, he discovered more questions. Enceladus had, since its discovery and its unique properties, been a source of mystery. One of Saturn’s nearer moons, it should have been a frozen ball of ice. Yet for years scientists had been puzzled by the existence of giant geysers in the moon’s southern most regions.
Massive plumes of water vapor had suggested the existence of a liquid ocean beneath miles of ice. A liquid ocean where, it was believed, no ocean had the right to exist.
There were, of course, countless theories as to how this could be. The most accepted theory being the tidal stresses caused by the moon’s nearness to the massive gravitational pull of Saturn.
Yet even this most accepted theory had not one shred of hard facts to back it up.
It would take extended close range observation and, eventually, injecting someone, or something, through the icy crust into the liquid ocean below.
Of course, exploring the mysteries of the outer solar system had not, for the longest time, been on the top of the priorities list for humankind for some time. Until the arrival of Fargone.
It was a joint effort between the scientists and the engineers on the great space Habitat Fargone that had developed the Flipper line of robotic explorers. Based on land rovers, but equipped to function as a swimming remote as well, Flipper could travel beneath the crust and map the true surface, using high energy bursts to transmit its findings back to a controller ship holding station further out, beyond the edges of the E-Ring of Saturn in which the moon traveled at a breakneck speed that took it around the massive planet every thirty-three hours.
So far, Flipper had done its job flawlessly, moving endlessly, it’s tiny, and highly illegal, nuclear powered systems pushing it along above the ocean floors and through the continuously raging currents, sensors busily recording every stone, every outcropping, and every valley. Each variation of the swirling ocean was noted, every shift in the crust as Enceladus raced along its day long, elliptical orbit around Saturn; with the planet exerting its massive gravitational force to pull the moon into an oblong shape at its closest approach.
It would soon be time to send a burst to the humans above but Flipper was nothing if not exact. It would move and record until the exact second, pause, transmit, and then continue on with no sense of the enormity of its findings, simply doing that for which it had been designed.
Ahead, a larger than normal outcropping came into view and Flipper dutifully recorded every contour, every jut and crevice, and then stopped.
Lights flared to life and Flipper trained them on the outcropping and, as programmed, played its onboard camera over the outcropping, attempting, as it did so, to compare it to images within its multi-zettabyte memory. It had been programmed well.
The programmers had followed their instructions perfectly. Flipper was to map the surface, report, move on, and continue mapping until the next scheduled report time. Unless it came upon something unusual that might require instant input from a human controller; instant being a relative term considering the communication time lag of distance.
This, Flipper decided in the few nanoseconds it had taken it to compare the outcropping to its memory, was one such unusual finding.
Keeping the camera and the lights on the object, Flipper settled to the ocean floor and began transmitting.
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Jack “Slacker” Matrel sucked slowly on the cigarette he had just lit, ignoring the looks of disgust the other members of the night crew tossed in his direction.
Theoretically the scrubbers could handle the smoke of an occasional cigarette, but it did nothing to dissipate the odor as it burned.
Slacker was not the only smoker aboard the Seeker, but he was the only one that refused to abide by the common courtesy tradition of not smoking in the control room or around non-smokers.
Life aboard the Seeker was cramped and dull, and Slacker’s actions did nothing to relieve the tension that was bound to arise when thirty people were crammed together for two months at a time.
The upside was that Slacker was a chain smoker and not even he could discover a way to get past the weight and space requirements and restrictions. Only a couple cartons of cigarettes and, after nearly a month, he had to be running low. The downside was that Slacker would be hell to live with for the remaining time.
Fred Iverson shook his head in disgust and turned back to his instruments. It would soon be time for Flipper’s report. The computers would do all the work, recording the micro burst, translating it even as it fed it to the human’s consoles. But the Skipper demanded that each transmission be monitored…just in case.
“The Skipper still thinks we’re gonna find little green men.” Slacker had sneered but had complied. As the night shift lead it was his job to see that everyone else did their job…and that he did.
“Hey!” Iverson glanced at his console and then glanced as the time read out. “Flipper’s reporting in…three minutes early!”
Slacker grimaced and snuffed his cigarette out, saving the butt for later, and moved to stand behind Iverson.
“Check your equipment.” He ordered. “Flipper don’t report early.”
“Well he is now!” Iverson snapped back. “I did a full equipment check and calibration at the start of the shift. Everything checks out.” Other techs nodded to corroborate his story and Slacker frowned.
“Okay, so he’s early so…”
Whatever he was about to say was interrupted as Iverson reached for a switch.
“Flipper’s requesting input.” He announced. “We’re getting a live feed.”
“Christ.” Slacker hated surprises. “What the hell has the little bugger found now?”
Iverson studied the screen before him silently, his face growing pale.
“Slacker, I think you better wake the skipper.” His voice was faint, as if being forced out past vocal cords that refused to cooperate.
“Hell no I ain’t…” Slacker stopped as he looked over Iverson’s shoulder, his eyes growing wide.
Like a man drunk, he staggered back to his own station, stabbing fingers at the ship intercom.
“Skipper?” There was a sleepy, irritated response which Slacker ignored. “Slacker here, Skipper. I think you need to come to the bridge…NOW!”
To be Continued……..
-- Story written and copyrighted (C) 2014 by Clay Clearbrook
-- and may not be reprinted without permission.