PREFACE
Every generation of thinkers has wrestled with the same fundamental question: which direction should humanity take to preserve what is best about itself? Throughout history, the answers have emerged from many different concerns. Sometimes they are spiritual, sometimes aspirational or inspirational. At other times, they are driven by survival, local necessity, or the desire to expand influence and territory. Yet these considerations should not be separated or discarded. Rather, we should understand them as interconnected forces and recognize when each is most effective and beneficial.
I often explore these ideas through short essays, bumper-sticker observations, and the occasional meme. Here, however, I intend to approach them through a work of fiction.
A word of warning: what appears in this space is far less than a first draft. Think of it as a collection of notes, themes, questions, and fragments that may eventually find their way into a larger story. From time to time, I may post pieces of scenes complete with grammatical errors, plot holes, awkward syntax, and unfinished ideas. Should a finished work ever emerge, it will likely differ substantially from what is presented here, even if the underlying message remains the same.
My personal challenge is to complete this project before Elon Musk attempts to land a human on Mars.
You are welcome to join me for the journey.
"What surprises me most about humankind is that… by thinking anxiously about the future, we forget the present, such that we live in neither the present nor the future." ~Anaïs Nin
Chapter 1.
March, 2034.
The Ascension Habitat Laboratory (AHL). Houston, TX
Cyrus Kade, dressed in the required jumpsuit for trainees, after his six-month-long acclimation session in the Moon base simulator, adjusted into a chair at the Longshot Bar. His eyes and mind were still adjusting from isolation and boredom mixed with stress as he gazed around at the expansive building. Then he spoke to the elderly bartender. “What’s your name?”
“They call me Casey, not exactly right, but close enough.” He looked at Kade’s face, then at his badge. “Hmmm. You must be inspecting the simulator, Dr. Kade. Is there any trouble?”
“No, I spent the whole time in there.” Kade smiled with a smirk.
“I have never seen such a high-ranking official go through that torture.”
“It’s not torture to fly over a rainbow if you know what’s at the end— saving humanity. It just takes discipline.”
“And money,” the bartender added without concern that he was addressing his superior.
“Indeed, it does. I launch next week.” Kade held his hands open as he surveyed the space again. “I didn’t realize it was so large.”
“Yeah, I know. It is amazing what those folks could do back in the 1960s. It looks nothing like those old photos. It’s changed a lot over the years, but it’s always served the same function, protecting us from the harsh conditions outside. Well, except those years before the ‘Great Migration Mandate,’ when they weren’t sure what to do with this mass of steel, concrete, and Lucite. Okay, enough of my chitchat; you need a drink.”
Kade nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The bartender set a red plastic cup on the counter.“Here’s your eight ounces for the next four hours. I wish I had more variety for you, but you know that I can only serve water or a concoction of lemon juice and water, mostly water.” He shrugged, then retrieved a bowl of Cheez-its. “And limited snacks. The same sparse selection you will encounter, or perhaps more accurately, endure on Avia MB-1.”
Kade gave a dismissive chuckle. “I’m looking forward to it, and I bet you have something stronger hidden back there.”
“That would be against regulations, wouldn't it?"
“Regulations limit us.” Kade smiled as he raised his plastic cup.
Casey nodded, raised his eyebrows, and tilted his head. He pointed to an old photo of the Astrodome interior and the baseball field. “That reminds me of something I once read about baseball. It is played on a field defined by two perpendicular lines that stretch to infinity. There is no limit to how far a strong batter can hit the ball, and no limit to how much ground a speedy fielder can cover to catch it. But of course, they enclosed the field with stands and, in this case, put a roof on it.” He pointed up at the nylon ceiling and the powerful illuminating structures that obstructed the original lamella.
“Crazy stuff. I grew up in Chicago—no roofs on our baseball fields. Domed stadiums are for wimps,” Kade said with a hint of bravado followed by an audible inhalation.
Casey raised his eyebrows. “You obviously didn’t spend much time in Houston during the summers. This place is a lot like the Moon; you can’t play or watch baseball here without protection from the sun.” He shrugged and chuckled. “All it takes is money.” He put both hands on the counter and leaned toward Kade. “Why are you going to MB-1? I thought it was mainly robots, with two engineers and two construction workers at this point.”
“Well, uh, I just need to verify that everything is on schedule. Routine stuff, Casey. Or it will be routine from now on. And just between us, JPL will be moving there soon.” Kade pointed and waved his hand slowly to indicate the upper sections that once were behind the third-baseline foul pole.
“The Jet Propulsion Laboratory? So, the Great Migration to Houston continues?
Kade yawned and nodded. If he were in his normal mental state, he would not have mentioned it. But the message was clear. “I guess you and I are the only ones who know about JPL. And it should stay that way.” Kade put his finger to his lips.
“Sure.” The bartender nodded, then reached under the counter and pulled out a pint of Fireball. “Well, since you are about to ride the flames into the night, cheers.”
They toasted plastic and glass together.
“To the future of humanity, Casey.” Kade swallowed his drink, stood up, and walked wearily away.
“The most brilliant minds often retain a child’s urge to explore, undistracted by convention or consequence. We should learn from them, not revere them, for light that reveals too much can also burn.”
Chapter 2.
October, 2034.
Pasadena, California
The journey had taken six years. Another year passed before the lander-rover-submersible began its painstaking descent through Enceladus's frozen shell, drilling meter by meter into a world no human had ever seen.
Eleven months later, the probe broke through the base of the ice into an alien ocean, heated by internal friction from tidal forces. Ten kilometers of ice sealed the sea from Saturn's reflected glow and the distant Sun's faint light. No eye had ever looked upon this place.
The submersible drifted into the abyss. Its guidance fins unfolded. Propellers extended. The camera mast rotated into position. The video feed activated.
Darkness on the monitor.
Then a faint, small point of bluish light appeared. At first, it seemed no more than a monitor artifact. But it persisted, slowly brightening to a pale crimson, then to a vivid fluorescent red. Was it moving? Moving closer? Bioluminescence? First evidence of extraterrestrial life? Primitive, no doubt, but alive—maybe. The submersible's powerful headlamps burst to life, illuminating the surrounding water. An enormous eye filled the screen.
Gabrielle Sinclair gasped and bolted upright in bed. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Sweat dampened her forehead. For several disorienting seconds, she stared blindly into the brightness of her bedroom, struggling to separate dream from reality. Discovering glimpses of reality to better understand humanity and its place in the seemingly infinite cosmos had been Gabrielle's dream since childhood. Not communicating with alien life or standing face-to-face with it, but simply knowing the answer to “Are we alone?” With each advancement in telescopes, probes, computing power, artificial intelligence, and detection technology, that dream had grown stronger. Year after year, the impossible had become plausible, then probable, then mandated. The answer humanity had sought for millennia seemed to be edging ever closer, almost within reach. Yet lately, just as her fingers neared the prize, events beyond her control seemed determined to snatch it away, like an unexpected misdirection of gravity from an unknown source.
Gabrielle’s sudden, violent movement startled Moose, her Golden Retriever, who clumsily fell off the bed, taking the open suitcase with him. Myles was dressed and packing his suitcase when the commotion happened. “Damn, Gabby, don’t scare me like that.” Gabby put both hands over her chest and took several rapid breaths. “Scary dream.”
Myles Lahgos and Gabrielle met as graduate students in 2015 at the Johns Hopkins University Applied Physics Laboratory, where they worked for NASA on the New Horizons Space Mission. After the successful flyby and reconnaissance of Pluto, both were transferred to the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in California to work on the Mars Rover Project, Perseverance. After the rover's successful landing on Mars in 2020, Gabrielle and Myles were assigned management positions to oversee the development of the Mars Sample Return Project, which was meant to send a robot probe to Mars to collect soil samples Perseverance had collected and return them to Earth. The two have lived together since they moved to California.
Gabby, still sitting up in bed, looked down and ran her fingers through her hair. “Did you make any coffee?”
“No, I’ll get some at the airport,” Myles said, picking up his suitcase then tossing back on the foot of the bed.
She shook her head, sighed audibly, threw the covers off, stood up, and staggered to the kitchen. “How long will you be in Houston?” She started the coffee machine.
“Two weeks at the most,” he said as he waded up his clothes on the floor, then stuffed them into the suitcase. He struggled to zip the suitcase closed.
Gabby walked to him, slapped his hand away, and refolded his clothes, then zipped the case shut effortlessly. “There.”
He gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t forget to tell KC hello,” she said as he opened the front door.
“Who?”
“Remember? I told you about my friend who works at the Long Shot Tavern.
“Yeah— Casey. Will do. Bye.” Myles turned and left, closing the door behind him.
Gabby raised her hand and gave a half-hearted finger wave. “Bye.”
She sat at her desk and opened her email to reread the message that was sent late the previous night. KC often sends her little quotes to consider, but this one seemed more like a warning. She put on her reading glasses and leaned in.
I trust you will not surrender too much of yourself to slogans, popular movements, attractive fantasies, or charismatic, attention-seeking people. Unquestioning belief weakens the ability to challenge the seductive, yet perilous, myth of salvation. Chasing that promise will hasten what it pretends to protect us from. When reality shatters the illusion, it may be too late. KC
It was a warning, but about what? She emailed him back. Would you care to be more specific? G
Gabby went about her routine of preparing for her workday at JPL. She fed Moose, walked him around the neighborhood, returned home, dressed for work, ate a light breakfast of oatmeal and blueberry yogurt, looked at her calendar, and scanned the e-print newspaper. “Ding,” KC responded.
If I could, I would. They won’t let me on the field, but I sense some tension in the clubhouse. Let me know how your work is going. Thanks for Pluto— remember? KC.
Chapter 3.
July, 2015.
“Truth is simply reality dimly illuminated by personal expectations of comfort. The curious labor to cast more light.”
Laurel, Maryland. John Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory (JHAPL).
For nine long years, the probe had raced through the Solar System, leaving three billion miles of emptiness behind it. Jupiter was the last place the New Horizons craft had visited, and that was eight years earlier. But now, the mission, and the dedicated efforts of many, depended on a fleeting encounter with Pluto. Now, hopefully, everything worked, and the probe’s memory held the first images of Pluto’s surface. The signal, weakened by the vast distance, would produce an agonizingly slow image, even if everything that could go wrong didn’t. But if all went well, Pluto would be the most distant object from Earth ever to have been seen in detail. The tension turned to nervous relief as an image, pixel by pixel, began to appear on Gabby’s console monitor. She leaned forward at her console, breath held, waiting for the close‑up. She expected a dead world: fractured, frozen, forgotten, and forgettable. Then the image resolved into an orb with a large, bright central feature that resembled two overlapping handprints forming the shape of a heart.
Gabby tapped a button on her console to send the complete image to the massive screen in the mission control of the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory. The room erupted. Scientists, engineers, and administrators cheered, throwing their arms to the heavens. Some pounded their desks. Years of tension, sleepless nights, delayed launches, endless simulations, and impossible calculations dissolved into pure joy. Applause thundered as people laughed, shouted, and wiped away tears. They were rightly celebrating for the most deserving reason: the hard, patient work of achievement designed to deepen understanding of humanity’s place in the cosmos.
Gabby stared at the screen, unable to move at first. "There it is," she whispered.
The image-processing software she had spent years helping build had transformed streams of data from a spacecraft billions of miles away into the picture glowing before her eyes. Beside that software was the camera system she and Myles had helped refine, test, and defend through countless design reviews and last-minute crises. They had helped humanity see it.
Myles grabbed her and spun her off the floor as the celebration raged around them.
“Myles!”
"We did it," he said.
Gabby let out a laugh that was almost a sob.
"We actually did it." He set her down, and she threw her arms around him.
People clapped them on the shoulders, shouted congratulations, and embraced coworkers and friends. But for a moment, neither heard any of it.
All they could see was Pluto’s brilliant white heart staring back from the screen.
"We made history," Myles said softly.
Gabby nodded against his shoulder.
"No," she answered. "Humanity did."
As they finally stepped apart, still holding hands, her gaze drifted to the back of the room. Cyrus Kade stood apart from the celebration, clapping slowly, methodically. His hands came together with deliberate precision, yet the gesture held no excitement, no pride, no smile. This was not just the future Kade sought; instead, he was convinced it would be a major obstacle to his plan. For an instant, his eyes met Gabby's.
She lost her smile until the room erupted again as another image appeared. Gabby turned back to Myles, grinning through tears as the crowd cheered. Myles stepped away to congratulate others in the room.
She picked up her phone and texted: “KC! Did you see it? How did I do?”
Chapter 4
August, 2015.
The applause from the New Horizons triumph had barely faded when NASA began asking a new question: What comes next? For Gabby, the answer arrived on a rainy October morning in Laurel, Maryland.
At sixty, Dr. Mercer carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who no longer had anything to prove. Decades spent at the forefront of space exploration had polished away any need for self-promotion, leaving behind a leader who trusted facts, valued competence, and judged people fairly. His career traced the history of modern planetary exploration: as a graduate student, he worked on the Viking Mars landers; as a young astronaut, he flew aboard the Space Shuttle, which taught him a lesson he never forgot: bold ideas must ultimately justify their cost. Later, at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, he helped guide the Cassini-Huygens mission to Saturn and Titan before coming to JHAPL to oversee the development of New Horizons, humanity's first reconnaissance of Pluto.
The accomplishments were extraordinary, but those who worked with Mercer seldom heard him mention them. He expected hard work, clear thinking, and honesty, first from himself and then from everyone around him. He was not the sort of leader who went out of his way to win affection, yet people tended to like him anyway. Perhaps it was because his decisions were consistent, his praise sincere, and his criticism free of malice. Whether speaking to a senior scientist or a new intern, he offered the same respect and demanded the same standards. Now he stood at Gabby's desk, a female aide beside him clutching a notebook to her chest. His calm presence drew attention even before he spoke.
“Great job, Dr. Sinclair. But now I want to bring you a little closer to Earth. How would you like to go to Titan? I mean…I want you to be mission director of Dragonfly.” Gabby looked up from her desk. “Do you accept?” he asked.
“I, I…,” she stuttered, then nodded.
“Good, very good,” Dr. Mercer extended his hand.
Gabby stood up and shook his hand. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome. Thank you. I trust you to pick your primary team.” He turned to his aide. “Becky, see that the office next to mine is ready for Dr. Sinclair.”
“Yes, sir.” As they walked out, Becky turned back to Gabby with a smile and a thumbs-up that was unmistakably a message between two women.
Gabby stood there, then turned to look at the framed second-place ribbon she won at the junior high science fair. The project was a crude demonstration of the Miller-Urey experiment of the 1950s. With liquid water and lightning, an atmosphere of methane, ammonia, and hydrogen can produce amino acids, the building blocks of life.
Her eyes watered. She had just been named Mission Director for Dragonfly, the ambitious effort to send a nuclear-powered rotorcraft to Saturn's largest moon. The mission would fly through Titan's dense orange nitrogen, methane, and hydrogen atmosphere to investigate a world filled with liquid hydrocarbon seas, and oceans of possibilities.
The announcement spread through the planetary science community within hours. Congratulations flooded her inbox. New Horizons teammates called. Reporters requested interviews. Researchers she had admired for years suddenly wanted to collaborate. At JHAPL, colleagues congratulated her in hallways and conference rooms.
Everyone seemed thrilled. Everyone except Myles. Not openly. Not intentionally. But Gabby noticed. His smile came a little slower. His congratulatory hug felt disconnected. The enthusiasm always seemed to arrive half a second late.
One evening, after another long day of planning meetings, they sat together on the couch.
"Mission Director," Myles said.
Gabby laughed. "It still sounds strange."
"It shouldn't."
"What does that mean?"
He shrugged. "It means you earned it."
The words were right. The tone wasn't. Gabby studied him as she playfully touched his hair. "You okay?"
"Of course," he said. “I am looking forward to working for you on the project. How about a celebratory pizza?”
“Good plan.” She grabbed her phone to order the pizza.
For years they had worked side by side. Equals. Partners. Dreamers chasing the same horizon. Now Gabby was becoming a rising star in planetary science while Myles remained a highly respected scientist-engineer among thousands of highly respected scientist-engineers. He never said he resented it. He may not have even admitted it to himself. Slowly, almost invisibly, the space between them began to expand.
Chapter 5
January 2016
Gabby's new office still smelled faintly of fresh paint and new furniture. Through the window she could see the autumn trees surrounding the Applied Physics Laboratory turning shades of gold and red. Stacks of Dragonfly briefing binders covered one side of her desk, while Titan maps and atmospheric simulations occupied the other.
She was reviewing preliminary flight operations plans when a knock sounded at the door.
Before she could answer, Dr. Mercer stepped inside. "Am I interrupting?" he asked.
"Only about six hundred pages of paperwork," Gabby replied.
Mercer laughed. "Then I'm doing you a favor." He closed the door behind him and took a seat across from her desk.
For a few moments they discussed Dragonfly. The rotorcraft's power systems were progressing on schedule. Instrument integration was advancing. The project remained years from launch, but thousands of decisions had already been made, and thousands more waited ahead.
Mercer listened carefully as Gabby outlined staffing plans and technical milestones. When she finished, he nodded approvingly. "Good. You're thinking three steps ahead."
"Only three? I thought I was supposed to think ten ahead."
"Good. That skill will be useful. “
“Will be?" She gave him a curious look.
Mercer's expression became more serious. "You know, Titan isn't the only intriguing Moon in the Saturn system."
Gabby immediately recognized the look. It was the expression Mercer wore whenever he was about to discuss an idea that might reshape someone's future.
"No," she said. "It isn't. What are you thinking?"
"The subject came up recently because a young German scientist showed up in my office with a proposal."
"A proposal?"
Mercer nodded. "He wants to land a probe on Enceladus."
Gabby's eyebrows rose instantly. "Enceladus?"
"Yes. You know the moon with water geysers that extend ten thousand kilometers into space."
"I know which Enceladus," she said sarcastically with a smile.
For decades, Enceladus had fascinated planetary scientists. Beneath its bright icy surface lay one of the most intriguing environments in the solar system. The Cassini spacecraft had transformed the tiny moon from a largely forgotten satellite into one of the most promising places to search for extraterrestrial life.
Mercer leaned back in his chair. "The proposal is ambitious. Land on the surface. Drill through the ice shell. Reach the subsurface ocean. Then deploy a small submarine probe directly into the liquid water beneath."
Gabby stared. "You're serious." She shook her head slowly. "That's one of the most difficult robotic missions ever conceived. Not only do you have to land on a tricky surface, but you would also have to drill at least 5 kilometers through hard ice."
“Yes. That’s true”
"On a moon orbiting Saturn."
"Also true."
She leaned back in her chair. "That is way harder than landing on Mars or flying past Pluto."
Mercer nodded.
"A lot harder."
For a moment they sat silently. Then Gabby's scientific curiosity took over.
"Actually," she said, "if the goal is finding life, Enceladus makes more sense than Titan."
Mercer pointed at her. "Exactly."
He stood and walked toward the maps hanging on her wall. "Relatively speaking, Titan is low-hanging fruit. Dense atmosphere for parachuting to the surface. Lakes. Rivers. Rain."
"And seas," Gabby added.
"And seas." Mercer turned around. “But Titan's seas aren't water. They're closer to gasoline. We have no examples of life that can live in it."
Gabby nodded thoughtfully. Cassini's discoveries still amazed her. During its thirteen years in the Saturn system, the spacecraft had repeatedly flown through the towering plumes of water vapor, water ice, salts, and organic molecules erupting from Enceladus' south pole.
Mercer continued. "But Enceladus. Cassini detected complex organic compounds. Carbon-bearing molecules. Precursors associated with amino acids. And sodium phosphate. "
“ATP-forming phosphate," Gabby said. As she lightly tapped her pen against her face.
"Yes. One of the most important discoveries in astrobiology."
Together they mentally followed the list. Liquid water. Organic chemistry. Energy sources from hydrothermal activity. Phosphorus. Many of the ingredients considered necessary for life. All hidden beneath the frozen shell of Enceladus.
"If life exists anywhere beyond Earth in our solar system," Gabby said quietly, "Enceladus has to be near the top of the list."
"Perhaps at the very top."
Her mind was already racing. A robotic submarine. Autonomous navigation. Sterile drilling equipment. Nuclear power systems. Planetary protection protocols. The engineering difficulties were almost overwhelming.
"Still," she said, "getting through five kilometers of ice sounds impossible."
Mercer's smile returned.
"That's what I told him."
"Him?"
"The German scientist."
"And?"
"He apparently took that as encouragement."
Gabby laughed.
He pointed at her. "That sounds like every ambitious scientist I've ever met. Especially young ones."
Mercer reached into a folder he had brought with him. He withdrew several photographs for Gabby to examine. "What am I looking at?" she asked.
"Prototypes."
Her eyes widened. The photos showed unusual cylindrical machines being tested in ice tunnels and environmental chambers.
"He built these?"
"He did."
"Already?"
Mercer nodded. "Several working versions."
Gabby studied the pictures carefully. The devices looked unlike traditional drilling systems. Smaller. Simpler. Somehow more elegant. "You've seen demonstrations?"
"Yes."
"And?"
He allowed the suspense to linger. "I was impressed."
Coming from Dr. Mercer, that statement carried tremendous weight.
"What exactly is his plan?"
He merely smiled. "That's his story to tell."
Gabby groaned. "You're enjoying this."
"A little."
She handed back the photographs.
"I want to meet him."
"You will."
For the next few minutes, they discussed the scientific objectives the mission could accomplish. Direct sampling of the sub-ice ocean. Searches for microbial life. Chemical analysis of water chemistry. The possibility of discovering an entirely separate biological origin from Earth's.
Every possibility seemed more exciting than the last.
Finally, Gabby asked the obvious question.
"So, when will NASA approve the proof-of-concept study?"
Mercer's smile vanished. The answer arrived before he spoke. "They won’t. They’re not accepting any new proposals now."
Gabby's excitement immediately faded. "What happened?"
"The budget happened."
"The proposal was rejected?" she asked. Gabby looked down at the photographs of the Enceladus project again. "That's disappointing."
She sighed. "Human flight, isn’t?"
"Yes, we can’t even fly our own astronauts in orbit since they retired the Shuttle. NASA is making it a priority to launch humans again. All other missions face increasing scrutiny. People on rockets will get the dough even when other projects offer more compelling science and discovery. Unfortunately, these days, compelling science doesn't beat compelling politics."
Gabby folded her arms. “People.” She shook her head. “Hey, NASA likes acronyms. How a PISS- People in Space Suits.” Mercer laughed. And the Shuttle. It was supposed to change spaceflight. Make it routine. Make it like taking an airplane trip. They overhyped it, oversold it, and underpriced it. The problem was it had no mission other than to take people into low Earth orbit, for no good reason.” She stopped herself when she remembered that she was talking to a former mission specialist on the Shuttle. “Oh god, Tom. I’m sorry I said that. Forgive me.”
Mercer chuckled. “No ma’am, I feel the same way. They wanted me to make smoother ball bearings in space because that was one of the selling points to Congress— commercial manufacturing in space. Well, we couldn't make a decent ball bearing. Even if we had, that million-dollar zero-gravity ball bearing wouldn’t have worked any better than a ten-cent 1g ball bearing made in Springfield.” Gabby laughed.
For several moments neither spoke. Then Mercer stood, walked to the window, and stood next to Gabby. Outside, researchers crossed between buildings carrying coffee cups and laptop bags. The ordinary rhythm of scientific life continued. He folded his arms. "Let me ask you something."
"Okay."
"Where is Dragonfly going?"
Gabby frowned. "Titan, of course."
"What system?"
"The Saturn system."
"And Enceladus?"
She looked up. “Also, the Saturn system.” A sudden realization began forming. She turned to him. "No, you’re not thinking…"
"Maybe."
"You're serious— or crazy."
"A little of both, maybe. All I said is that Dragonfly is going to Saturn."
Gabby leaned forward. "And?"
"And opportunities sometimes appear when spacecraft travel billions of kilometers away from Earth."
Now the pieces were beginning to fit together. He was proposing not an entirely separate mission. Something connected. Something hidden within Dragonfly. Something small enough to survive budget reviews.
"I'm adding someone to your team."
"The German scientist?"
"Yes."
"What's his name?"
"Dr. Till Zaugg."
Gabby repeated it quietly. “Till Zaugg. And why exactly are you assigning him to Dragonfly?"
Mercer gave a deliberately innocent expression. "He'll be working to modify a scientific instrument on board."
"Which scientific instrument?"
“Whichever one you provide me, in writing, with an explanation for needing a modification—perhaps a guidance control rocket or antenna—anything plausible. I’m sure you can find something that could be updated. “
Gabby smiled. "The modification of said instrument wouldn't happen to be designed for melting and drilling through ice, would it?"
Mercer thought. “Well, that would be convenient if the modified instrument was officially meant to swim in the Titan seas, but malfunctions and gets jettisoned near Enceladus.”
She folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, feeling an equal mix of excitement and concern. “You’re asking me to do something against regulations.”
Mercer nodded. “Sometimes regulations put absurd limitations on us. Welcome to Dragonfly Plus, Dr. Sinclair.” Mercer cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, that's not the only reason I came by."
Gabby immediately recognized the tone. Every project manager in aerospace learned to fear those words. "What happened?"
"It's budget related."
Her shoulders sagged slightly. "Of course it is. Is Dragonfly being cut?"
"No, no. The Dragonfly budget survived the latest review. That's the good news."
"And the bad news?"
Mercer leaned forward. "NASA wants to consolidate more of the planetary exploration programs under JPL."
"No." Gabby gave him an accusing look.
"I'm afraid so."
She stared at him. "They're moving the project to Pasadena?"
"Not just the project. But you and your essential team."
Gabby looked down at her desk. The office she'd barely occupied. The team she was assembling at JHAPL. The life she and Myles had built in Maryland.
"How much of the team?"
"Essential personnel."
"Which means everyone."
"Most of the core leadership, yes. You and I will make that determination within the budget allotted for the move."
For years she had worked at APL. The hallways. The laboratories. The familiar faces. It felt like home. It felt like it had been built for her. "When?"
"Soon. I will learn more from Kade when I visit Houston next month."
She laughed humorlessly. “Putting Kade in charge of NASA does not make sense.”
“Unfortunately, it makes sense to Senator Watkins, and he chairs the committee with the power and money.”
She shook her head. "So first I get promoted, then I get shipped across the country, then I’m told to fudge a bit on my mission."
Mercer allowed her a moment. "I won't pretend it's ideal."
Gabby folded her arms. "Myles? What about Myles?"
“I consider Myles an essential part of your team. JPL isn't punishment. You'll have access to resources there that simply don't exist anywhere else.”
"I know." Gabby sighed. But the human inside her wasn't feeling enthusiastic.
"Besides, there's another way to look at it."
"Oh?" she asked
"Pasadena puts you a lot closer to a certain German scientist." Mercer knew the logical scientist inside her understood the advantages, and that the clandestine Enceladus mission addition was too much for her to consider resigning from the project. "Gabby, for what it’s worth, I fought the decision to move the project.”
"I know you did.” She paused, still staring out of the window. “And Tom, what about you and Becky?"
Mercer stood and joined her at the window. We are staying; Kade has no control over the other projects here.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “We will be here if you need us.”
Chapter 6
January 2020
The lunch crowd had begun to thin along the Kemah Boardwalk as Senator James Watkins settled into a booth overlooking Galveston Bay. Fishing boats drifted across the gray-green water while gulls circled overhead, searching for scraps. Watkins ignored all of it. He was staring at the Astrodome. Not directly, of course. Houston was thirty miles away. But in his mind the old stadium was as clear as if it stood outside the restaurant window. "The Eighth Wonder of the World," he muttered in his deep East Texas drawl.
Across from him, NASA Administrator Cyrus Kade folded his napkin onto his lap. "The Astrodome?”
“Yeah.” Watkins snorted.
“They’re thinking about tearing it down.”
Watkins put his elbows on the table and leaned in toward Kade. “Bless their little hearts. That would be like tearing down the Alamo.”
Their waiter arrived with bread and drinks. The senator waited until he departed before continuing.
At seventy-two, Senator Watkins represented a generation that had grown up beneath the long shadow of Apollo. As a boy, he watched Shepard, Glenn, and Armstrong. He had built model rockets in his backyard and stayed up late to watch Star Trek religiously on a black-and-white television. Like many Americans of his generation, he had expected the future to arrive far sooner than it did.
"What year are we living in, Kade?" Watkins asked.
"2020."
"Exactly."
The senator pointed an accusing finger at Kade. "When I was a kid, we were promised a more thrilling life, but an easier life by 2020."
Kade pointed his iPhone at Watkins, reminding him of all the changes that have occurred during his lifetime.
Watkins waved dismissively. “Toys!” He leaned in toward Kade again. “You see, we’ve lost the grip on our imagination. Somehow it wiggled loose and scampered up a tree like a scared squirrel.” Watkins leaned back. "You remember 2001: A Space Odyssey?"
"Of course. Well, I remember watching it once a while ago."
"In 1968, Stanley Kubrick thought we'd have a permanent moon base by 2001."
"So did a lot of people. But that was fiction."
Watkins shook his head in disgust. "And here we are in 2020.” He raised his voice. “Fifty-two years later!” The nearby customers looked at him. He leaned back and spoke more calmly. “Hell, Kade, we can't even launch our own astronauts into orbit."
Kade sighed, as he began to understand where the conversation was headed. "It won’t be much longer, Senator. Right now we are on schedule to launch next year—"
"No. Listen to me. "Now is later than it’s ever been, and as early as it’s gonna git.” Watkins jabbed the table. "The United States of America put men on the Moon only sixty-six years after Orville and Wilbur flew 120 feet. We beat the Soviets. We built the Space Shuttle and Space Station. Then somehow we ended up paying the damn Russians for rides."
Kade shrugged and patiently took a sip of iced tea, realizing that a politician’s life was dependent upon exaggeration, much like stage acting. The senator's outrage wasn't entirely unwarranted. Since the Space Shuttle's retirement in 2011, NASA had relied on Russian Soyuz spacecraft to transport astronauts to the International Space Station. Commercial vehicles were nearly ready, and NASA had other launch option concepts. But the political embarrassment remained.
"We're close," Kade said. "Very close. Commercial Crew is nearly operational. Regular launches to the Space Station should start soon."
Watkins waved dismissively. "That's like bragging you can jump on a low horse."
Kade laughed. "I've never heard that expression."
"You have now." The senator tore off a piece of bread. "The Space Station is what? Roughly two hundred and forty miles up?" Kade nodded as Watkins continued. “That’s about the distance from Houston to Dallas.” He raised his voice. “Hell, anybody standing on the roof of a three-story building has to duck when the damn thing flies over." Several nearby diners glanced over.
Watkins lowered his voice only slightly. "We ain’t supposed to be circling Earth like gerbils in a cage. We're supposed to be exploring."
Kade nodded despite himself. There was something admirably amusing about Watkins's stubborn determination. "I agree we need to go farther."
"Then, by god, let's go farther— now!"
"Well, we are. You know Artemis is well into the planning stage.”
"Not fast enough, because we won’t be able to land astronauts,” he paused. “Or Astronettes on the Moon before the end of this decade, maybe. Hell. I’ll be pushin’ up Bluebonnets by then.”
The waiter arrived with plates of chicken parmesan and lasagna. Watkins immediately attacked his meal. Only after several bites did he resume.
"I have a friend in Costa Rica."
Kade raised an eyebrow. "A friend."
"A very wealthy friend."
"No doubt,” Kade said with a shrug. He was aware of Senator Watkins’ dubious rise to power. “Are we still talking about space or have we switched to your summer travel plans?”
"My friend in Costa Rico believes exactly what I believe."
"Which is?"
"That America ought to have a permanent moon base— as soon as possible."
Kade took another bite and waited.
"She cottons to the idea so much she's willing to put real money behind it."
Kade stared at him, thinking he was seeing senility in Senator Watkins for the first time. “Senator, with all respect, SHE will need the keys to Fort Know to bankroll a Moon base.”
"No, not the whole thing.” Watkins leaned forward after seeing the disbelief on Kade’s face. She’ll provide the tippin’-point bucks. She is willing to buy the Astrodome."
Kade blinked. "The Astrodome?"
"Yes."
"For what purpose?"
Watkins's eyes lit up. "A prototype moon base."
Even Kade, who had spent his career hearing ambitious proposals, needed a moment. "A moon base training facility? In the Astrodome?"
"Why not?"
Kade opened his mouth, then closed it. The only reason he could think of opposing the idea was that it duplicated some of NASA’s ongoing efforts toward the goal. But this sounded like a windfall for the Moon program, and Houston had wavered for years on the options for the defunct Astrodome.
Watkins continued charging ahead. "We convert the interior. Build habitat modules. Simulate operations. Train crews. Test life-support systems. Practice maintenance procedures. Figure out what breaks before we send people to the Moon."
"Our engineering teams already do some of that."
"Not enough."
"We have lunar habitat concepts underway."
"Not fast enough."
"We're developing new launch systems."
"Still not enough. We need to move faster and develop a more robust launching capability."
Every ongoing effort toward the goal seemed to lead back to the same conclusion: “Not enough, not fast enough.”
Watkins pointed his fork at Kade. "America got to the Moon because we decided we were going."
"That's a simplification."
"No, that's leadership."
Kade couldn't entirely disagree.
The senator finished another bite and continued. "Launch capabilities need to be expanded. Manufacturing needs to expand and deliver faster. Astronaut training needs to ramp up. The timeline needs to shrink like a cheap suit."
"And where does the money come from to do all these things?"
Watkins grinned. "Now you're talking like an administrator."
"I am an administrator."
"Then administrate."
Kade laughed despite himself. "That's not how budgets work."
"No, but that’s how Congress works."
Kade realized that was a dangerous statement by a Senator who chairs the Senate Appropriations Committee.
Kade set down his fork. "You're talking about redirecting funding."
"I am."
"From where?"
Watkins gave a casual shrug. "All the projects you got goin’. Hell, you’re sitting in some tall cotton.”
Kade knew exactly what that meant.
"No, Senator."
"Why not?"
"Because those projects produce extraordinary science."
The senator rolled his eyes. Here it comes, Kade thought.
"What science?"
"New Horizons showed us Pluto."
"A frozen rock."
"Galileo and Cassini transformed our understanding of Jupiter and Saturn."
"A bunch of pictures."
“Hubble takes us to the edge of the universe.” Kade leaned in, holding his hands open with a shrug.
“More photos of my vacation.”
"But Dragonfly could revolutionize planetary science and our understanding of the Solar System."
"It's a damn robot taking pictures."
"Most of our discoveries come from robotic missions."
Watkins burst into laughter. Several diners turned again.
"I don't give a rat's ass about those things."
"I figured," Kade said as he shook his head
The senator pointed across the table. "Kade, people don't want to see a bucket of bolts blasted into the sky."
"They care about discoveries,” Kade insisted.
"No, scientists care about discoveries." Watkins lowered his voice dramatically. “The public wants heroes." The conviction in his voice filled the booth. "They want a man sitting on top of a rocket, riding a column of fire into the heavens."
Kade remained silent.
"They want danger." Watkins grinned. "They want risk." A pause. "They want drama. They will celebrate success but will be just as satisfied with disaster." Watkins pointed toward the television monitor above the bar where a NASCAR race was being shown. You see that? Those folks watchin’ that are not waiting for a car to cross the finish line. They’re waitin’ for a crash. Now, that’s entertainment.”
"Spaceflight isn't entertainment."
"Yes, it is. But people buy tickets for the uncertainty of the danger. Blowing metal into the heavens and rolling a robot buggy around on rocks and sand don’t put butts in the seats, son. Everything's entertainment these days. Hell, people don’t have to work much for food and a roof anymore. Entertainment IS wealth now, not just a pastime."
Kade hated the amount of truth in the Senator’s words.
The senator leaned forward one final time. "And by God, that's what I intend to give’em: entertainment."
For the first time, Kade saw the political strategy underneath the rhetoric. A moon base wasn't merely a national goal. It was a story. One capable of attracting votes, money, and attention. Which made it dangerous, but profitable. Kade sighed as he realized that Senator Watkins was the PT Barnum of Space Flight, doggedly determined to bring us the Greatest Show on Earth if not the Moon. "You may have another motive."
Watkins smiled. "Such as?"
"Your lady friend in Costa Rico, I assume she plans to lease the Astrodome to us to start this project.”
“Seems only fair.”
And your family's construction business?"
The senator's grin widened. "My cousin's construction business."
"Close enough."
"Hey, if we're building a prototype city on the Moon, somebody has to pour the concrete."
Outside the restaurant, the afternoon sun reflected off the bay, but in the distance loomed a Texas Thunderstorm. Watkins pointed toward the storm. “See that, we need to git back before it rains like a tall cow pissin’ on a flat rock.
Chapter 7
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