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  OCEANWORLDS

  This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and characters—including those based on real people, living or dead—as well as characterizations and opinions are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by J.P. Landau

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the author. It is illegal and punishable by law to copy this book or distribute it by any means without permission.

  For Marie,

  Always muse. At times patron.

  Note to the Reader

  This is a science fiction novel, yet the adventure you are about to read requires no major technological breakthroughs, is achievable with today’s manufacturing capabilities, complies with orbital mechanics, and, more generally, the laws of physics. Indeed, for the first time in history a spaceship—SpaceX’s Starship, currently in development—will allow manned expeditions much farther than the Moon.

  As a result, I felt it was the book’s duty to provide additional context—both scientific and historical—for those reading this as a call to action. For the majority of you this will be extraneous and intrusive to the story being told, which is why it was exiled to the footnotes. Some of these are even in the form of dialogue between characters. Ignore them. They are nonessential and will slow the story down.

  The Appendix has two sections:

  a) The technical solution for this particular mission—launch window, traveling time, required propellant, etc.

  b) A short history of astronomy and space exploration.

  It is the conviction of many,1 myself included, that if we are willing to return to a higher risk tolerance, such as the mindset we had during the Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration or the Space Race culminating in the landing on the Moon, a manned mission—to Mars, to the asteroid belt, to Saturn—is upon us. This book is an imagined account of a journey to Saturn, which could become one of the most decisive events in the history of our species. You are about to read why.

  J.P. Landau

  April 2019

  * * *

  1 Robert Lightfoot, former head of NASA, said it succinctly in his parting speech in April 2018: “Protecting against risk and being safe are not the same thing … [W]ould we have ever launched Apollo in the environment we’re in today? Would Buzz and Neil have been able to go to the Moon in the risk posture we live in today? … [W]e must move from risk management to risk leadership. From a risk management perspective, the safest place to be is on the ground. From a risk leadership perspective, I believe that’s the worst place this nation can be.”

  Mars, Earth, Saturn, Jupiter, and the Sun, to scale.

  The orbits of the inner planets and the gas giants around the Sun, to scale.

  1 | The Dream

  SAINT LUCIA, CARIBBEAN

  Perched a thousand feet above the beach and surrounded by lush, vibrant jungle, the infinity pool mirrored the glorious vista laid out in front of it. The limitless ocean, a few shades darker than a deep blue sky barely smudged by clouds, was framed on each side by the Pitons—the two volcanic spires for which the Caribbean island was famous.

  The woman seated on the pool’s edge was performing a repertoire of funny faces to the delighted twin girls wearing floaties in the water.

  Her husband’s assertions to the hotel clerk regarding the interruption of Internet and telephone services, and the rowdy flock of parrots on the canopy of trees above the pool, muddled the groovy reggae playing in the background. Bribed with cold beers one more time, the man stealthily approached the woman from behind, grabbing and lifting her to the too-late, high-pitched warning cries of the twins. The young couple plunged into the pool.

  “Not a week ago it was all about the dress, flower arrangements … I’ll never forget this,” said the woman moments later, resting her head against her husband’s shoulder as they looked out over the ocean.

  For a long time, they remained immobile.

  Each one was experiencing an unsettling, growing sensation that something in the landscape wasn’t right. At first their minds discarded it as dizziness—it’s not you, it’s me. But when the parrots’ tumult turned dead silent, the couple looked at each other. It didn’t make sense: the entire horizon seemed to be … shifting upward?

  Behind them a glass broke, guests murmured. Chairs screeched. Somebody screamed. The reggae was being overwhelmed by an enraged, escalating tidal sound.

  “We’re safe up here,” offered someone, which sounded deflated and hollow. Less than a minute later, it proved widely off the mark.

  The husband gaped at the bay below. The two yachts previously moored were retreating at an absurd speed into the ocean while the beach was doubling in size every few seconds as a water mass of boiling currents was yanked back. The ocean hadn’t been this furious for tens of millions of years—before the dawn of man, before the rise of apes, before the triumph of mammals.

  The wife’s eyes instinctively searched for the twins and found them embraced by a terrified mom trying to appear calm. One was more confused than panicky, the other had dug her face against Mommy. The three were the only ones present looking away from the immenseness closing in on the island.

  The couple, hands still joined, grew motionless and mesmerized. The yachts had become dots racing skyward on an impossible wave. The wall of water was so tall that the clouds dissolved against it. The Pitons had become puny.

  “Maybe it’s just a dream …” said the husband, struggling to sound composed, looking one final time at his wife.

  Not the slightest attempt to confirm or deny.

  Like an eclipse, the midday Sun disappears. All is lost.

  2 | James Egger

  May 2023

  YOSEMITE VALLEY, CALIFORNIA

  The Volkswagen Kombi headed toward the blinding light, off the hole, and into the famed Tunnel View. It stopped by the overlook. Inside was a motley crew of three, dressed from hippie to greaser.

  It was a lazy morning. The moist air tingled the throat and the fog meandered over the pines carpeting the valley, seemingly fed by the tall waterfall bordering this postcard of a landscape from the right. Even for the tired brains and sleepy eyes, the main subject was indisputable. Two elongated mist tongues slithered toward the towering rock face of El Capitan but couldn’t reach its base before evanescing to the youthful Sun. Not even the sheer granite face of Half Dome, enclosing the horseshoe valley at the end, attempted visual rivalry against the giant wall soaring toward the sky.

  “Everything happened right there, on The Nose of El Capitan. We have been hanging from the wall for three days. The trees look like grass half a mile below. Wish I could tell you the nourishment was generous and nights were inviting, but it’s Jimmy Egger we’re talking about, with me as his mere squire. So thirsty I’m longing for my own urine. Stomach’s its own self, growling with the intensity and lyrical passion of Chewbacca. I’m so tired yesterday’s LSD still reigns defiant in La-La Land: one moment Jimmy is dressed as Elvis, the next it’s raining pinky baby dolls.

  “Even he’s looking miserable, but his mouth’s still full of shit, ‘check the sunset,’ ‘this is awesome,’ ‘picture the beers in Yosemite Village tomorrow night.’ Only Lord God Almighty knows how much I hate him right now, but I still can’t help but admire the guy. His fingers have become red from graffitiing the coarse granite rock for days, but there’s still the indelible trademark Jimmy smile.” Randy seemed pleased with his delivery. This was hardly novel yet everyone enjoyed the combo of sound and vision.

  “We have a
situation that needs immediate resolution, but by now I have the same independent thinking as a worker ant. I defer to the Golden Boy. We are about 250 feet from topping out into the horizontal world again. Good. Above us, a wall past vertical with the same richness of features as the surface of a glass of milk. Bad.

  “Sun’s about to dip in the west, we have maybe twenty minutes. ‘Jimmy, no chance to make it today,’ I say. Bad call, for where I saw threat, Jimmy saw opportunity. We check each other’s harnesses again, I’m belaying in case he falls, and he launches upward. After a few minutes of Spider-Man superhuman dexterity, he’s halfway. But gravity’s not kind today, and our day’s been more than twenty-four hours. For the first time I hear his struggle, the gasping breaths, his arms swollen to Popeye size.

  “Well, at least if he drops, I’m catching him—except I see his rope dangling freely into the void, tethered to nobody and nothing. My horror is so violent I blackout for an instant, and now I’m shaking with the gusto of an epileptic. I try to reach the rope, but I’m sorely missing the inches that have kept me from my basketball dreams. My atheism is gone as I cling to Buddha and Muhammad and Brahma. The guilt becomes a metal rod in my throat as the still unknowing Jimmy starts to look unstable.

  “Here’s the dilemma: if I don’t tell him, he may give up and jump, only to never feel the rope yank as he dives into the Land of the Harps; if I tell, the terror will seep into his head and melt that steely brain into a flan and hammer every finger until he lets go.

  “‘Jimmy,’ I call. He looks down, and synapses fire in an instant. Have ya’ever heard of Greenpeace shooting whales for sport? Never saw him scared but now he’s petrified. Starts vibrating like a diesel engine, somehow still attached to the rock. He spasms and I see a shower coming my way, landing straight in my face. Drenched in vomit, I puke as well, not from reflex but from abject terror.

  “You know how the ancient Greeks distinguished gods from men? Me neither, but that day I saw a deity. A god needing diapers but pulling the most impossibly ballsy feat that ever was. We sweated so much adrenaline we could have woken half of Arlington National Cemetery.”

  The Sun had transitioned into the west. The Kombi rested in a busy parking lot by Glacier Point, the scenic viewpoint high above the valley looking at Half Dome in its best profile. Crowds were retreating even though the best time of day in this, the best time of year, was still half an hour away.

  There were now four people organizing equipment by the camper. The new addition was busy working on the rear, sorting climbing gear, backpacks, and helmets, and meticulously folding what looked like a tent.

  A boy, around 6, came casually by, his eager eyes betraying curiosity. He was working on an oversized bag of candy. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Do you work in Cirque du Soleil? My mom and I saw a show many days ago. I liked it very much.” The fourth person turned. It was James Egger. Tall and lean, with dark brown hair and a three-day growth of stubble. He could have been 1960s Clint Eastwood’s fraternal twin, except for the disarming smile. Seeing all the colorful hardware, the kid went into overdrive, “How do you train? What happens if you fall? How far do you fall? Do you want some? Yummy-yummy!”

  James kneeled. “Can’t turn down that offer. What’s your name, boss?” His hand came out of the bag, stained in pasty chocolate.

  “My name is Batman and I can fly. Don’t you see my cape?” the boy said, as he swirled it dramatically.

  “You look more like Superman to me. Check out those biceps.” Batman flexed both arms in the pose of a Schwarzenegger.

  “Watch out for that suit ripping.”

  “Can I watch you?” said the boy.

  “Only if you sign me an autograph.”

  The little fellow’s mom called him, and after shaking hands he went away.

  There was barely a tourist anymore as all four walked in line by a narrow trail running a few feet from the precipice. Three of them were dressed in colorful wing-suits. They headed toward a ridiculously exposed rock ledge, a sort of granite diving board projected past the chasm: Glacier Point Ledge.

  Dusk may have heightened the other senses. As the gentle butterscotch from the Ponderosa pines soaked the nostrils, the sounds from the valley far below became clean: guitars playing, dogs barking, children shouting. Half Dome Village, countless feet beneath, felt immediate and intimate.

  Lice, dressed in a screaming yellow wing-suit, tried to walk the talk to the tip of the ledge but encountered the Invisible Wall.

  “Jimmy. Becca. Not quite there today. I’m dropping.”

  “Maturing into adolescence! Didn’t get the invite to your Quinceañera celebration,” said Becca.

  Lice looked at Becca, who was puffing on a communal joint, and James, away in his own separate reality. Right there lay his mistake, exposed. Most skydivers kept BASE jumping as a daydream safely beyond reach, because if separating from an airplane was watching bull riding on a large, high-definition TV, then abandoning a rock would have been riding the bucking beast. The intensity right before jumping was such that it was stoned down, except if you were one James Egger. And Lice just relearned he was not. He inched forward gecko-like to inspect the jump, his head barely past the platform’s edge. Mind failing to trust body was the first casualty in the primal fear of falling, a vexing problem in an activity where split-second reaction and zero margin of error were compulsory.

  The twilight had turned the sky into myriad shades of red and purple. The shadows closing in accentuated the hard lines and angles of Yosemite Valley. Its creator had been too liberal with the chisel while the hammer weighed too much.

  “Jimmy, we need to go now. Or else we’ll land pitch dark,” said Becca.

  “A five-pound pouch of nylon supposed to stop you from dropping the height of three Eiffel Towers. This is why the word ‘vicarious’ was coined. My heart’s pounding into cardiac arrest,” said Randy. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, he thought. What a ride, man. As average high-school students allowing some leniency on grades, community college around Sacramento had been a worthy aspiration for James and Randy. And then a week after starting junior year, September 6 2008 arrived. And it happened right there in the Dome. Put simply, a climber named Alex Honnold had done Half Dome solo and unroped.

  The New York Times said it best: “Reasonable people consider projects like these idiotic to the point of outrage. That is perfectly defensible … if you count yourself among those inclined to negative judgment, and even if you don’t, I hope you’ll indulge a mental exercise for fun. Allow your mind to relax into the possibility that Honnold’s climb was not reckless at all, and that his years of dedication really did develop those gifts to the point that he could not only make every move without rest, he could do so with a tolerably minuscule chance of falling. Viewed in that light, Honnold’s free solo represents a miraculous opportunity for the rest of us to experience what you might call the human sublime—a performance so far beyond our current understanding of our physical and mental potential that it provokes a pleasurable sensation of mystified awe right alongside the inevitable nausea.”

  For the two of us, life back then was simple: mediocre but dedicated gym climbing, devoted consumption of science fiction, and thinking about Lizzy. I thought Honnold’s achievement was awesome, but for Jimmy it was something much bigger. Two months later, Alex Honnold, THE Alex Honnold, showed up in our gym. When it was our turn to salute him, Jimmy’s stammer went wild. That proved life-changing. The three of us talked and climbed for a good seven minutes (I timed it). Alex was from Sacramento. Unassuming, almost unremarkable. A legend at 22, barely six years our senior. Studied at a high school twelve blocks from ours. His GPA was 4.7. Got into engineering at UC Berkeley and soon dropped out. Jimmy also thought their similar height was an important element in the analysis. Things weren’t gradual after that. It was the epiphany that threw Jimmy above daily life; above his erratic, alcoholic dad; above any fence that life had put between him and his brand-new goals. Determination. Man, what de
termination! At graduation, the school principal mentioned Jimmy as the rising tide that lifts all boats. Jim Slackin’! I’m sure his dad thought Old Crow Kentucky bourbon was still batting .200 in his bloodstream. It certainly raised me. My mom’s still crying out of astonishment and relief for the letter from Princeton. Jimmy didn’t get to Stanford but made it into Harvard. During cocktails, our scolding English teacher Miss Miller said “You’re my proudest accomplishment,” both misty eyeballs fixated on him. Does faith move mountains? Not for Jimmy, but I would suggest the mountain move aside for its own safety.

  “Becca, I go first, you follow at least one second later,” said James. Pointing down, he continued, “Remember, you clear the ‘V’ by the left shoulder.” The sixty-degree sloping ridge they were about to speed through ended in a narrow rocky ‘V’ maybe 150 feet wide—the crux—after which the wall turned vertical for 3,000 feet before hitting the valley.

  A raven circled above, mildly interested in the action.

  James stepped to the end of Glacier Point Ledge until half his shoes were airborne. Becca was two arms away. Their eyes met briefly for final confirmation. He inhaled a long breath, closed his eyes, and as he exhaled his body dropped forward.

  They quickly shrank into dots as their bodies accelerated downward and forward.

  Wind noise buried everything as James achieved terminal velocity. He prepared to enter the ‘V’ from the right when …

  The icy rocks passed by an eerily familiar blue gaseous planet, rotating with constancy and calmness gained from billions of years circumnavigating the black seas of cosmic infinity. A Sun lay in front, still small and meek.

  Further inward the comets encountered a vast planet. Its vigilant eye, disguised as a centuries-old raging storm, had watched for eons for The Things Coming From Out There. It was Jupiter, the guardian of the inner Solar System, the formidable protector of that most miraculous and delicate of things, life. This time was no different. Almost. It caught and sucked to its interiors most of the astray, enormous explosions scarring its face. But one skipped the giant.