10,000 Miles Above the Surface of Jupiter

Jupiter

David peered through the airlock door, 10,000 miles above the surface of Jupiter. A shudder went down his spine, as it always did before a dive. The planet—with its horrible majesty—encompassed nearly his entire field of vision. David had heard before the journey that it was somewhere around 1,000 times the size of Earth, but there was a difference between learning and seeing.

The planet turned counter-clockwise, slowly revealing more of itself along the bright outer edge, while casting an equal amount of its surface into shadow. The clouds of hydrogen and helium—orange, white, and blue—swirled together like a living marble. But through the many clouds and storms, one feature stood out from the rest: the Great Red Spot.

It approached from the outer edge, a swirling mass of crimson large enough to swallow the earth whole. Its winds reached up to 500 miles an hour and created sound waves of such magnitude that they scorched the atmosphere around them, leading to temperatures greater than those of an active volcano. It was not a storm humans were ever meant to see, let alone survive.

David fitted his under-suit, first by tightening the fabric around his wrist, ankles, and neck, then by locking the exoskeletal braces into place. Every time he put it on, it felt like he was being suffocated, but David knew that would soon be the least of his concerns. An automated voice came over the coms and ordered him to get in position. David entered his passcode and completed the biometric scan, unlocking the outer-suit—what most in the industry referred to as the Iron Coffin.

The outer-suit’s real name was the Johnson High-pressure Mobility Unit, or JHMU for short. David had never seen the real name used outside of a manual. The suit was comprised of a metal alloy lined with hafnium carbonitride, with more flexible materials like carbon fiber used for the joints. They were manufactured at a standard size, but the padding on the custom-fitted, non-conductive under-suit allowed David to fit perfectly.

David stepped inside the metal frame and attached his under-suit to the ports. A moment later, the latches closed around him and clicked shut. He checked that all the latches were properly locked and fastened the tether-duct to the temperature control unit on his back.

A few minutes later, the intercom came on again and informed him that the orbiter would begin stabilization. David took a deep breath and braced his body. The counter-thrusters activated and brought the ship’s orbital path to a halt. As they did, stabilizers beneath the ship powered up in order to control its downward momentum. In the span of a few seconds, 800 pounds of material weighed down on his shoulders. David gritted his teeth as he fought off the planet’s powerful gravity. Back pain—familiar to him in his old age—began to flare up, but he continued to bear the weight.

Finally, David’s burden was lifted. The orbiter had stabilized and begun its descent, lowering the weight on his shoulders to a manageable 100 pounds. The orbiter continued to descend for the next few hours, leaving David alone with unwanted thoughts. He distracted himself at first by remembering conversations he’d had with the other divers—the sharp banter and cynical laughs that could only come from men who gambled with death. Then, he thought of the broadcasts he’d seen the other night and of the upcoming Zedball championship, which his team would not be a part of. Inevitably, though, his thoughts turned to the dive.

This was to be David’s 67th dive and the beginning of his third Earth-year on the job, which in his profession made him a veteran. Most either quit or died somewhere between their first and 50th dive. David thought of quitting—as he did almost every day—but knew that it wasn’t yet time. Just a few more, he thought. He knew that was a lie, but it was a lie that kept him going.

The intercom came on one last time, informing him that the orbiter was in position and that the dive would be commencing shortly. David clenched his fists, watching as the door unlocked and slid open with a horrible metallic hiss. He stepped forward and stared down at the Red Spot. It was still roughly 1,000 miles away, but it already seemed close enough to reach up and swallow him. A familiar knot appeared in his stomach as he closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. All it took was one step. One step forward, and gravity would do the rest. But that was no easy step to take.

Despite the Early Quitter’s Fine, many froze and turned tail just before their first dive. The storm had a way of wearing down one’s nerves. David felt that wear worsen with each day, but even now—facing the otherworldly horror of the storm—he pushed through it. David calmed his nerves, hardened his spirit, and took the step. 

#

Even with the added 800 pounds of weight, the fall would take some time. The orbiter—only now stopping its descent—passed behind David, leaving him with only the storm. The storm’s winds seemed slow from such a distance, and they did not seem to be drawing any closer, but David knew he would soon be in them, and that they would feel far more rapid then.

David felt the temperature begin to increase as a faint howl filled the space around him. He was entering the lower atmosphere. David opened the control panel on his wrist, activated noise suppression, and set the temperature control unit to 1% capacity—about the equivalent of an industrial air conditioner. Immediately, nuclear energy funneled down through the tether-duct and the suit became cold as ice. David winced at the sudden change.

The fall continued, and the storm grew closer. The red winds seemed faster now, and the eye was becoming clear. The Eye. It was the needle that had to be thread, the barrier that separated life and death. To Storm Divers like David, the eye was everything. He remained fixated on it as he readjusted his temperature control unit to 10% capacity.

The storm—now stretching far beyond the limits of his vision—began to rise around David. Even through the thick metal, he could feel winds lashing against him, resisting his fall. Despite this, he continued downward.

The storm engulfed him; David had reached the eye. Sweat poured down his face, and he set the temperature control unit to 90% capacity. As David fell deeper, light from the eye became faint, and the air grew slightly cooler, though nowhere near the planet’s usual -100 degree or lower temperatures. Still, he was forced to readjust to 80% capacity.

Sunlight was scarce now, and David was forced to activate the deep-dive light on the helmet of his suit. He closed his eyes before pressing the button, but even that wasn’t enough to stop him from flinching at the near 1,000,000 lumens of light. Slowly, David opened his eyes. The light gave an eerie glow to the storm wall around him, but even with all its power, it could not illuminate the ground. David knew he had a while still to go.

He sighed and let his body relax for a moment, only to see a quick flash of light appear in the distance. David snapped back to attention. Lightning, he thought. David knew the danger lightning posed, as it had taken out many divers before him. But he had survived lightning strikes before; the non-conductive under-suit kept them from seriously harming him. Still, those were small bolts—nowhere near the most powerful the planet could offer—and David could already tell the ones he faced now were larger.

A bolt came far to his left, followed by another—a little closer—to his right. David braced his body and felt his hairs stand on end. Many agonizing seconds passed, then light suddenly filled his vision. He felt the impact knock him slightly off course, but the tether slowly pulled him back into position. The lightning continued to rage on, as if taunting him with the threat of another strike.

David felt himself get angry at the lightning storm, having to hold himself back from shouting swears out at it. The storm—uncaring—continued on. David’s nerves relaxed, and he felt himself getting used to the flashes, but just when it seemed the dive would be successful, another bolt struck him. David felt the force—many times stronger than before—send him flying to his right. He reached out towards the center of the eye, but it was too late. The winds reached him, and he was pulled into the stormwall. 

#

Red filled David’s vision as he was thrashed around by the winds. They struck with wild and unpredictable strength—like a boxer trying to catch an opponent off guard—and the sheer speed of the storm had caused the suit to become searing hot. David attempted to readjust the temperature control unit, but he couldn’t maintain a steady hand in the harsh conditions.

Desperately, David grabbed his wrists and attempted to move his finger over the button, but a sudden gust knocked his hand back into his face and sent him spinning. The heat burned David’s skin. He could feel his breath becoming labored and his vision becoming blurry as up and down became indistinguishable.

Suddenly, David was calm. The storm was gone, and he was at home with his family on Mars. The crop yield there—for all his family’s effort—was quite poor, but that was okay. David woke every morning beside someone he loved, did work he enjoyed, and had the company of four rambunctious, but also brilliant kids. It was all he could have asked for.

But as the settlement grew larger, the cost of living grew ever higher. His family’s meager harvests were no longer enough to get by. Exhausted, hungry, and desperate, David signed on as a Diver. For the three years since then, the only warmth he felt was the heat of the storm.

But in many ways, David’s work was meaningful. He was one of only 100 Storm Divers, men who risked their lives to harvest the ever-important Gravinium: a substance only found within the great storms of Jupiter. It was the densest stable material known to humanity and was used to provide gravity for countless spacecrafts and space-dwelling structures. 

In many ways, though, David’s work was meaningless. Divers—by nature—were expendable, and the artificial gravity he was helping to provide was in no way a necessity. Despite the importance placed on it by society, it was more or less just a luxury for the rich.

Still, David had a reason to dive. Diving was his one chance to provide a better life for his family, to give his children an education, and to give those he loved a chance of escaping poverty, of being the people who got to enjoy those luxuries. And it was for that reason David knew he couldn’t let himself die—not yet.

David opened his eyes to the ever-turning red winds. He knew that despite his near hopeless situation, the ship operator would not sever David’s connection to the tether-duct; the Iron Coffin he wore was worth far too much. The operators were, however, more than happy to extract his lifeless corpse from the suit and jam someone else into it. If he wanted to survive, he could only rely on himself.

Mustering what little strength he had left, David moved his hand back to the control panel and set the temperature control unit to 100%. The pain across his skin lessened, but the nausea remained. David knew he didn’t have long before he blacked out again, and he doubted that he’d wake up a second time.

David debated using his suit’s thrusters, but knew he had no hope of aiming them amidst the storm; there was only one way out. He attempted to reach his left arm behind his back, but he couldn’t get his stiff shoulder to stretch around. Frustrated, David continued to reach, but the tether-duct was just out of grasp. He loosened his arm and tried again, but to no avail. Finally, David resorted to pushing his left arm back with his right hand, which caused a horrible tearing pain in his shoulder but finally allowed him to grasp the tether-duct. 

The moment David got his arm around it, he pulled the duct in front of him and began to climb it in an attempt to escape the storm. But with a torn shoulder, his progress was slow moving, and David didn’t know how far he needed to climb; he very well could have been blown miles from the eye.

Still, David climbed. He climbed and fought against the powerful forces that surrounded him. But with every passing second, his energy waned, and his eyes grew heavier. There came a moment where David accepted that he couldn’t make it—a moment where he was sure he would die. 

But strangely, David was calm. The certainty of death made all fear leave him. It was as if his body and mind were finally free of the worries and responsibilities that had worn them down for so long. David felt as if he had become one with the storm.

But the storm would not have him. As if an act of fate, another unpredictable gust struck him in the back, and he was launched back into the storm’s wide eye. David swung wildly through the air as he resumed his fall, but he soon stabilized to a straight descent.

The feeling in his chest was… heavy. Across his three years as a Storm Diver, David had never come so close to death before, and he had certainly never wished for it. Or at least, he had never let himself wish for it.

#

A loud beep came from the inside of David’s suit. It was the indicator that he had reached the surface—the point where the atmospheric pressure was equal to sea level on Earth. There was no difference in environment upon passing through the surface, however, as Jupiter had no solid ground. Instead, the gasses around David simply became denser as he descended. Eventually, they would become solid through great heat and pressure.

But the solid core was not what David was after. Gravinium was not made from gas, but from the coalition of other trace elements inside the violent winds of Jupiter’s storms. Those combined elements would eventually escape the storms’ winds and fall into the depths of the planet, where the pressure would forge them into Gravinium. The Red Dot created the largest deposits of Gravinium, being not only the biggest storm on the planet but also the biggest storm in the solar system as a whole. 

David thought of the storms, the Gravinium, and the mission at hand—trying to distract himself from the darker recesses of his mind.

Soon, David’s descent slowed, and the large chunk of Gravinium became visible in the distance. But before he could reach it, his momentum was brought to a slow halt by the now viscous gas. David again opened the control panel. He positioned the back thrusters towards the Gravinium, then slowly fed them power. He accelerated downward, but the ultra-dense Gravinium was descending at near the same rate. David was supposed to have reached it earlier—when it had just entered the viscous stage of the gas—but being knocked off course had slowed his journey.

David was not about to give up now, however. He gave more power to the thrusters and began catching up with the Gravinium. As he did, the suit grew hot. David was drawing too close to the core, the only place in Jupiter hotter than the storm and the only place capable of fully destroying his diving suit. Still, David pushed on.

Finally, David reached the solid surface of the Gravinium. He grabbed onto it with his good arm before planting his feet and activating the boot magnets. With that done, the next part of the mission was usually the easiest, but David’s late arrival made things different. If he couldn’t set up the mag-drills fast enough, the sinking chunk would drag him down to the planet’s core, melting him alive.

David—using all his strength—lifted his left foot from the surface of the Gravinium chunk and began walking to its edge. Once there, he unfastened the first mag-drill from the side of his temperature control unit. It appeared as only a small metal disc—about a half a foot in length—with a hole in the center, but David knew the power it held. He placed the mag-drill onto a flat part of the chunk and clicked the button on its side. Within a few seconds, the mag-drill had dug into the Gravinium and anchored itself to the chunk using near indestructible barbs.

Once they were set in place, the mother ship would lower extraction cords and magnetically attach them to the flat side of the mag-drills. Usually, only about three mag-drills were required for extraction, but given the size of the chunk, David figured it was best to use all six.

Quickly, David made his way along the edge and began anchoring the other five mag-drills. The heat grew strong, but David bared his teeth and kept moving. Finally—with a heavy arm and trembling legs—he anchored the last drill. The mission was complete.

David breathed a sigh but could feel no relief. The dark thoughts persisted in his mind.

#

Something in David told him not to give the signal, not yet. He stood up and—for once—decided to look up from his position near the core. The gas was murky and thick, but his deep-dive light broke through it and revealed the raging winds above. The winds stretched up, far beyond the limits of his sight. From that position, it seemed as if the storm was endless, as if the orbiter existed in some other, distant world. David liked that thought.

David, then, looked back down to the chunk. Curiosity overcame him, and he decided to pick up a loose piece of Gravinium—about a half an inch in size. He bent down and clasped his hand around it, but even with a strong pull and a firm grip, he couldn’t make it budge. It really was something of a miracle, which made it all the more appropriate that it could only be found in the depths of hell.

David laughed, feeling the heat start to get to him once again. It was a wise time to give the signal, but still, something in David told him not to do it. Some part of him did not want to return to the ship, to make another dive. Some part of him wanted to let himself sink to the bottom.

David tried once more to remember his family—his reason for diving—but a different memory came to the surface. It was the memory of his parents from when he was young, of their hope in the new settlement on Mars—which they had immigrated from Earth to join. He remembered his father reading him stories in bed, he remembered the smell of his mother’s cooking, he remembered his brothers tricking him into thinking the nighttime wind was a UFO coming to snatch him up.

He also remembered the fickle power supply, the dust storms, and the radiation leaks. He remembered how the crops would seem to die without reason, as if rejecting the very idea of life on another planet. And—most of all—he remembered the famine. 

He felt the hunger of going days without a decent meal. He smelled the flesh of their livestock as they slaughtered them for food, one by one. He saw his father walking off into the desert and heard his mother promise that he’d be back soon.

His father did return. He came back with all the money they needed to get by, but he was distant. Only two days later, he took his own life. The image of his father’s dead eyes on the day of his return was still burned into David’s mind. He now saw those same eyes every time he looked into a mirror.

David knew why that part of him didn’t want to return to the ship. The storm had changed him. From his first dive, from the moment he felt the terror of the storm—knew its unimaginable power—something in him changed. His heart became iron, strong and sturdy but devoid of life. Every time he dove, the storm wore down his iron heart, and a piece of it was left in the planet’s depths. Now, David feared he was leaving the last part of himself behind. He feared that after getting pulled back up, nothing would be left.

David let go of the Gravinium piece and stared out into the void of gas that surrounded him. With a horrible heaviness, he finally accepted what he’d known for a long time: he could not return. Even if he survived the necessary dives, returning to his family a shell of himself—letting his children see his dead eyes—it was the only thing that terrified him more than the storm.

But David also knew he could not let himself sink. Even if the world had killed his hope, he had a reason to keep going, a mission still uncompleted. He could not allow himself to be at peace. Just a few more, he thought. Just a few more.

David sent the signal from his control panel, and the tether-duct began to pull him up. It was slow at first, but the ascent became faster as the atmosphere lightened. Soon, he was back in the eye of the storm. Then, he was above it, staring down at the surface below.

David had just completed his 67th dive. The young Divers had told him before that he should be the first one to beat the 97 dive record, that he should be the first one to reach 100. David remembered their egging with a sardonic grin and took one last look at the storm, the storm which had spared him today, but he knew would someday claim him.


Liam Nicholl is a young emerging writer from Thunder Bay, Canada. He is currently pursuing an English degree at Lakehead University. During his spare time, he programs videogames and writes from a small, dingy storage room beneath his basement staircase.