“Let us not be paralyzed by the vastness of our imaginations, nor blinded by the repetition in all of this beauty.” - A man, sat before a white page, waiting for a story to appear

Sheets of ice filled our view to the horizon in every direction. We threw on the thrusters and deployed the parachute to soften our descent.

“The hardest part is getting there,” they had said. But looking down from here, it didn’t feel so true.

You could have thought this was home, if you didn’t know any better. The icy plains of Antarctica without the mountains or animals, or the Arctic millions of years ago when it stretched in white across the northern hemisphere.

“How are we looking?” I called up to the crew.

— This wasn’t just white though. Veins of darker blue fragmented the surface. And everywhere, speckles — our best guess: meteorites, lodged into the surface during the planet’s long and lonely journey through space.

“A lot of crevasses out there. Massive ones too. But it looks like we got stable ice at 3 o’clock. About two hundred meters out.”

I steered us towards the little patch of undisturbed ice, my face firmly against the window. I wasn’t going to miss a second of it.

We had traveled billions of kilometers to get here, with our fair share of mishaps and emergencies — each followed by an “all crew” meeting where Cap floated around the room, sipping his Persian tea, taking time to think. Relationships were formed and tried and broken, then formed again with the strength that comes from seeing someone’s intentions as separate from their actions.

Whether from the ice itself or what I saw in it, I felt a terrifying kind of excitement — a feeling so big I couldn’t explain it. How could such a plain landscape be so awe inspiring?

“Welcome home, crew.” Said Cap like the voice on those old 3D IMAX documentaries.

Is that all it was? Some nostalgia of home? A human soft spot for anything that reminded us of the place we were from? Would I feel the same way if this were just another planet? One we just happened to pass by without ever calling home?

A gentle landing, and secure enough. The ice felt nice and firm. The thrusters whined to a halt and sighed.

I jumped out of the airlock — already in my suit — and started the inspection. We needed to be quick about it. I double checked the heat shields, scrutinized the ship’s hull for any damage from our entry, and folded out the anchors. Oh and disconnected the parachute of course — we wouldn’t be needing it anymore, and it would just get in the way.

“All good Cap!”

How strange, I thought, noticing ripples in the ice beneath my feet. I followed the rings around the foot of the ship, feeling like an idiot when I realized. The thrusters. Of course. Fuel burning at a thousand degrees melted the ice, pushing the water — that didn’t immediately evaporate — out in every direction. Which clearly re-froze the instant the burners were off, thanks to the planet’s aggressive lack of atmosphere.

Focus. Damnit.

I stepped back up to the airlock and swung open the door, hanging there for a moment. I couldn’t help but take one last look. Best case it would be twenty-one years until we saw the surface again. Worst case this would be my first and last time. It felt like a shame not to just take it in for a while; this whole other planet that just happened to be in the right place at the right time, with its own history that wouldn’t ever be known to a human mind. Our paths, crossing for just a moment before it drifts off to a place we have no use following it to.

“Entering airlock.” I informed the crew. “We’re a go.”

Even with the amount that sublimates and gets ripped off the planet’s surface, the ice is still probably a kilometer thick, if we’re lucky. And what we need is underneath it — far beneath it. If we’re going to survive our stay here, we’re going to need energy, plain and simple. And we don’t have the luxury of orbiting a star that’s just giving it away for free. Thankfully planets are hot too, and stay that way for billions of years. And there’s a pretty good chance this one is still radiating enough. Enough heat to keep the surface ocean liquid somewhere down there. Enough energy to keep us alive — like I said, if we’re lucky. When it comes to space travel, you can plan and research all you want, but you’re never going to spoil all of the surprises.

How are we going to get through a kilometer of ice you ask? Well on earth, it’s actually something we’re pretty damn good at. But out here it’s a bit of a different story. It’s not like we could haul a whole thousands-of-tons drilling rig up with us. We’ve got some serious time and weight constraints to worry about. Thankfully they had people much smarter than me to solve those problems.

The solution? “Burn your way through.”

Yeah, the first time I heard it I thought they were kidding too. It’s why we have spare fuel, and self securing anchors, to keep us from shooting ourselves back into space. The plan is to hold a slow and gentle burn of the main engine. Just enough to melt and boil, not too much that it rips the anchors out or melt the ice walls they’re gripping to. Our onboard systems will do the rest: condensing the steam into drinking water (giving us the added benefit of weight to aid our descent), capturing the stray hydrogen and oxygen as fuel (and for breathing), and monitoring the thickness of the ice beneath us, stopping before we melt ourselves through to an alien ocean that’s been cut off from the universe for who knows how long.

From there, we do things the old fashioned way: drill through the rest with our carbide bit, drop down our energy harvesting probe — hopefully far enough to reach the ocean floor — then wait it out, just trying to stay alive. If we can get the probe dropped in time (and some rogue planet alien doesn’t chomp our line), we should get trickles of thermal power in a matter of minutes. And the ice will refreeze around the line, both protecting it and giving us a thicker floor again (thank you oh cold, cold space).

Once safely inside I started up the thrusters, idling them while we went through the readings one more time: stress sensors in the body of the ship and in the anchors; temperature readings inside the cabin and out; humidity and other measurements from the water recovery system and its some eight-thousand liter tank.

Everything looked good, so I took it out of idle.

The ship shook more violently than I expected. Behind the sounds of the rocket and the vibrating hull I heard the faint cracking of ice. Then the ship dropped what felt like meters, but it must just have been a fraction of that. Like I heard some pilot say once, “all the turbulence you’ve probably ever experienced in a plane is no more than a foot of movement, at most.” We dropped again. The anchors screeched like nails on a brittle chalkboard as they worked to re-secure themselves to the ice.

This is going to be a long ride.

I watched our fuel consumption while Cap watched our descent. There was no way to know the total thickness of the ice, or any variation in density it may have, but we could guess: between the temperature change in our surroundings (accounting for the shit load of flames being ejected from our ship) and other systems on board like sonar, and the mics that were trained on the resonance of different thicknesses of ice.

It was going to be close. We were burning fuel faster than anticipated, and the ice was looking to be more like one and a half kilometers, or closer to two. Maybe more refreezing was happening than we expected, or maybe the water wasn’t as pure as we’d hoped (which apparently raises the boiling point, though I don’t know by how much). Or maybe I was just being paranoid. It wouldn’t be the first time. But it’s not like the stakes were low.

We’re drilling into an unvisited rogue planet, breaking through the ice to a previously undisturbed ocean, and we’re doing all this crazy shit a half a light year from home. Rescue missions weren’t an option, even if we could get a signal out of the ice-well we’re digging ourselves into.

I started pulsing the thrusters in hopes that the residual heat between burns would continue to melt and boil the ice to give us a bit more head room. A one or two percent efficiency boost was all I was hoping for, to make sure we had plenty of fuel, in the best case, or just barely made it there in the worst.

Every time some problem arises it takes me back to my first years of teaching. When students were rowdy or started to fight, I’d look around for the adult in the room to step in and talk to them. Moments passed, and dissociation crept in. Certainty that my being there was an oversight, some grave mistake. The realization never came gently.

It worked. We were using significantly less fuel, and dropping almost as fast. I’d say it gave us a five percent efficiency boost at least. Which was good, because all that pulsing made our descent a living hell. The anchors shook and creaked as the ship jolted up with each quick burn of the engine, and shrieked as they slid back down in between. I stopped after fifteen minutes, returning to the constant minimum burn.

I was looking out the window at the passing wall of ice, freshly melted and refrozen into a glossy sheen, mesmerized. I started to notice patches of ice that were ever so slightly darker than the surrounding, or had faint black marks across the surface. And I know the ship is airtight but I swear I could smell something too.

Okay, before I continue, I have to say: when I mentioned some hypothetical alien creature “chomping our line” before, I was totally kidding. Call it an overactive imagination from a childhood of sci-fi books, or a self-deprecating joke to mask the fears I know to be irrational (or at least unhelpful). As far as I know the only life we’ve discovered outside of earth has been the equivalent of bacteria or fungus. Incredible, don’t get me wrong, but a long way from the kind of “line chomping” monster my mind was so kindly conjuring.

Now, with that out of the way, at first I honestly didn’t think anything of the discolored patches. Firstly, because the only light down there was from the massive flames shooting out the bottom of the ship, which was creating all types of weird shadows and highlights in the ice. And secondly, they were so faint I could barely see them. I could have been imagining it and I would have no way of knowing for sure.

But then I realized those black marks and what I thought were shadows actually looked to be charred. Of course my brain went straight to “organic material burning.” Because what the hell else would it be? To be clear: I don’t know, I’m not a scientist. Not by training anyway.

Then I started noticing bigger… objects? Pale blobs the size of grapes, and about as smooth too. Some with protrusions, almost completely clear but looking to contain internal surfaces that scattered the light in ways the surrounding ice didn’t.

“Are you seeing this?” I called out, but got no response.

I shut off the engine for a second and called out again.

“Seeing what?”

“These… things in the ice?”

A pause.

“No? Looks like normal ice to me.”

I think it was Gil speaking, an Argentinian mountaineer who studied glaciers and shit in his free time. So yeah, the idea of questioning him felt silly.

I started the thrusters again and took a break from looking out the window. And of course, not even a minute later something caught the corner of my eye. I shut the engine off again, but the ship screeched lower just as I did, putting it just out of view.

“Everything okay down there?”

My face was pressing against the window like an idiot, trying to look up as far as I could. It was at a weird angle, and the windows’ thick curved glass wasn’t helping my view. But it was there. What I can only describe as a limb, reaching for one of the larger grape-like objects.

“Matthews?”

Do I tell them?

“All good!” I yelled, and resumed the burn.

Obviously I had no clue how any of these things got there. Only that it felt like we were descending through this planet’s ecological history that had been frozen in time like fossil layers, only reversed — the life getting larger and more complex as we descended. But really it could have been this way for any number of reasons. It could be that all the “layers” froze at once, and just like earth’s oceans the smaller organisms primarily populated the upper layers. Maybe when this planet was ejected (or escaped?) from its star? Otherwise I don’t see any reason microorganisms would be near the surface when all the energy is at the bottom.

Like I said, it could have been anything, and I’m the last person who I should trust to figure it out. Which is why I knew it was irrational to assume the larger mass was a limb from some dominating sea creature comfortably at the top of the food chain. I knew the image my brain was force feeding me of some eyeless Giant Squid-like monster with too many limbs and a scary accurate awareness of its surroundings was just that: an image. It could have been something that was totally inanimate and always had been, somehow. But just because you’re being paranoid doesn’t mean you’re wrong.

I told myself I was safe, but my mind was still bracing for some vague inexplicable thing to happen. I wanted nothing but to keep staring out the window, but could only get myself to do so for a few moments at a time before I started wincing involuntarily; at some weird vibration of the rocket or slight variation in the flickering light of the engine.

Our descent into the ice somehow felt longer than our trip to get here, but eventually we made it right where we needed to be: between five to ten meters from where ice turns to water. Plenty thick enough to support our weight — at least until the water froze thicker beneath us, thanks to the giant tube we just made letting in the endless cold of space.

“Ready to drill?” Cap said.

Speaking of cold, I knew we needed to start drilling and drop that probe before it froze too thick for us to get through. But the idea honestly sent my mind spinning.

If what I saw was really a limb of a larger creature, if there was really a chance our line would get damaged or interrupted by something that lived down there, I should tell them. But if it wasn’t, and I was just being paranoid, there was no reason to share that. And anyway, it’s not like we had the fuel or anything else we’d need to live otherwise, or make it off this planet, let alone travel to and re-enter earth’s atmosphere. In short, we didn’t have another option.

Probably the biggest risk to us now — if we ignored hypothetical sea monsters and quick thickening ice — was water pressure. Ice takes up more room than water, so as the ocean continued to freeze the new ice would get squeezed between the surface ice and the water beneath. By the look of it, the surface had plenty of places where excess water pressure could be released, or already had been. But if a new crevasse was going to form in the sheet of ice we’re nestled inside of, chances are it was going to run straight through the massive weak point we had just created. Fun.

Anyway, we had planned for this (well, someone did), and the readings looked good. We might get some bubbling from the hole we would drill, but we probably weren’t going to be dealing with any spontaneous geysers or splintering ice sheets. So that’s cool.

The drill deployed successfully, and I jumped out for a second to check where it was going to touch down. It looked good, so we started.

The drill made it through the ice just fine. We didn’t feel any ice-quakes or concerning signs, and our instruments agreed. But my mind couldn’t stop imagining some creature down there ready to knock at the ice telling us to cut it out, or staring intensely at the source of the sound, just waiting to attack anything that broke through. But to the surprise of nobody, I didn’t hear or feel anything.

We fed the probe through the tube in the center of the drill, and slowly released it. I was supposed to be watching the line to make sure it didn’t run into any snags, but I couldn’t help but monitor the temperature readings from it too.

Two meters down, 0.3 degrees Celsius; five meters down, 0.4 C. The line was undisturbed. Looking good so far.

Seventeen meters down and the temperature spikes to 13 C. Shit.

I slam the button to halt the probe’s drop, and wait to see if there’s a tug. I get this uncontrollable urge to yank it back up, but I know if I do it’s more likely to be attacked, or shredded completely — in the case that it’s currently in some creature’s mouth. That image returns: Giant Squid body, razor sharp teeth. It has x-ray vision now too, so it can watch me squirming, of course.

13.4 C, 13.9 C, 12.1C, 11.8 C. My mind is racing trying to figure out what the hell is happening. What could possibly explain this temperature change?

“Matthews, what’s going on? Why is the probe not dropping?”

“Yeah uhm. We might have a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

I tell them about the smooth grapes with protrusions, about the patches of ice that charred against the rocket’s flame, about the “limb” that I could no longer imagine as anything else. “You mean air bubbles?” They ask. But that didn’t explain the protrusions. “Soot?” Maybe, but why the irregularity? And why in specks and streaks, and only on ice that was discolored? “Could be anything,” they said. But I knew that already. “Flammable gas captured in the ice.” But from what source? “Trace minerals?” But why so far from the ocean floor?

“Why are you bringing this up now?” Cap said, breaking his silence.

I was so flustered I must have forgotten to tell them the most important part. “The temperature readings. They spiked.”

Cap swung out the monitor and we all looked: 3.2 C.

“It was higher just a second ago. Around 12 C. I promise.”

They looked, understandably, skeptical.

“Three is still too high though. Right?”

It could be convection currents in the water bringing heat from thermal vents below. Or so many other things we would never know for sure. Cap made the call to start again. “And we’ll monitor it closely.”

I dropped back down to the control room and started the release again, but the probe wouldn’t drop lower and the line started bundling up on the ground. I reeled it back up just a touch until the line was taught again. It was stuck, then with some faint crackling broke free. But when I released more of the line again it wouldn’t sink further. And there’s absolutely no way we hit the bottom already.

Thanks to my extended freak out over the temperature spike, ice was building around the line and was locking it in place. This came with another realization: that I may have already damaged the probe with my reeling it up again. I tried not to scold myself for acting so impulsively, or let hopelessness consume me. Focus. I told myself. Less of what happened. More of what I can do.

“The water is freezing quick!” I called out.

We had to figure out a way to shed the ice buildup. We couldn’t pull up the line, because the instruments at the end of it wouldn’t fit through the small tube that the line was currently occupying. The probe was durable, but I couldn’t imagine we’d want to risk snapping it off and lose our only source of energy to a planet-sized ocean — if I hadn’t done so already.

“A quick idle burn of the engine?”

“That’s more than a thousand degrees, straight onto instruments made to operate below freezing. Not a chance.”

“Cap, it only idles at around 500 C. And the temperature will drop off quickly in this environment.”

“What about digging around it?”

“We have no idea how far the ice goes.”

“And with what?”

Fuck.

Cap stepped away to refill his tea and paced around the room, and this time it gave me an idea.

“Hey Cap. How much water can we boil with that thing again?”

“Not much. A liter. Maybe two.”

“That might be enough.”

“For what?”

My idea: boil as much water as we can and pour it down the side of the line. While we did that, alternate between pulling the line up and releasing it again; to work the boiling water down between the line and the tube, and create friction to help prevent the water from refreezing. I knew how dumb it sounded, but if it worked, it worked. Like burning our way through a kilometer of ice: sometimes great solutions are hard to distinguish from the musings of a child.

“That’ll put a lot of strain on the motor.”

“Fine.” I said. “I’ll tug at it myself while I’m out there pouring.”

“You’re not doing that alone.” Said Cap. “Take someone with you.”

“We need someone in here too, monitoring the probe’s temperature.”

“I’ll do it.” Cap said firmly.

“… And a way to warn if the probe gets too hot.” I added.

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Just in case.”

“I’ll knock the hull once you’re out of the airlock. Knock back if you can hear it.”

“Got it.” I said. “And someone to boil more water and have it ready at the airlock.”

“Gil?”

“Will do Cap.”

I poured and Ingles moved the line. The ice froze quickly, and the line was heavy. We wasted a few liters figuring that out. New plan: when I’m done pouring I’d take over tugging at the line while Ingles grabbed the next liter, so neither of us tired too quickly.

With every liter the line ran a bit smoother. Ingles brought back a temperature reading each trip — we were well under the rated limit of the probe (which was still working by the way, for now at least). When we couldn’t feel any resistance or hear much crunching or crackling, Ingles went for one more, just to be sure, and told Cap to give us more slack in the line. If we knocked twice on the hull it meant to start releasing.

We poured the boiling water and didn’t hear any cracking — which we took as a sign that there was a good layer of water between the line and the ice. And the line moved smooth as ever, and even jostled in its little ice tube. I knocked on the hull and the motor started whirring. It was fucking working!

Ingles and I stayed out there to make sure it kept going smoothly. A long, cold hour later the probe reached the bottom, with just eighty meters of line to spare. And Cap confirmed we were getting about the temperature we expected. Maybe a little low, but it would do. Just means Cap might not be drinking tea as often. Or we might have to sleep a little bit cold, or up against the algae tanks that we had no choice but to keep warm (unless we wanted to go without food too, just for the hell of it).

The moment we got confirmation Ingles ran his shivering ass back inside the ship, while I secured the more permanent latches on the anchors in the ice. Once I finished I took a lap around the ship — I’m not sure why. And started wondering with more curiosity about what the hell kind of life might be floating or swimming below us. Maybe I was looking for something to keep my mind busy. Maybe I didn’t want our trip to be over just yet.

The ice walls — lumpy, like earthen walls of mud and hay polished smooth — shimmered under the ships floodlights. I looked deep into the gentle blue ice, looking for some sign that I wasn’t the only one experiencing its beauty.

I followed the marks left by the anchors up the icy walls. They wobbled with the tube as it faded from pale to midnight blue, before it was finally swallowed by the dark.

It’s going to be a long twenty-one years of doing nothing but surviving. And for me at least, being consumed by anticipation.

Before this huge ball of ice I’d never been to a planet other than earth. I was only a boy when they finished terraforming the place we’re going. Alterra, they’re calling it. And we’re the first group of humans being sent — after the initial settlers. Just a bunch of glorified “ordinary citizens.” Some not-so-scientific folk to make it less of a research outpost, and more of a community with eventual traditions and culture.

As cool as it is to have just bored into a planet, to huddle up for decades while it flies through open space, I’m really looking forward to the day we leave this place. I can’t begin to understand how they’ll coordinate this without us being able to communicate, or even know how close we are. But apparently they’ll be there when we’re flying by, to suck us up through our ice straw or whatever you want to call it. (Obviously I’m kidding. I just forgot exactly how they’ll pick us up. Or how we’ll get there so quickly — relatively. I’m sure Cap knows, so I don’t have to read through the whole fucking mission details textbook again.)

It’s supposed to be beautiful there — in a way that’s different from the beauty of vast sheets of ice. I’m imagining mountains covered in green, pristine lakes, and soil that you can’t help but press your toes into. Maybe I’m delusional — I’m probably delusional — but the image is palpable, and brings me joy for now.

Until then, it’s just eat, sleep, exercise, and maybe take all my anticipation with a healthy dose of daydreaming.