by Zach Powers
The first black stroke of the next line was painted, but did not offer a hint as to what letter it would become.
The door to the common room creaked open, and Mars squeezed through the smallest possible gap that would allow him entry. His skin, already dark by Russian standards, seemed swaddled in ashy shadow. Under his eyes, squinting, the color faded to deep purple. Each of his steps was barely more than a stumble. He took in the glass- and-bottle-filled tables and threw up his arms.
“Here it is!” he said. “Dammit, Giorgi, can’t you ask before you take?”
“Can you not hide yourself away when I seek to ask you something?”
Mars dropped his arms. From the nearest table he selected the tallest glass and filled it almost to the rim with vodka.
He said, “At least you didn’t take the Scotch.”
“You have Scotch?” said Giorgi. “I couldn’t find it.”
“And you never will.”
“Have you been sleeping?” asked Giorgi.
“No. Does it show?”
“You’re either fatigued or dead but walking.”
“I’m not sure I could tell the difference at this point.”
Mars took a tiny sip of vodka, like a bird dipping its beak into a puddle.
“What’s the party for this time?” he asked.
“Nadya and Leonid will return anytime now.”
“Has it already been four weeks?”
“It has!”
“But that’s impossible. I talked to Leonid just . . .” Mars stopped mid-sentence and brought the vodka to his lips. Instead of his usual sip, he sucked up a whole mouthful. He swallowed and said, “I have to go.”
“The celebration starts in an hour. Make sure you get here on time or everyone else will finish your vodka before you get a chance to refill.”
Mars replied with a quiet da, but he did not seem to hear what Giorgi had said. He left the common area, taking a sip of vodka for each step.
* * *
• • •
THE CHIEF DESIGNER thumbed through a new report on the ablative heat shield, probably the fiftieth such report he had read, all of them saying one of two things: either the shield burned away too quickly or it burned away too slow. Whichever the defect, the result was the same. Vostok could not reenter the atmosphere. Any capsule that made the attempt would flare, then fizzle to a spark, leaving no trace of the cosmonaut trapped inside. Leaving no trace of Nadya . . .
A frantic series of knocks startled the Chief Designer out of a daze. He realized his eyes had been closed. The knocks came again, faster and louder.
“Enter,” said the Chief Designer.
The door kicked open, and Mars practically fell through. He looked ill, skin sagging, dark marks like bruises beneath bloodshot eyes. He held a tall glass half-full with what was either water or vodka.
“It’s been four weeks already,” he said. “Four weeks! Is that really true?”
“Since the launch? Yes, Mars, it’s been four weeks.” The Chief Designer pointed at the glass in Mars’s hand. “Have you been drinking the whole time?”
Mars did not seem to notice the jab. “No, I was in the radio room. I’ve been talking to Leonid.”
“Shut the door,” snapped the Chief Designer.
Mars turned and found the door still open wide behind him. He fumbled for the knob and then pushed it shut.
The Chief Designer said, “Show some discretion, man. I’m happy to put up with your drinking. I know that I’ve put you in a terrible position, but if anyone outside the inner circle ever found out, there—”
“You’re not hearing me,” said Mars. “I’ve been talking to Leonid this whole time. I always lose track of the days in the radio room. There are no windows, no clocks. I thought less than a week had gone by, but it’s already been four, and Leonid’s still there. I spoke to him not an hour ago, before he passed out of range of the transmitter.”
“Come, Mars, that’s impossible. There’s only air enough for five or six days.”
“I know, I know. I know all this, but either Leonid is still alive or his ghost can operate Zarya.”
The Chief Designer tried to process what Mars was telling him. It had to be a mistake, or some sort of cruel joke. Mars had been drinking, as was often the case. Maybe he was trying to be funny, to trick the old man. Maybe he was too drunk to realize just how terrible a joke it would be.
“This is no time for jokes,” said the Chief Designer.
“When have I ever joked?”
The Chief Designer knew it was true. If Mars had a flaw, it was over-seriousness. The only time his personality ever warmed was in the radio room. He had been affected much more than the others by the death of his twin, even though the two Marses had been chosen at a younger age and separated for their unique training regimens earlier than the rest. They met maybe twice a year, in secret late at night, so that this Mars would know all that the other one did. They did not speak before the launch. They were supposed to be the same person, after all. What use would it be to speak to oneself?
At first, the Chief Designer considered the deception a necessary caution, the next logical step in Tsiolkovski’s original plan. But no, he could not blame Tsiolkovski. The Chief Designer alone bore the blame. Looking at Mars now, the Chief Designer knew he had mistaken cruelty for caution. He recalled a time when Mars would flash moments of great humor, but that was years ago, a memory of a different version of this person. No, this Mars never joked.
“I’m sorry,” said the Chief Designer, “but you must understand this is hard to believe.”
“Come talk to him yourself.”
“When will he be in range?”
“A half hour, maybe.”
“Nadya and Leonid will be back by then, and Giorgi’s party will have started. Come find me.”
“Yes, Chief Designer.” Mars turned to leave.
“And, Mars . . .”
“Yes, Chief Designer?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
The Chief Designer only lowered his head in response. Mars walked out. Could he possibly be right? Could he have been talking to Leonid this whole time? And if so, what did Leonid’s survival mean?
On his desk, the Chief Designer found the heat shield report still open, chart after chart printed on page after page. A decade and they still seemed no closer to a solution. It was so easy to make something burn, so much harder to make it burn how one wanted.
* * *
• • •
THE MOMENT NADYA and Leonid walked in the front door of the dormitory, Giorgi was there handing them glasses filled with vodka. Leonid looked back to Ignatius, who had entered behind him, and she nodded that it was okay to drink. Engineers and technicians lined the halls, clapping and backslapping as the cosmonauts passed by, following Giorgi to the common area. The sounds of the party erupted from the propped-open doors, the bright din of a dozen overlapping conversations, laughter, a bellowed song, clattering glasses. The facility was usually so quiet, it felt to Leonid now as if he were someplace he had never been before.
A great cheer rose up when he and Nadya entered the room. Leonid did not recognize many of the people, those who had trained his brother and who all thought that he and his brother were the same person. His first week back would be spent learning new names and shared histories. Learning how to pretend to be someone else. He made his way through the room one awkward hug at a time. It was fortunately too noisy to have to talk to anyone. His hand broke into an unconscious wave.
The Chief Designer waited at the back of the room. Mishin and Bushuyev were nearby, but otherwise he was given wide berth, a semicircle around him the only free space at the party. He smiled when he saw Nadya, and hugged her. She did not hug him back, but Leonid saw her lean against the Chief Designer, letting him support s
ome of her weight. Then the Chief Designer was in front of Leonid, gripping him by the shoulders. He looked into Leonid’s eyes, held the gaze for too long to be comfortable, and then nodded once. The hug that followed was firm but brief. Mishin and Bushuyev came over and shook Leonid’s hand.
The Chief Designer took a glass from Mishin or Bushuyev—they stood so close Leonid could not tell whose hand had been holding the glass—and raised it.
“A toast,” said the Chief Designer.
His deep baritone overpowered the din of the party. The gathered engineers, technicians, even custodians and the people who served the meals in the cafeteria, stopped talking and turned to find him. All raised their glasses toward his.
“To all our cosmonauts, past, present, and those yet to come. They are our people’s greatest heroes. Let us drink to their success, and to ours as well. To our cosmonauts!”
The room replied, “To our cosmonauts!”
And just like that the first round of drinks disappeared.
“I hope I’m not too late.” A voice, almost as booming as that of the Chief Designer, came from the hall. Two men in dark suits, fine suits, much nicer than anything worn by any of the engineers, stood on either side of the doorway. The men exuded an air of intimidation, standing out at Star City like tourists. Between them was a smaller man, older, completely bald on top of his head and what hair there was around the edges pure white. It was Premier Khrushchev.
Several of the engineers who were also in the military snapped to attention. Ignatius snaked through the room and emerged on the other side of the crowd with a glass for Khrushchev. He took it, raised it, responded to the Chief Designer’s toast, threw the glass to his face, and gulped down the contents. He handed the empty glass back to Ignatius.
“Where’s our newest hero?”
Leonid raised his empty glass above the sea of heads. “I’m here, Mr. Khrushchev.”
“Come forward, son. Our public appearance didn’t allow me enough time to truly thank you.”
Leonid pushed his way from the back of the room to the front, a slow, elbowed procession during which the silence grew more awkward. Someone coughed, and then someone else, and then it was as if a minor plague swept through the room, afflicting every fifth or sixth person with the irrepressible need to clear their throat. Leonid emerged into the space that had formed around the door. Khrushchev gripped him by the shoulders, like the Chief Designer had before, and looked into his eyes, but unlike the Chief Designer, Khrushchev had none of the sadness in his expression, just pride. Fatherly, ignorant pride.
“You’ve risked yourself,” said Khrushchev, “for the sake of our whole people. There will be statues”—he pointed to Giorgi’s mural across the room—“and paintings. Your likeness will appear all across the world. But the greatest mark you’ve made is in the hearts of our people.”
Ignatius, who Leonid had not seen move from her place beside Khrushchev, produced a full glass of vodka and handed it to the Premier.
“Refill your glasses,” said Khrushchev, “and drink to our newest Soviet hero and all those who’ve come before.”
Khrushchev, with his free hand, took Leonid by the wrist and raised his arm. The engineers, who had silenced even their breaths while Khrushchev spoke, now cheered, clapping or banging the bottoms of their empty glasses on tables. Vodka bottles channeled among a stream of hands, and the soft sound of pouring was soon joined by renewed chatter, the conversations that had been interrupted by Khrushchev’s arrival resumed.
Leonid had a fresh glass of vodka in his hand. He was not sure how it got there or where it came from. Khrushchev touched his glass to Leonid’s.
“Before I leave,” said Khrushchev, leaning in close, “you must tell me all about it.”
His expression had gone from fatherly to childlike. He walked into the crowd and started shaking hands.
* * *
• • •
KHRUSHCHEV’S UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL ended the party early, at least for the Chief Designer. Instead of sharing drinks with his staff, he stopped after his first and shadowed Khrushchev around the room. Khrushchev engaged each cluster of people he came across, asking everyone what they did for the program. The Chief Designer could not hear all that was said, especially as the noise of the party grew, which it seemed to with every drop of vodka consumed. Whatever Khrushchev was saying, it always seemed to be accompanied by him pointing up at the ceiling, or through it, as if he needed to remind those he was talking to as to the location of space. Space, though, was in every direction, so no matter where one pointed, even straight down, straight through the hellish heat of Earth’s core, there on the other side was near-maybe-infinite space. The hardest part of reaching the cosmos was conquering the animal instinct that still insisted, in spite of rational knowledge, that the Earth was flat.
After half an hour, the Chief Designer retreated to the quiet of the hallway and waited. Giorgi came out shortly after, handed him a glass of vodka, and then returned to the party. Giorgi always seemed to be more aware than everyone else, able to notice a single person leave a crowded room, able to sense that person’s desire for a drink. Still so young, but the Chief Designer already thought of him as a great man, the cosmonaut who would lead them into the future, the first human to walk on Mars . . .
But no, that was just a distant dream. In his mind, the Chief Designer emphasized the word dream more than he did distant.
The sound of Giorgi’s guitar came from the common area, strumming out a quick beat, and then Giorgi sang, a high, strong tenor. The Chief Designer could not make out the words, but based on the laughter that ensued, he assumed the song was the usual chastushke. Giorgi seemed to know an endless list of short, humorous, often risqué songs. His performances had become a staple of Sunday nights at Star City.
Soon the staff was clapping and singing along, raising a ruckus that was terrible and wonderful at the same time. For a man like the Chief Designer, who had been harnessing explosions most of his life, such controlled chaos was a comfort. He thought about going back in, ignoring Khrushchev and simply enjoying the sight of his staff’s celebration. He did not think he could be an actual part of it. For him, there had been nothing yet to celebrate, only half victories presented as complete to the public, to everyone except those who survived and a few besides. The Chief Designer noticed that his glass was empty. He had finished the vodka.
A single bark came from behind him in the hallway. Nadya walked with Kasha toward the Chief Designer. Kasha’s tail, arced up and forward so that the tip pointed at her back, jostled back and forth. Each of her steps was half bounce. Her tongue dangled out of the side of her mouth, like she was making faces, and her lips, such as a dog has them, curled up in a grin at the base of her long snout. She jumped up and placed her legs on the Chief Designer’s thigh. He leaned down, fighting against the creak in his left knee, and scratched Kasha behind the ears and under the chin.
“And who is this?” Khrushchev spoke from the doorway to the common area. “I didn’t know you kept a pet, Nadya.”
“Not a pet,” said the Chief Designer. “This is one of our dogs. We’ve trained them for spaceflight.”
“A dog in space?” asked Khrushchev. His round face scrunched all across with wrinkles. “What for?”
The Chief Designer stood. “I’m glad you ask!”
He felt his voice change, taking on an artificial cheeriness. It was a tone he had learned from the ware sellers in the less prominent streets of Moscow. The very streets where they had hunted the stray dogs for the program, all of the dogs except Kasha.
“We’ll use the dogs,” said the Chief Designer, “to test our new multi-person spacecraft, Voskhod.”
“A new spacecraft?”
“Yes, Mr. Khrushchev. It will be the next phase of the program, leading directly to the ultimate goal of interplanetary exploration.”
“I’ve he
ard you talk of other planets before, but I didn’t realize we were so close.”
“There are still obstacles, Mr. Khrushchev, but dogs such as Kasha here will help us overcome them.”
“Little Kasha will be a Soviet hero!”
“Not Kasha herself. We have other dogs trained for the mission.”
“Nonsense. Look at her. She’ll be the perfect symbol of our progress. Pure white like fresh snow, sweet and innocent.”
“I must—”
“When will this mission be launching?”
“We need about six months to prepare the craft.”
Nadya had crouched and drawn Kasha back, holding her close. Khrushchev regarded them, his mouth pursed and eyes narrowed.
“Can you launch in five months and a half? How perfect would it be to launch on the anniversary of the Revolution? Let’s launch on November 7.”
“Of course, as long as you’re fine with me requisitioning additional resources, it should be possible to—”
“Wait, Chief Designer. I have an idea. Use my dog as the second cosmonaut. He’s a similar size. How thrilling would it be to have him in space. I mean thrilling for the Soviet people to see Byelka in space.”
The Chief Designer could not follow all that was being said. “Pardon me, but a squirrel?”
“Byelka is my dog’s name, Chief Designer!” Khrushchev smiled like a proud parent. “Byelshenka.”
“Our dogs have been trained for years, most more than even Kasha. And not all dogs are able to handle the stresses of spaceflight.”
“Nonsense. Just give the little fellow a sedative if you have to. I’ll let you take him for two weeks before the launch. I suspect he can be prepared in that time.”
“Of course, Mr. Khrushchev.” The sound of the salesman had completely drained from the Chief Designer’s voice.
“Byelka and Kasha, the four-legged heroes of the Soviet Union.” Khrushchev gestured to an invisible headline in front of him. “Yes, Chief Designer, I like this very much. Take whatever you need to succeed from the General Designer. He’ll be notified to cooperate in full.”
