“Shall I cook you something?”
“No, Valentina, the driver gave me a meat pirozhka.”
“Tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?”
“Tea, please.”
She pushed him down onto a chair and prepared the tea. “So, tell us.”
“But it’s all strictly classified.”
“Of course, Sasha, your secrets are safe with us.”
After an hour he’d finished giving them a rough outline of the last few days. Valentina had continuously interrupted him with questions, but Yekaterina had just looked at him. Her cheeks were red. She was now yawning demonstratively.
“Oh, excuse me, children, you need to go to bed! Shall I wake you early tomorrow?”
“No need,” said Sasha. “I’m being picked up.”
“Then I’ll be on my way,” said Yekaterina, standing up.
They left the dezhurnaya’s bungalow together. Once the door was closed, Katya stopped and tugged at his scarf.
“Shall I come to your place?” she asked.
Definitely, right now, he thought.
“I... um... maybe not,” he said. “I have to... be well rested tomorrow. It’s important—the mission, I mean.”
Yekaterina’s face changed, the corners of her mouth turning down. The moon discreetly hid itself behind a cloud. Sasha turned to go.
“I understand,” said Yekaterina, but it sounded more like, “I hate you.”
She didn’t understand at all. But he couldn’t blame her. It was Komikov’s fault, because he still hadn’t spoken to his daughter.
“Good night,” he said, and walked to his bungalow without turning back.
Yekaterina didn’t reply. He didn’t hear anything else from her, not even the sound of her footsteps.
April 3, 1984, Tyuratam
Malyshev led him into a small room lit with a bare light bulb. It smelled of paperwork and Makhorka tobacco smoke. Sasha’s hands were sweaty. It was lucky he didn’t have to shake hands with the commander. Malyshev closed the door and pointed to a chair that stood against the blank wall. He sat down next to him. Their elbows touched, but they didn’t look at each other.
“I’m Yuri.”
“I’m Al—”
“You’re Gennadi. If I don’t know your real name, then I can’t get them mixed up.”
“I understand, Yuri.”
“Just so we understand each other clearly, I’m not your friend. I’m not happy about you being on board. But Gennadi agreed to it, so I won’t cause any trouble.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. When the Ministry makes a request like this, it’s best not to go against it. I really didn’t have a choice, or they would have quickly replaced me with Kizim.”
“Neither did I.”
“Then we have something in common. But that still doesn’t make us friends.”
Yeah, buddy, I already got that. You’d rather have Gennadi on board than me. You probably had lots of fun together in training. Sasha muttered something.
“You can’t take it personally, Gennadi. Try to understand me. I already have this Indian to babysit. Rakesh might be a rookie, but at least he trained with us for a year. He has some skills. You on the other hand... Three days! It’s unbelievable.”
Malyshev’s lecture sounded to Sasha like a monologue. It was best he didn’t interrupt.
“Oh well, that’s how it is. We have to make the best of it. Beregovoy thought you were all right, by the way. Without his positive assessment we wouldn’t even be launching. But he also said you should behave like live luggage. I don’t want to hear anything from you—not when the cameras from the media are pointing at you, and not even when it’s just the TsUP watching us—the Tsentr Upravleniya Polyetom in Moscow.”
“Understood.”
“You say nothing unless I speak to you using your first name, Gennadi, or Jupiter 3. Rakesh is Jupiter 2. We’ve already explained to him that he gets to play the co-pilot. It’s a special honor for the Indian.”
“I’m not very talkative anyway.”
“That’s an important virtue,” said Malyshev. “The fact that the Indian is flying with us could be an advantage, because the attention will be focused on him. You don’t look much like Gennadi, and you’re quite a lot younger than he is. But you’re about the same size, and with the helmet on only your face is visible, if that. The technicians have promised to point the cameras mostly to the left where Rakesh will be sitting. We’ll manage. The main thing is you don’t screw it up.”
“I’m not intending to.”
“Excellent.”
Malyshev stood up. The conversation was over.
This wasn’t going to be a life-long friendship.
A doctor was waiting for him behind the door. He reached for Sasha’s arm, but was intercepted by a man in a General’s uniform—Komikov. Sasha shook his head. It couldn’t be. Then he noticed the uniform was missing a star.
“Air Marshal Rybakov,” the man said by way of introducing himself, extending his hand.
Sasha wiped his palm on his pants and returned the gesture. Rybakov could have been Komikov’s brother, he looked so much like him. Did his father have a brother? He couldn’t remember his mother ever having mentioned an uncle.
“What can I do for you, comrade?” he asked.
“Congratulations on your performance. Comrade Beregovoy was very pleased.”
“Thank you.”
It had sounded different coming from Malyshev. More honest.
“It’s about the data that you intend to obtain.”
“I know that’s classified.”
“Exactly. That’s why I want the instrument to be brought straight to my office after you land. We don’t want to take any risks.”
“Understood, Comrade Rybakov.”
That was a surprise. The General’s lapels showed two stars on a gold background edged in blue. Rybakov was from the Air Force. Komikov was with the Army. What did that mean? Was someone trying to take advantage of a competitor’s unfortunate condition? The Army, Air Force, and Navy were forever vying for scarce resources.
“Comrade Air Marshal, I really need Comrade Strekalov right now, or we won’t have time to complete the necessary examinations.”
“Of course. He’s all yours, doctor.”
Strekalov. It was strange to be addressed by the wrong name, but he’d probably get used to it.
“Was the enema effective?” asked the doctor.
The enema? He hadn’t had one, having only returned last night. Presumably the real Strekalov was enjoying the benefits of that.
“Yes.”
“Good. Open your mouth!”
The doctor gave him a thorough examination, took his temperature, blood pressure, and finally weighed him. He hesitated when it came to filling out the form.
“Is something wrong?” asked Sasha.
“I know I’m not supposed to ask questions, but your weight... You’ve lost six kilograms, even though I was resting my foot on the scales—so that no one gets suspicious.”
“The enema must have been very effective.”
The doctor smiled. “That’s an excellent explanation.”
“Is that all?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re fit to fly. But I’m not allowed to let you out.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The media are here. Your comrades are being grilled by reporters. I’m supposed to keep you in here for the duration.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
“You’re not missing anything. Think about it. They’re toasting with sparkling wine, but they’re not allowed to take a sip.”
“That sounds grim.”
Sasha lay on the bed in the examination room and stared at the ceiling. The doctor had brought him something from the canteen at midday. Malyshev and Sharma were still busy with the journalists. It had nothing to do with him. He didn’t have to plant a tree or sign any autographs. He just had to wai
t for the bus that would finally take them to the rocket.
There was a knock at the door. Sasha sat up, but said nothing. He heard rustling and clattering sounds, but the door didn’t open.
“You have to help me,” came a muffled voice.
Sasha went to the door. A heavily laden man stood before him. Komikov let himself in.
“Here’s your suit,” said his father, laying a white outfit on the bed. It had a glass helmet attached to the top. That must be the Sokol pressure suit. “And this goes under it.” Komikov lifted his arm. In his hand he was holding a pair of boots and a cloth bag.
Sasha took everything from him. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the bag.
“The diaper. You’ll be sitting in the Soyuz for about a day. There’s no toilet.”
“I know.”
“Good. I’m guessing they’ll collect you in about an hour. You need to be ready by then.”
“Will you come back then?”
“No, the space flight commander will do that personally.”
“I understand.”
“Take care, my son, and come back in one piece.”
Komikov spread his arms. Sasha hesitated, but then accepted the embrace, although it wasn’t easy finding space between all the bandages. But who knew if they’d see each other again? The aborted Soyuz launch last fall had been a close call. Being shot into orbit on a rocket would never be as safe as riding on a train.
Now would be a good time to ask Komikov about Yekaterina. His father let go of him. Were those tears in his eyes? He’d never shown this kind of concern before.
“General Rybakov was here earlier—”
“That old fox,” his father interrupted. “Nice try! Don’t listen to anything he says.”
“Whatever you say, Father.”
“I have to go. Safe travels!”
“I’m only away for a week.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
Komikov turned around in a stiff military manner, tore open the door, and stormed out of the room. What was wrong with his father? Sasha shook his head. He couldn’t afford to think about that now. He had to put on the suit.
Sasha was sweating. The hour his father had promised had already turned into 90 minutes. He’d been sitting on the bed for three quarters of an hour in full get-up. Were there problems? Why hadn’t anyone told him? But it was obvious. He didn’t even exist.
There was a knock and then someone pulled the door open. It was a young soldier in uniform. “Come with me, Comrade Strekalov,” he called. The soldier was panting. He must have rushed up the stairs.
He should at least ask before following a stranger. “Who are you?”
“I’m the bus driver. The others are waiting downstairs.”
“Great. I’m coming.”
The bus had space for about 15 people, but there were only five of them—three cosmonauts, the space flight commander, and the driver. They each sat in their own row. Silence reigned, but it didn’t feel comfortable, more like the communal tension felt before a big storm presaged by looming clouds.
The small town faded into the distance. They were driving through the Kazakh steppe. A razor-wire fence ran alongside the single-lane road, and the bus pulled over to the right into a passing bay. Sasha could guess what was going to happen next. He’d heard of this custom, which Yuri Gagarin had allegedly initiated. The bus driver opened the door and they all got out. Malyshev opened his pressure suit with the zipper that ran diagonally across his body, pulled the pants down, and took a leak on the right rear tire of the bus.
Sharma, the Indian, gave an embarrassed laugh. But he must have been pre-warned, because he also performed the ritual. It took him a little longer. Then it was Sasha’s turn. He hadn’t actually earned this honor. It took a while for anything to come. Then he zipped up his suit again. He suddenly felt the urge to wash his hands. He picked up some snow left over from the previous day and kneaded it in his fingers.
They reached the launch site at half past five. Sasha marveled at how quiet everyone was. Maybe it was intentional, to make everything look routine. A rickety elevator carried them up. From there, an external walkway led to the Soyuz capsule. Sharma had to be the first to board since, as the co-pilot, he was seated on the far left. As he walked along the walkway, the space flight commander gave him a light kick in the backside—another one of those rituals Sasha had heard about. Sharma didn’t complain.
He was up next. He suddenly felt queasy, and his legs felt weak. Should he really be doing this? What about the Relikt instrument? He hadn’t even asked about it. What if they’d forgotten it?
“Safe flight, Strekalov,” said the space flight commander, whose name he didn’t know.
‘Get moving’ was what he meant. But the man was wasn’t coming with them. Sasha sighed, then shoved off. The hatch was narrow, and he pushed himself in legs first. His spot was on the right. Sasha stretched his arms and legs and found that the seat was surprisingly comfortable. Only his elevated legs and the resulting angle of his hips were unfamiliar. They’d spend the next 24 hours in here. He straightened the diaper one last time, just to be sure. Then he connected himself to the communication system and the emergency oxygen supply and buckled himself in.
Malyshev appeared on the center seat as though conjured out of nowhere. He was soon connected up, too. Then he leaned forward slightly and pressed every possible button. It looked to Sasha like he was playing a well-studied symphony on an exotic instrument.
“Jupiter 1 to Zarya,” announced Malyshev. “I’m ready.”
Jupiter—that was the code name for their crew. The commander was always number 1.
“Jupiter 2?”
“Ready,” said the Indian.
“Jupiter 3?”
“Ready.”
“Do you want music?”
“Thank you, Zarya, not for me,” said Malyshev.
“Sorry, Jupiter, on special occasions like this you have no choice.”
Indian music played on a sitar started coming out of the speakers. The Indian delegation must have chosen it.
“Zarya here. The launch has been confirmed for 18:08. You have 13 minutes remaining.”
“Thank you. Jupiter out.”
Sasha counted in his head. There wouldn’t be a countdown—that had already been explained to him. He was up to eight times sixty when the control center made contact again.
“Close your helmets.”
“Understood.”
He pushed the transparent visor over his face and continued counting. After five minutes a speaker bleated. This was the moment. He tensed his buttocks, as though the rocket was about to give him a kick in the pants.
“Zazhiganiye,” came the voice from the control room.
The whole rocket shook. The vibrations were inside him, they filled him up and shook up his thoughts, which became brittle and shattered. Then the ceiling moved toward him. The numerous switches and lights above and in front of him came closer. They wanted to crush him. His shoulders were flatter than ever before against the seat. His belly stretched out on all sides, as though someone was kneading him like dough. The power of the rocket engine pressed him flat.
But the situation didn’t last long. His eyes became accustomed to the strain. The ceiling went back to its proper position, even though the power that bound him to his seat was increasing. A shudder went through the rocket.
“First stage jettisoned,” said Malyshev.
They had only been underway for two minutes and had already reached a height of 30 kilometers. Again, an invisible force gripped him.
“Second stage ignited,” the commander commented.
Another rattle. Sasha was fearful, because the g-force wasn’t changing.
“The payload fairing,” said Malyshev. “No reason to get agitated. If something malfunctions, we’ll be dead before we know it.”
Malyshev must have sensed his fear. He had to pull himself together.
“A
ltitude 160 kilometers. Third stage up next.”
As though prompted by Malyshev, someone suddenly shook his seat. It was as though the driver had briefly stepped on the brakes and then hit the gas again.
“Current speed thirteen-thousand, four hundred kilometers per hour,” said Malyshev with a measure of enthusiasm Sasha hadn’t seen in him before.
“Twenty-thousand kilometers per hour. Wow!”
Sasha looked for a time display and saw they’d already been underway seven minutes. The clock was positively racing. Apparently, his sense of time was distorted. The pressure on his belly increased again.
“Twenty-eight-thousand kilometers per hour at 3.5 g. We’re nearly there.”
Another crack, followed by an awful rasping noise that made his hair stand on end. It must have been right behind him.
“The third stage is spent,” said Malyshev.
Suddenly a soft toy flew through the cabin. It looked like a chunky horse.
“What’s that?” asked Sharma.
“Begemot, the hippopotamus.”
Now Sasha recognized it. The hippo was from an animated series with a rabbit and a wolf as the main characters.
“Very original,” said Sasha.
It was traditional for a floating soft toy to indicate the start of zero gravity. Why had Malyshev chosen Begemot of all things as a mascot?
“Congratulations, Jupiter. Zarya sends its regards.”
“Save us some of that sparkling wine,” said their commander.
“It’ll be no good in a week.”
“Yeah, yeah, you just want to get drunk without us.”
“Are you all right?” asked Zarya.
“The best.”
“Jupiter 3 as well?”
Sasha felt hot. Why did they have to ask after him specifically? “Yes, Jupiter 3 is fine, too,” he replied.
“Good. You know what to do next. You extend the sun sail, then catch up to the space station at a very leisurely pace. And get yourselves some shut-eye. It’ll be cramped with six in the Salyut and you’re on a tight schedule.”
The Death of the Universe: Rebirth: Hard Science Fiction (Big Rip Book 3) Page 12
