Zach Powers - First Cosmic Velocity

It had been half a decade since the training facilities were last this crowded. A man—the Chief Designer thought his name was Kolya, though he would not swear to it—sat in the Khilov swing, blindfolded, as Mishin and Bushuyev spun it around. Kolya’s brow dripped with sweat, the beads practically bursting from his pores. All color had fled his face. The Chief Designer recognized the peculiar pinch of Kolya’s mouth.

“Step back,” called the Chief Designer across the room.

Mishin and Bushuyev released the swing, one a little sooner than the other, which sent it wobbling as well as spinning. Kolya heaved once, and then spewed his breakfast all over the floor, just at their feet. They backed away, almost into Giorgi’s mural on the back wall. The huge head of Nadya stared at the Chief Designer with a stern expression, Leonid with a winning smile.

The Chief Designer clapped his hands together once, and a custodian came in from the hallway. The mop he carried was new, though this was far from the first puddle of vomit. Kolya alone had accounted for two dozen cleanups. The Chief Designer worried that he would blow his entire budget on mops and buckets if things continued the way they were.

On the vibration platform sat Galina. She had seized the control knob from one of the technicians and operated it herself, upping the oscillations past what a cosmonaut would experience even reentering the atmosphere. Her expression was similar to Kolya’s, but the Chief Designer knew it was not due to illness. He had come across her one evening using the platform to achieve orgasm. She had not seen him, and he had never mentioned it. Who was he to judge? He had committed worse acts. But at least he kept his secret. Here Galina was in a room full of people making only the feeblest attempt to hide her pleasure. The Chief Designer looked away.

In the far corner, a frail woman named Zlata ran on the treadmill. She tried hard, but the pace was clearly too quick for her. She stumbled, swiping a hand for the rail. She missed, and the shift in weight pushed her top half forward as the treadmill pulled her tangled feet back. She plummeted face-first and was propelled from the track to the floor. The technician there hung her head, waiting long seconds before offering assistance.

It had been since the first five cosmonauts were but children that the Chief Designer had seen such a complete display of incompetence. It was forgivable in the children, but these were adults, trained pilots. He had requested only the best. He had been promised the elite. He hoped, for the sake of the Soviet Union, that this was not the best the air force had to offer.

A hearty laugh came from behind him.

“Did you see her fall? That was truly comical, comrade.”

“Ignatius,” said the Chief Designer. “I suppose it’s good to see you.”

She had not visited Star City since the day Giorgi died, but the Chief Designer almost expected her sudden appearance. A surprise that happens often enough ceases to be surprising.

“I’m certainly better to look at than anything occurring in this room,” she said.

The Chief Designer held his forehead and laughed despite himself. “Wasn’t this undertaking enough of a comedy to begin with? We didn’t need the addition of clowns.”

“Giorgi was the best,” said Ignatius.

“I don’t expect another Giorgi, but surely the air force has better pilots than this.”

“Of course they do, but they have no intention of sending them to you. Do you know how you got Giorgi? Marshal Nedelin. He was the one who secured the best people for the space program. Now that he’s gone, the air force has no one to hold them accountable. They use the space program to shuttle off their worst recruits. Everyone here has been declared unfit for flight.”

“And I’m supposed to prepare them for space?”

“If it’s any comfort, they sent even worse pilots to the General Designer.”

“Actually, that’s the first small comfort I’ve had in weeks. I never thought relief would come from you, Ignatius.” He rubbed the scar on his head. “Have you heard from them?”

“I haven’t seen them since the funeral, same as you.”

“Where have you been?”

“You missed me?”

“I thought you’d have answers. Do you know where they went?”

“No.”

“Did you tell them to leave?”

“I encouraged them.”

“I’ve never thought that you were on my side, so how is it that you were able to betray me?”

“I protected you from yourself. If Nadya had died, I wouldn’t have been able to protect you in the investigations that followed. The Party would have discovered all your secrets.”

“I find it hard to believe that you’ve been protecting me.”

“Just because it’s difficult to believe doesn’t mean it’s not true. For example, knowing what I do about you, it’s hard to believe that you’re a kind and empathetic man.”

The Chief Designer found himself grinding his teeth. He relaxed his jaw and rubbed at his cheek. Kind was not a word he would ever use to describe himself, and it seemed to grow less apt every day. It was not only these pitiful excuses for pilots he had now. No, he did not know how one of them would ever successfully dock Voskhod with Vostok, but so much of that was controlled from the ground. He only needed one pilot to be just competent enough for the five minutes of the final docking maneuvers. He doubted he would get even that, but doubt was a feeling he was accustomed to.

The real problem was the dogs. Khrushchev’s dog they could bring back. If the plan worked, they needed no double. But Kasha. Khrushchev asked about her in every correspondence, as if she, like Byelka, were his. For every hour spent training the new cosmonauts, Mishin and Bushuyev had spent two scouring the streets of Moscow for a dog that looked like Kasha. The Chief Designer knew better than to inquire, but he was sure that some of the dogs they brought in had not come from the streets, but had been pets. They were too clean, too pampered. They had the wrong disposition entirely. Anything unexpected terrified them. It did not matter, anyway. None of them looked the least bit like Kasha. The most similar dog had the same shape as Kasha but deep brown fur. Mishin and Bushuyev had tried to bleach it white, but the closest they could get was tan. The poor dog’s skin was so tender after bleaching that it was a week before she would allow anyone to pet her.

“Will they come back?” asked the Chief Designer.

“I believe so,” said Ignatius. “And if they do, I’ll encourage them to stay. I’ve seen your latest reports. You’re ready for Nadya. I admit that I doubted you would be. I focus so much on failure—it’s my job, after all, to prevent it—that I often have a hard time anticipating success. Still, I stand by my decision. When I sent them away, all you had to offer was failure.”

No one outside of Star City was supposed to have seen the latest reports. It did not surprise the Chief Designer, though, that Ignatius had seen them. Whether or not he was ready, even he was not sure of that.

“They’ve already been gone over a month,” he said.

“It’s their first taste of independence since they were children. But even the most delicious food can only be consumed a dish at a time. Nadya thinks of you as a father.”

“That I am most definitely not. Not even to my own son.”

“Again, it doesn’t matter what you believe. Truth and belief are unrelated.”

The custodian walked by them, bucket swaying from his hand, as if what was inside did not repulse him. And perhaps it did not. His constitution was certainly better than Kolya’s. The Chief Designer would learn this custodian’s name, train him for spaceflight, make of him the next hero of the Soviet Union. This custodian would become the first person to clean in outer space.