“Entering a clearing, he espied another column of smoke. Around it were several tents and a contingent of men and horses, maybe thirty of each. As he neared, he spotted one figure hunched among the tall, gloating Poles. It was his wife, sitting by the fire, leaning into its warmth as if to throw herself to the flames. Khmelnytsky made no attempt to conceal himself, driving down on the encampment full gallop. It took the Poles too long to notice him and far too long to react. Before the sentry had unsheathed his sword Khmelnytsky’s blade removed the man’s arm. The soldiers, sitting around the fire or dozing against the trunks of trees fell in quick succession. Khmelnytsky’s horse kicked up a cloud of dust that hid him as if in the black mists of hell, scattering the logs of the fire and launching sparking embers on high arcs through the sky. The nearest tent ignited.
“Khmelnytsky dismounted and placed his horse between his wife, whose hands and feet were bound, and the soldiers streaming from their tents. The blood from the scratches on Khmelnytsky’s face had crusted into red-brown stains in his beard. He seethed, hulking in heaving breaths, his muscles bulged by the rage that consumed him. One of the Poles advanced. Khmelnytsky slashed with his sword, and the Pole tried to parry but the blow was so strong that the sword fell from his hands. Before he could think to stoop and retrieve it, Khmelnytsky delivered the fatal blow. Two more soldiers fell as quickly as the first. The rest turned to flee, the demon before them so terrifying, something born of the leaping flames.
“But turning their backs was a mistake. They could offer no defense to the barrage of slashes that befell them. They all died as cowards, asses to their fears, faces planted in the black dirt.”
“I’m not sure I like this story,” said Mykola.
“You know,” said Grandmother, “I never told the twins the whole story of Khmelnytsky’s life. I always stopped here. The real darkness comes after. But I like this ending, with Khmelnytsky returning home. Sad, yes, but also triumphant. He had a home worth defending and found a way to defend it. That’s why I was willing to let the twins leave. This cottage, the village, the valley—none of that will be the home they one day return to in triumph. Even if they do return to the valley, somewhere else will be their true home, other people their true family. One can’t have two homes. One can’t be leaving home and heading toward it both at the same time.”
“Will you miss them?”
“Won’t you?”
Star City, Russia—1964
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.