Lights in the Deep (9 page)

When I popped my torso out to take a look, there was a similarly-garbed figure sitting astride the bozo package, staring directly at me.

For a fleeting moment I wished for a weapon.

The figure waved at me. Stupidly, I waved back, and wanted to yell for the intruder to get his ass off United States property.

Just meters apart, the figure and I considered one another for a moment.

I raised my visor. Then he raised his.

“Holy shit…”

• • •

It took us a few minutes to get our radios synced. Her name was Raisa Zaslavskaya. I think she was even more surprised to see a brown face than I was to see a woman. Whatever unease we might have had between us—as competitors in the Long War—seemed a small thing compared to the unease we now felt over gender and ethnicity.

“Amerikanyetz,” she said, “where is your co-pilot?”

Her English was far superior to my Russian.

“Dead,” I said matter-of-factly. “Yours?”

“Da. Same.”

“Is your spacecraft capable of Earth return flight?”

“Nyet.”

“Mine is, but only if you haven’t damaged the Chiron.”

“I have not touched. Hope to salvage.”

“Then it seems we’ve both got the same objective.”

“Da.”

Long silence. Too long.

“Have you had any success understanding American equipment?”

Pregnant pause. “Nyet.”

“Let me help you.”

“My government will not sanction it,” she said.

“Do either of us have a choice?”

Another pregnant pause. “Nyet.”

“Then listen to me, because this is what we have to do….”

• • •

Getting the bozo package off was easy. It was finding a way to get her into the Gemini that was hard. The Russian suit’s umbilical wouldn’t mate with the Gemini’s life support system, and neither the Russian flight nor mine had packed the newer, backpack-independent models that we’d be using for eventual lunar landing. Unnecessary mass on a circumlunar mission—a decision made on the ground, which now proved maddening.

I held up a roll of duct tape between us as we hovered in the open doors of my spacecraft.

“How long can you hold your breath?”

“Long enough,” Raisa said, her eyes fearful but determined.

I then held up the end of the umbilical that Vic had been using during the accident. If we couldn’t get her hose to work with the Gemini, we’d have to hope we could get the Gemini’s hose to work with the Russian suit. Again, the couplers wouldn’t mate, but if we could get a solid seal, and oxygen flowing, that would be all we’d need. The trick would be getting both her and me back into the Gemini and closing the hatches, then re-pressurizing without the jury-rigged connection failing.

I spent many minutes fumbling with the tape in my clumsy, suited hands, eventually stretching out several long strips, which I stuck to the hatchway of the Gemini. Then I held the hose ready while Raisa reached down and grasped the umbilical that lead back to her damaged capsule, her hands visibly shaking.

“We’ll count down,” I said.

“Da. Chyetirye, tri, dva,
adeen!
”

She rotated, then ripped her hose free, squinting her eyes shut in the process.

The Russian hose shot away, bleeding air like a jet. I jammed the Gemini’s hose into the now-vacated orifice on Raisa’s suit and frantically began to wind duct tape around the connection. Her face was bright red and her head shook as I worked. Cursing, I ducked down into the Gemini and valved the feed. Vic’s hose rippled like a snake come to life, and for a moment I thought the rigged connection would burst free. But the duct tape held, and Raisa’s eyes popped open, her gasps audible over the radio.

“Da…Da! I breathe!”

“No time to waste,” I said, beginning to guide her floating body down into the right-hand seat. She let me do most of the work, as the cramped interior of the Gemini was unforgiving. Twice we stopped and I wrapped extra tape around the connection between her hose and suit—which was clearly leaking heavily—before she was finally down tight and we could try to close the hatch.

The door thumped onto the top of her helmet, inches from a solid seal.

We tried again, and again.

She screamed and pried at the CCCP-stenciled visor cowling that covered the top of her helmet, eventually ripping it free and spinning it into space.

The hatch closed.

I clambered down into my own seat as quickly as I could, listening to the hyperventilating going on next to me through the radio, then slammed my hatch shut and started the re-pressurization cycle.

To her credit, Cosmonaut Zaslavskaya waited until I gave her a thumbs-up before breaking the seal on her helmet and lifting the face bowl. Her cheeks were coated with sweat and there was evidence of hemorrhaging below the skin. But she gave me the first smile I’d seen her make since we first met, and this brought a smile to my face as well.

I set to work guiding the near-depleted Gemini into docking alignment with GCBV-7004. Two of the Chiron’s fuel cells had been exhausted, but the third worked, and now it provided power to the Chiron’s onboard systems as I nosed the Gemini into dock. If ever I had resented all the hundreds of times I’d practiced the maneuver in simulation, I was grateful now for the effort. The talkbacks barber-poled for a few agonizing seconds, then snapped to normal as the Gemini and Chiron linked up.

I relaxed in my seat and flipped open my own face bowl, exhaling loudly and closing my eyes in relief.

“Washington,” my new co-pilot said.

“Malachi,” I interrupted. “My name is Malachi.”

“Malachi. Da. All is good?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling it for the first time in many days. “All is good.”

• • •

The GCBV-7004 was in surprisingly good shape for having been stranded in lunar orbit for almost nine months. Most importantly, the main engine responded to control input, though the main radio antennae was dead—a problem which had apparently been related to more than just the bozo package, and afflicted my original craft too? I made a mental note to have them inspect the radios on all the other Chirons when I got back. Until then, we’d be out of long-range radio contact.

I turned to inform the Russian woman, and found Raisa was already using Vic’s flight manual and mechanical pencil, furiously scribbling notes across the blank pages, some of them in Cyrillic and some in identifiable numerals. Her mouth made silent words as she worked, and for a few minutes she seemed utterly unaware of my existence. Eventually she put her pencil in her lap and pursed her lips.

“No radio. Without assistance from ground, it will be very difficult to return.”

“That much is certain,” I said, frowning.

“I am unfamiliar with this design, so I will not be much help.”

“I could teach you,” I said.

“Your government would
allow
this?”

“My government isn’t exactly in a position to stop me,” I said.

She seemed bewildered. “In my country, is serious mistake to give away technology secrets.”

“In mine too, but right now, I am guessing they’ll be willing to make an exception.”

“Mine would not be so willing,” she said, chewing a lip.

“Then it’s a good thing we’ll be picked up by a U.S. Navy carrier.”

Her eyes became fearful. “I am to be prisoner,” she said.

“No, I don’t think so. Consider yourself…my guest.”

Her eyes strayed out the forward window, to the lost L3.

“Will be disgrace, in Moscow. Many repercussions. Myself included.”

“The accident—” I motioned out the window “—was your fault?”

“Nyet. Valves. Terrible design. They would not listen to me when I told them so.”

“Why?”

“I am a woman. The engineers are men.”

She said it as if it were
ipso facto.
Then she pointed to my face and said, “White engineers listen to you?”

I stopped short. As a matter of fact, they
did.

Well, most of them anyway. Some of the older ones who were Von Braun’s holdouts still thought of me as
untermensch,
but they tended to keep their opinions to themselves and weren’t part of the bigger picture anymore. The younger ones, the wiz kids, they were a little more hip. Many of them had gone to integrated schools. We didn’t exactly have lunch together, but they’d shake my hand and give me the same respect due all the other Astronauts.

“If you knew there was a problem, whatever possessed you to launch in the first place? If an Astronaut suspected there was a glitch beforehand, he’d never let the countdown proceed.”

“Is not so easy for Cosmonaut. Politics in Star City. Designer Korolev and comrades under great pressure to deliver results. Cosmonauts follow orders, not give them.”

“Clearly, we’ve got some things to talk about,” I said.

“Da.”

I began warming up the Chiron’s reaction thrusters, so as to get some distance between ourselves and the wrecked L3.

“Anything you want to say before we go?”

“Nyet,” Raisa said, her voice turned bitter.

“Okay then, hold on. The Chiron’s engines can provide quite a kick.”

• • •

Zaslavskaya was a quick study. Our first day out from lunar orbit, I ran her through a crash course on the entire cockpit, during which she asked many questions. Often my language grew so technical or abstract as to require us to break concepts down to simply-worded English, but she seemed to get the drift, and was openly admiring of the Gemini—especially the craftsmanship that went into its construction.

“How do you get workers to produce such equipment?”

“McDonnell hires good people,” I said, “and pays well from what I’ve been told. Of course, NASA wouldn’t have awarded them the contract if they had a reputation for shoddy work.”

“Other design bureaus make spacecraft?”

“McDonnell isn’t a bureau, it’s a company. And yes, others make spacecraft. North American was in the running to produce the ship that would go to the moon. Grumman is still going to build the lander.”

“And they all make workers build quality parts?”

“They have to in order to remain competitive with each other, though I have to admit we’re always kicking them in the butt for the things that still get missed. Like whatever killed Vic.”

“Will company be punished for your co-pilot’s death?”

“No, but the accident will be thoroughly investigated, so that they can find out what happened and be sure it doesn’t happen again. NASA can’t overlook something as serious as an Astronaut’s death. The public wouldn’t stand for it.”

Raisa’s eyes grew hard. “When Vasily died, they did nothing.”

“Who?”

“Husband.”

I stared at her. “I’m sorry.”

“I was sorry. All Cosmonauts sorry. Vasily become Hero of Soviet People, but problem left in place to kill other men.”

“Just how many Cosmonauts have died?”

“You do not know?”

“Star City doesn’t exactly broadcast it every time something goes wrong.”

She grunted, shaking her head in disgust. “Moon booster kill two crews alone. No time allowed for investigation. Had to win against the Americans.”

“They must have fixed
some
of the problems.”

“And leave others untouched! Then Cosmonauts get blamed when things go wrong. Always.”

This time I was the one who grunted and shook his head. I knew that game myself, all too well. And was reminded of just how awkward the mission review would be, assuming I survived to see it. First black Astronaut, loses his co-pilot and almost his whole ship, comes back with a Russian woman in tow.

“If it’s as dangerous as all that,” I said to her, “why don’t you try and get out of the Cosmonaut corps?”

“Would be disgrace. Too many men already doubting the few women at Star City. Terashkova says we all fly, or die in process. Example to men. Courage. Would you leave NASA, even if launches fail?”

No, I admitted. I probably wouldn’t.

I asked the next question that seemed logical. “Was your co-pilot a woman?”

“Nyet. Male. Young. Soviet Air Force. Chauvanist. I would have had another, if they had allowed me to pick. But co-pilot had father in Politburo. No choice for me.”

“What will happen to you when we get back?”

“I do not know. Will likely not launch ever again. Maybe worse.”

“You wouldn’t have to go back. You could stay in the States.”

Her eyes grew large. “Not serious.”

“Sure I’m serious.”

“And be traitor to people? Never!”

“What have you got going for you back at Star City? Nothing good, it sounds like.”

“Amerikanyetz, be quiet.”

Her tone was exactly the same one my wife used on me whenever I’d say something that really pissed her off.

Not wanting to add insult to injury, I did as I was told.

• • •

Day two was an exercise in excruciating silence. Beyond basic
das
and
nyets
the Cosmonaut didn’t have much to say to me. I ran her through some ad hoc drills on operating some of the Gemini’s systems—especially those related to reentry—and she took a boatload of notes. Otherwise, my every attempt at chatty talk was met with a glare and a mouth sealed so tight, it became a harsh, thin line.

Day three, and the Earth had grown large again in the windows. The Chiron’s radio was still out, but we’d soon be getting something from Gemini’s onboard systems. We had no idea if we were coming in too quickly, at the wrong angle…Her math confirmed mine, which confirmed hers, and we hoped that we weren’t just fooling ourselves. Or at least I assumed that we both hoped. She still didn’t talk to me, and by the end of the day I was beginning to greatly look forward to kicking her ass out of my spacecraft and dealing with someone who didn’t constantly look at me with suppressed hostility.

Some time, during the quiet dozing that passes for sleep on space missions, I heard her finally speak.

“I am sorry.”

“Hmm?”

“Is not your fault. Would be dead now without your help.”

I yawned and rubbed a hand over my eyes, feeling the stubble on my face.

“I simply see no outcome that is desirable,” she said, eyes cast down to the control panel in front of her.