by Andrew Mayne
"Hey guys!" says Vin as his face pops up on the display. "Man, those Russians. Whew. And I thought dealing with Chinese investment bankers was rough. Long story short, we got hold of President Radin's guy, I met him at an Aspen Summit two years ago. Oxford educated, brilliant. Anyway, he took it to the man himself. Radin, as you know, has been trying to take a more diplomatic role – in no small part because falling oil prices are making them more dependent on foreign investment, etcetera. He said, 'Sure, why not?' Which is great, but then Zhirov, I'm told, lost his shit and said something about the universal docking ring not working on the K1. Which was news to me. So I called up Lena Golov, she's the actual mission supervisor for all the Russian launches. Great woman. I had her and her husband on my yacht last summer. We're trying to get her to come work for us. Fun to hang out with when she's all loosened up. Have you guys been to the yacht? You have to come out sometime."
"Love to," says Bennet, sharply.
"Oh, right, so anyway, I called her direct. She said her boss had no idea what he was talking about and was just quote, 'Being Russian about it.' I love that. Anyway, I tell Radin's guy he should really talk to her. And he did."
"And?" asks Bennet.
"We're still working on it." His screen goes dark.
I can see the muscles tighten in Bennet's jaw. If he wants to use his gun to shoot the screen, I'd totally understand.
I love Vin Amin. What he's single-handedly done for space travel can't be measured. He's one of those people like Musk and Bezos who helped us start dreaming again. He's created three successive startups, each one worth more than the last. Then he bet everything on getting into the space business, going toe-to-toe with the upstarts and the giants. He's got balls.
But he's also the guy in a YouTube video shot at Burning Man, walking around in a silver Speedo, high out of his mind, giving a rambling talk to his iPhone about why this would be the place to meet alien chicks for interspecies sex.
I guess with that kind of brilliance comes a special kind of crazy. His crazy is what got us up here. And it's probably what it will take to get us down. I hope.
"Good news!" says Vin as he pops back up on the display.
"You got the yacht reupholstered?" asks Bennet.
Vin blinks for a moment then bursts out laughing. "Oh man, you NASA guys. Hold on. I'm tweeting that one out..."
And he honest to god picks up his phone and starts typing the tweet.
"I hope my will is in order," I mumble under my breath.
This gets me a sly grin from Bennet and a snort from Peterson. Well holy smokes, Yoga Boy finally managed to do something to get an acknowledgment that he's more than dead weight.
"Where was I?" says Vin.
"Telling us if we're going to live or die," replies Bennet.
"Right! Good news. They're going to let you dock at the K1. And listen, just so you know, there were always going to be other options. I wouldn't let you guys down."
Other options? Does he have some secret rich person's space ark?
Hell, who knows with Vin. Guys like him don't see anything as being impossible. I could almost imagine him telling us we're going to burn up on reentry but he's pretty sure his engineers have time travel figured out so he'll just make sure it all never happens.
"Zhirov is super pissed and has a bunch of conditions for docking with the K1. Apparently they're doing some research on biofilms and whole sections of the station are off limits to us because of trade secrets. Can't wait to hear what that's all about. I'm sure one of their scientists will tell me when they get drunk on my boat and come asking for a job. Oh, man. The stuff people tell you to impress you. Anyway, Mission Control has all the details. I'm going to go look at carpet samples. Later."
I think that was a joke, but I'm not certain.
6
AIRLOCK
IN A BORED, officious voice, a Russian mission control operator drones on to us about the rules. "No more than one American astronaut shall leave the craft at a time, and always with an escort. The American astronauts will be allowed only access to the docking pylon, the lavatory facilities adjacent to the pylon and the airlock for doing their EVA. All EVA's will be under supervision of the K1 commander or a subordinate in order to prevent damage to the K1. No American may set foot onboard the K1 without permission from the K1 commander. While Unicorn 22 is docked on the K1, it is under jurisdiction of Russian Federation. As are all astronauts and passengers. We reserve right to inspect your cargo for any hazardous materials or contraband. If the commander of the Unicorn 22 agrees to these terms, please say 'affirmative.'"
I try to suppress a chortle every time he pronounces unicorn as "you KNEE corn."
"Dah," says Bennet before turning on his microphone. "Affirmative, Roscosmos. We agree to the terms. And thanks for helping us out."
We spend the next two hours bringing our orbit into alignment with the K1. The computers mostly handle this. We've been linking up with Russian spacecraft since 1975 when Apollo and Soyuz craft docked and their crews shook hands.
That was also the last flight for Apollo. On reentry there was a problem with the air system and two astronauts had to spend weeks in the hospital recovering from lung damage.
Let's hope this one goes a little better.
After checking velocity, alignment and all the other details that go into a docking procedure, we begin our final approach.
Bennet keeps his hands near the stick, but I notice he avoids touching it at any point during the window where it's safe to do so.
Through the porthole, K1 gradually grows from a tiny white grain of sand to a space station the size of two football fields.
Built like a giant cross from bus-sized cylinders, massive blue-black solar panels fill the squares between the pylons.
The docking module is a shaft sticking out of the bottom of the station. Two Soyuz capsules are berthed on either side as escape modules – the same kind that served as an emergency lifeboat on the International Space Station. In fact, the Soyuz modules were the workhorse of manned spaceflight for decades for the US and Russia.
Until Elon Musk and Vin Amin came along, NASA wasn't too proud of the fact that after the Shuttle program shut down, if you were an American astronaut that actually wanted to go into space, it was going to be onboard a Russian space taxi.
On the flip side for me, it turned out that learning to fly a MiG gave me an upper hand in iCosmos astronaut training. Being able to understand all the switches on the spacecraft of necessity for the last two decades was a definite plus – along with my ability to not have to pee every twenty minutes.
The K1 fills the sky in front of the Unicorn. Bennet's display shows the camera view of the nose coming in to the docking ring as a computer voice calls out the distance in centimeters.
There's an occasional burst from our docking rockets as they make fine adjustments to our approach. When we finally touch the collar, it's softer than a knock at the door.
A metal ring clamps shut and there's a tiny jostle as our ship is mated to the connector.
"Unicorn 22, this is K1. We have hard lock. Prepare for atmospheric equalization and to power down."
Before we can open the hatch and slap our comrades high fives, we have to make sure air pressure is equal on both sides. Otherwise, we could pop our eardrums, or worse, shoot out of the docking ring like a champagne cork while our hatch is wide open.
Fun times.
We put on our helmets just in case.
The air begins to hiss as we equalize with the K1 and Bennet powers us down. This is to prevent us from short circuiting the K1's electrical system until their electrician has a chance to make sure our power feeds aren't acting erratically. In space there's no way to ground an electric current. If you have stray voltage, it'll find a path, no matter what.
All the lights go out for a moment.
"Dixon," whispers Bennet. "I need to know right now, can I count on you?"
"Yeah, sure." This is a little odd.
"Listen to me very closely. I need you to do everything I or Peterson says. If you do that, it will all be fine."
I get the sudden realization that he's not talking about shaking hands through the airlock.
"What's going on?"
"Just listen. If anything should happen to Peterson or me, I want you to load up the reentry profile she prepared."
Peterson leans in and taps me on the shoulder. "Be a good boy and stay on the Unicorn. Everything will be okay."
"He'll be good," says Bennet.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
This has to do with the gun.
"What are you two up to?" I whisper.
"Need to know basis. Robbie was supposed to be in your chair. Until that retard screwed things up."
"I think I need to know."
"You can't know. Do you trust me?"
"In this exact moment? You're freaking me out."
"Do you trust me?"
Hell of a question to ask after the gun, pulling me off the pilot seat and whispering to me in the dark.
This is Bennet, an American hero. I've relied on him countless times underwater, dangling from parachute cords and sitting inside smoke-filled capsules simulating onboard fire.
"Yeah, Bennet, I trust you."
"You're a good man. If it gets dirty, you have to bug out. Got it?"
Dirty? What the hell? "What about the heat shield sensor problem?"
"There is no problem. I can't give you specifics. It's better that you don't know. I just need to know that if Peterson or I tell you to launch that you'll do that."
"You mean without you guys?"
"Exactly."
"You mean leave you on the K1?"
"You won't be leaving us. We'll already be dead."
"What the hell?"
He puts his hand on my shoulder just like the first time he shoved me out of an airplane. "This is bigger than us. A lot more is at stake. Can I count on you?"
"Affirmative." What else could I say?
7
BORDER PATROL
I'M CLENCHING my fists inside my gloves as the hatch swings open. Bennet's little pep talk has completely put me on edge. Now that the Russians are coming I'm about to jump off the cliff of anxiety mountain.
A round Slavic face pokes into the airlock and announces, "The American astronauts will please remain seated while Commander Yablokov conducts his inspection."
Bennet, back in his seat after opening the hatch, replies, "Permission to come aboard."
I notice that no permission was requested and as Yablokov drifts into the compartment he barely even acknowledges Bennet.
Yablokov somehow manages to look even more Russian than the guy who announced his entrance. Compact, with a shaved head, even though he's not in his military uniform, he still wears it somehow.
I guess Bennet and Peterson are the same way. There's a composure they possess that sets them apart from slack yoga boys like myself.
Yablokov rests a hand on the bar above the display consoles in front of Bennet and me, and fixes eyes on Peterson. "You are Lieutenant Peterson?"
"Retired," she replies.
She spent ten years in the Air Force. The last five on a NASA detail. She's only 31, it's weird to think of her as "retired."
Yablokov nods then turns his gaze to me. "You are not Robert Carlyle."
"No, sir. I'm David Dixon."
"Why are you here?" he asks.
While I'm pretty sure he means why am I filling in for Robbie, it kind of feels like a question about the reason for my existence.
"Carlyle had a training accident. I'm his replacement."
Yablokov fixes me with a stare. It's an intimidating, unflinching gaze – like he's waiting for me to confess something. Bennet is also watching me out of the corner of my vision.
I notice his hand is casually floating in the air a few inches above the thigh pocket that holds his gun.
I can't get Poe's Tell-Tale Heart out of my mind.
The gun is calling out to me. My whole world centers around the pistol. I catch myself stealing a sideways glance at the pocket. I try to make it seem like I'm looking at Bennet for instructions.
As a kid, I had a friend who did magic tricks. Whenever he tried to hide something in his hand, that whole side of his body would go stiff. He assumed that because he knew it was there, the whole world knew. When the only clue we had was his weird body language.
Right now, I'm sure my body language says, "Commander Bennet has a goddamn gun in his pocket!"
Deep breath. Yablokov is still staring. What would a less scared version of myself do?
Smile, David. The best I can do is a slightly smug grin.
"You are not military," says Yablokov.
This sounds like an on-the-spot assessment and not him recalling some fact from my profile he just looked over before drifting in.
"No sir. They didn't want me."
"I can understand why."
Damn. I just got zinged in space.
"Your face," he says, "you wear everything on it. Your first mission into space, your ship malfunctions and now you have to come to the scary Russians for help. Do not be afraid. Everything will be made okay."
He gives me what may be a smile, but looks more like something you'd do in the frozen wastes of Siberia to prevent your mouth from freezing.
Yablokov pulls himself over to Bennet. "Commander, you were given instructions by Roscosmos? I expect you will follow them? I hold you personally responsible for the actions of your crew."
"Affirmative," says Bennet. He's trying not to show how much this chafes him to have the Russian treat him like a lost tourist.
Yablokov slides over to the space between Bennet's seat and the wall of the capsule. For a split second I think he's going to pat him down.
He motions towards the storage lockers behind us. Those and a trunk under the capsule are where we carry cargo.
"What is your cargo?"
"I can resend the manifest if you like. Resupplies for US/iC and Peterson's equipment."
Yablokov drifts behind us and unlatches one of the panels without asking. "No unsecured gas cylinders or other hazardous materials?"
Other than the several hundreds of pounds of monomethylhydrazine fuel and nitrogen tetroxide oxidizer that will explode upon contact we have sitting in tanks underneath us for landing, and a pistol in Bennet's pocket that could poke a hole through the tanks in a split second – blowing up the Unicorn and rapidly depressurizing the entire K1 station causing it to lose orbital stability and crash into our atmosphere where it will only imperfectly burn up, leaving a debris field a thousand miles long – no, nothing to worry about here.
"None of our cargo is dangerous," says Bennet, simplifying things.
Yablokov pulls himself back to the nose of the capsule. "Only one of you will be allowed out of the capsule at a time."
"That's not going to work, Commander," says Bennet. "We're required to do all of our EVAs in two-man configurations. In order for us to inspect the sensor I need two of us."
"You will have a cosmonaut escort."
"I understand that. But it's a two-person operation, not a precaution. I thought they explained this to Roscosmos?"
"They did. But this is at my discretion."
Even though our suits have gyros for keeping you balanced and emergency jets if you somehow detached from the tether, a space walk can be a terrifying experience – especially on something unfamiliar like the K1.
The technology has advanced some since the first time men drifted out of their capsules. It's now NASA and iCosmos's standard procedure to carry a small rescue drone that can retrieve an astronaut that drifts too far away. Thankfully, this has never had to be used on an iCosmos mission.
But I'm sure as the rapid pace of orbital construction continues, that will come in handy.
For now, we try to keep one person focused on the task and another to watch them, making sure they don't get tangled up or disor
iented.
Yablokov stares at Bennet, trying to read the man. Bennet does a lot better at not flinching than I do.
He has that confident trait of making his point, then not arguing; ready to wait the other out.
"Fine," says Yablokov. "Which astronaut would you use?"
"Peterson," replies Bennet.
Peterson? She's not even an iCosmos employee.
Stay cool, David.
"Alright." Yablokov points to me. "He waits here during EVA."
Why do I get the feeling I'm a hostage in something I don't understand?
8
BABYSITTER
AFTER CHECKING their suits and grabbing some tools from the trunk under Yablokov's watchful eye, Peterson and Bennet glide out of the hatch.
As he passes me, Bennet gives me a quick glance that says a thousand words, none of which are answers to the burning questions in my mind.
I wait for the sound of them going through the docking module airlock, then slide over to Bennet's console, ostensibly to watch the camera feeds from their helmets as they do the totally fake inspection.
When I try to pull up the signal there's nothing. Neither of them is transmitting.
That's just odd. There's no way you'd pull this kind of thing off without someone at Mission Control monitoring everything from what you're doing to solar flare activity and foreign object paths.
Granted, our suit computers track every lost lug nut and wrecked satellite in orbit, giving us a 3D display of where everything is, plus monitor space weather, but you still want a set of eyes and ears on the ground checking on you every few minutes.
Should I radio Bennet and ask?
No. This is intentional. He shut their cameras down for a reason. He might put them on during the space walk, but I doubt that.
He asked if I trusted him. The answer is "yes," I trust Bennet. I'm not so sure about the guy I've been around for the last few hours. Especially now that I know he's up to something.
Whenever you hear about a workplace tragedy where a coworker flips out and starts killing people with an AR-15 they brought to the office, the survivors often describe the tragedy as coming out of nowhere.