Above It All

“They took the food,” said the voice over the radio, sounding even farther away than he really was, “right out of my mouth.”

Kovalevsky exhaled noisily. It had been an international embarrassment the first time it had happened. Back in 1994, an unmanned Progress rocket had been launched to bring food up to the two cosmonauts then aboard Mir. But when it docked with the station, those cosmonauts had found its cargo hold empty — looted by ground-support technicians desperate to feed their own starving families. The same thing had happened again just a few weeks ago. This time the thieves had been even more clever — they’d replaced the stolen food with sacks full of dirt to avoid any difference in the rocket’s pre-launch weight.

“We got food to you eventually,” said Kovalevsky.

“Oh, yes,” said Yuri. “We reached in, grabbed the food back — just like we always do.”

“I know things haven’t been going well,” said Kovalevsky, “but—”

“I’m all alone up here,” said Yuri. He was quiet for a time, but then he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Except I discover I’m not alone.”

Kovalevsky tried to dissuade the cosmonaut from his delusion. “That’s right, Yuri — we’re here. We’re always here for you. Look down, and you’ll see us.”

“No,” said Yuri. “No — I’ve done enough of that. It’s time. I’m going to do it.”

Kovalevsky covered the mike and spoke desperately. “What do I say to him? Suggestions? Anyone? Dammit, what do I say?”

“I’m doing it,” said Yuri’s voice. There was a grunting sound. “A stream of red globules … floating in the air. Red — that was our color, wasn’t it? What did the Americans call us? The Red Menace. Better dead than Red … But they’re no better, really. They wanted it just as badly.”

Kovalevsky leaned forward. “Apply pressure to the cut, Yuri. We can still save you. Come on, Yuri — you don’t want to die! Yuri!”

Up ahead, Mir was growing to fill Rackham’s view. The vertical shaft of the crucifix consisted of the Soyuz that had brought Yuri to the space station sixteen months ago, the multiport docking adapter, the core habitat, and the Kvant-1 science module, with a green Progress cargo transport docked to its aft end.

The two arms of the cross stuck out of the docking adapter. To the left was the Kvant-2 biological research center, which contained the EVA airlock through which Rackham would enter. To the right was the Kristall space-production lab. Kristall had a docking port that a properly equipped American shuttle could hook up to — but Discovery wasn’t properly equipped; the Mir adapter collar was housed aboard Atlantis, which wasn’t scheduled to fly again for three months.

Rackham’s heart continued to race. He wanted to swing around, return to the shuttle. Perhaps he could claim nausea. That was reason enough to abort an EVA; vomiting into a space helmet in zero-g was a sure way to choke to death.

But he couldn’t go back. He’d fought to get up here, clawed, competed, cheated, left his parents behind in that nursing home. He’d never married, never had kids, never found time for anything but this. He couldn’t turn around — not now, not here.

Rackham had to fly around to the Kvant-2’s backside to reach the EVA hatch. Doing so gave him a clear view of Discovery. He saw it from the rear, its three large and two small engine cones looking back at him like a spider’s cluster of eyes.

He cycled through the space station’s airlock. The main lights were dark inside the biology module, but some violet-white fluorescents were on over a bed of plants. Shoots were growing in strange circular patterns in the microgravity. Rackham disengaged the Manned Maneuvering Unit and left it floating near the airlock, like a small refrigerator with arms. Just as the Russians had promised, a large pressure bag was clipped to the wall next to Yuri’s own empty spacesuit. Rackham wouldn’t be able to get the body, now undoubtedly stiff with rigor mortis, into the suit, but it would fit easily into the pressure bag, used for emergency equipment transfers.

Mir’s interior was like everything in the Russian space program — rough, metallic, ramshackle, looking more like a Victorian steamworks than space-age technology. Heart thundering in his ears, he pushed his way down Kvant-2’s long axis toward the central docking adapter to which all the other parts of the station were attached.

Countless small objects floated around the cabin. He reached out with his gloved hand and swept a few up in his palm. They were six or seven millimeters across and wrinkled like dried peas. But their color was a dark rusty brown.

Droplets of dried blood. Jesus Christ. Rackham let go of them, but they continued to float in midair in front of him. He used the back of his glove to flick them away, and continued on deeper into the station.

“Discovery, this is Houston.”

“Rackham here, Houston. Go ahead.”

“We — ah — have an errand for you to run.”

Rackham chuckled. “Your wish is our command, Houston.”