Iterations and other stories (collection)

Rackham pushed the left MMU armrest control forward. Puffs of nitrogen propelled him out into the cargo bay. The long space doors that normally formed the bay’s roof were already open, and overhead he saw Earth in all its blue-and-white glory. He adjusted his pitch with his right hand control, then began rising up. As soon as he’d cleared the top of the cargo bay, the Russian space station Mir was visible, hanging a hundred meters away, a giant metal crucifix. Rackham brought his hand up to cross himself.

“I have Mir in sight,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm. “I’m going over.”

Rackham remembered when the station had gone up, twenty years ago in 1986. He first saw its name in his hometown newspaper, the Omaha World Herald. Mir, the Russian word for peace—as if peace had had anything to do with its being built. Reagan had been hemorrhaging money into the Strategic Defense Initiative back then. If the Cold War turned hot, the high ground would be in orbit.

Even then, even in grade eight, Rackham had been dying to go into space. No price was too much. “Whatever it takes,” he’d told Dave—his sometimes friend, sometimes rival—over lunch. “One of these days, I’ll be floating right by that damned Mir. Give the Russians the finger.” He’d pronounced Mir as if it rhymed with sir.

Dave had looked at him for a moment, as if he were crazy. Then, dismissing all of it except the way Paul had spoken, he smiled a patronizing smile and said, “It’s meer, actually. Rhymes with fear.”

Rhymes with fear.

Paul’s gaze was still fixed on the giant cross, spikes of sunlight glinting off it. He shut his eyes and let the nitrogen exhaust push against the small of his back, propelling him into the darkness.

“I’ve got a scalpel,” said the voice over the speaker at mission control in Kaliningrad. “I’m going to do it.”

Flight controller Dimitri Kovalevsky leaned into his mike. “You’re making a mistake, Yuri. You don’t want to go through with this.” He glanced at the two large wall monitors. The one showing Mir’s orbital plot was normal; the other, which usually showed the view inside the space station, was black. “Why don’t you turn on your cameras and let us see you?”

The speaker crackled with static. “You know as well as I do that the cameras can’t be turned off. That’s our way, isn’t it? Still—even after the reforms—cameras with no off switches.”

“He’s probably put bags or gloves over the lenses,” said Metchnikoff, the engineer seated at the console next to Kovalevsky’s.

“It’s not worth it, Yuri,” said Kovalevsky into the mike, while nodding acknowledgment at Metchnikoff. “You want to come on home? Climb into the Soyuz and come on down. I’ve got a team here working on the re-entry parameters.”

“Nyet,” said Yuri. “It won’t let me leave.”

“What won’t let you leave?”

“I’ve got a knife,” repeated Yuri, ignoring Kovalevsky’s question. “I’m going to do it.”

Kovalevsky slammed the mike’s off switch. “Dammit, I’m no expert on this. Where’s that bloody psychologist?”

“She’s on her way,” said Pasternak, the scrawny orbital-dynamics officer. “Another fifteen minutes, tops.”

Kovalevsky opened the mike again. “Yuri, are you still there?”

No response.

“Yuri?”

“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 prelaunch 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.”