Iterations and other stories (collection)

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.”

“We’ve had a request from the Russians. They, ah, ask that you swing by Mir for a pickup.”

Rackham turned to his right and looked at McGovern, the pilot. McGovern was already consulting a computer display. He gave Rackham a thumbs-up signal.

“Can do,” said Rackham into his mike. “What sort of pick up?”

“It’s a body.”

“Say again, Houston.”

“A body. A dead body.”

“My God. Was there an accident?”

“No accident, Discovery. Yuri Vereshchagin has killed himself.”

“Killed…”

“That’s right. The Russians can’t afford to send another manned mission up to get him.” A pause. “Yuri was one of us. Let’s bring him back where he belongs.”

Rackham squeezed through the docking adapter and made a right turn, heading down into Mir’s core habitat. It was dark except for a few glowing LEDs, a shaft of earthlight coming in through one window, and one of sunlight coming in through the other. Rackham found the light switch and turned it on. The interior lit up, revealing beige cylindrical walls. Looking down the module’s thirteen-meter length, he could see the main control console, with two strap-in chairs in front of it, storage lockers, the exercise bicycle, the dining table, the closet-like sleeping compartments, and, at the far end, the round door leading into Kvant-1, where Yuri’s body was supposedly floating.