The Baikonur Cosmodrome wasn't built for glory. It was built for desperation.
Jake stood on the frozen steppe. The wind whipped his coat, stinging his face with ice crystals.
In front of him, the N-1 rocket loomed. It was a beast. Black, ugly, covered in scaffolding.
It didn't look like a spaceship. It looked like a silo turned inside out.
"The pulse drive is unstable," Lysenko shouted over the wind. "The shielding on the reactor core is... theoretical."
"Will it fly?" Jake asked.
"It will go up," Lysenko said. "Whether it stops or explodes is up to God."
Jake looked at the three men standing near the gantry elevator. They wore heavy pressure suits that looked like deep-sea diving gear.
The suicide crew.
Major Gagarin (no relation to the history Jake knew). Captain Titov. Lieutenant Komarov.
They were gaunt. Gulag rations hadn't built them for spaceflight. But their eyes were hard.
Jake walked up to them.
"You know the mission," Jake said.
"We land," Gagarin said. His voice was muffled by the helmet. "We secure the Tycho crater. We set up the automated turrets."
"And then?"
"Then we wait," Gagarin said. "For resupply. Or death."
"There is no resupply," Jake said honestly. "Not for years."
"We know," Titov said. "Better to die on the Moon than in Kolyma. At least the view is better."
Jake nodded. He respected them. They were the ultimate Soviets. Fatalistic and unbreakable.
"Good luck," Jake said.
He shook their gloved hands.
They turned and walked to the elevator. They didn't look back.
Jake watched them ascend. They were climbing into a nuclear bomb and lighting the fuse.
"Start the countdown," Jake ordered.
Antarctica. Neuschwabenland.
The German base was hidden in an ice cavern, carved by geothermal vents.
Wernher von Braun (the clone created by German intelligence using stolen notes, or perhaps just a brilliant disciple using his name) stood by the console.
"Radar contact," the operator said. "Massive thermal bloom in Kazakhstan."
General Kammler, head of the SS secret weapons division, stepped forward.
"They are launching?"
"Yes, Herr General. The signature is... wrong. It's too hot. Too dirty."
"Nuclear," Kammler realized. "They are using a pulse drive."
"They will beat us there," the operator said. "Our chemical rockets are three days slower."
Kammler smiled. It was a cruel, twisted expression.
"Let them be first," Kammler said. "Let them land. Let them set up their little flag."
He turned to the launch pad visible through the blast glass.
The German rocket, the Valkyrie, stood gleaming silver.
"We are not going to the Moon to occupy it," Kammler said. "We are going to cleanse it."
He patted the console.
"Load the Sun Gun payload. The orbital mirror. We will burn them off the surface like ants under a magnifying glass."
"And the Americans?"
"Let them watch," Kammler said. "Let them see who owns the heavens."
Washington D.C. The Pentagon.
Hoover stared at the red phone.
"Launch detected," General Groves said. "Soviet Union. N-1 Class vehicle. Destination: Lunar trajectory."
Hoover cursed.
"He did it. The crazy bastard actually did it."
"He's using a nuclear drive in the atmosphere," Groves said, horrified. "The fallout trail will drift over China and Japan."
"He doesn't care," Hoover said. "He wants the high ground."
"Our rocket won't be ready for two weeks," Von Braun (the real one) said from the corner. "We are checking the safety protocols."
"Screw the safety protocols!" Hoover shouted. "If Stalin puts guns on the Moon, he holds a knife to the world's throat forever!"
He grabbed a file.
"Project Star Wars," Hoover read. "Kinetic interceptors. Satellite killers."
"It's just a concept, sir. Drawings."
"Build it," Hoover ordered. "If we can't get to the Moon first, we make sure nothing can come back from it."
He looked at the map of the Pacific.
"And send the fleet to the Antarctic circle. If the Germans launch, I want to know. Blockade the South Pole."
"Sir, that's international waters."
"There are no laws in space," Hoover said. "And the ocean is just the waiting room."
Space. High Orbit.
The N-1 shed its first stage.
The explosion of the nuclear pulse charges was silent in the vacuum, but the vibration rattled Gagarin's teeth.
"Stage separation complete," Gagarin reported. "Radiation levels rising. Green zone."
"Course correct," the computer voice (Turing) said in his ear. "Align for trans-lunar injection."
Gagarin looked out the porthole.
Earth was a blue marble. Beautiful. Fragile.
He saw the grey smear of clouds over Russia. The smog of industry and war.
"It looks peaceful from here," Komarov whispered.
"It's a lie," Titov said. "Down there, everyone is eating each other."
Gagarin checked the radar.
"Contact," he said. "Unknown object. Trailing us."
"American?"
"No," Gagarin said. "Too small. It's... biological."
He looked closer.
Floating in the void, frozen but preserved, was a body.
A dog. Laika? No, this was one of the early test subjects.
It drifted past the window, its dead eyes staring at them.
"The road is paved with bones," Gagarin muttered.
"Focus," Turing's voice cut in. "Burn in three... two... one."
The main engine fired.
The G-force crushed them into their seats.
They were leaving home. And they were bringing the war with them.
The Kremlin. Jake's Office.
Jake sat alone. The radio played the telemetry signal. Beep... Beep...
He poured a drink. Vodka.
He raised the glass to the empty room.
"To Icarus," he said.
The scratching started again.
Scratch. Scratch.
Jake ignored it. He was used to it now. It was his companion.
"You can't scare me," Jake said to the wall. "I sent men to the Moon. I am beyond fear."
The scratching stopped.
Then, the vent cover fell off. Clattered onto the floor.
Jake froze.
He walked over. He looked inside.
Nothing. Just darkness.
But on the floor of the vent, there was something new.
A toy soldier.
A Red Army sniper. The one Taranov had given Yuri. The one Jake had sent away with the boy to the Urals.
Jake picked it up. It was cold.
"How?" Jake whispered.
Yuri was a thousand miles away. In a sealed bunker.
"Turing," Jake said. "Is this you?"
The speaker on his desk crackled.
"NEGATIVE. I AM MONITORING THE LAUNCH. I DO NOT PLAY WITH TOYS."
Jake gripped the soldier.
If Yuri wasn't here... and Nadya was dead...
Who put the toy in the vent?
"Taranov!" Jake shouted.
The bodyguard entered.
"Yes, Boss?"
"When did you last hear from the Urals? From the boy's detail?"
"This morning, Boss. Routine check-in. He is eating well. Studying."
"Are you sure?"
"I spoke to the Captain myself."
Jake looked at the toy. It was identical.
"Get me a plane," Jake said.
"Boss, the launch... the Moon landing is in three days. You need to be here."
"The Moon can wait," Jake said. "Something is wrong. I'm going to the Urals."
"It's a blizzard out there. No pilot will fly."
"I know a pilot," Jake said.
He thought of the "Zoo." The children with the helmet interfaces.
"Get me Sasha," Jake said. "The one from the Metro. The one who survived the EMP."
"He's blind, Boss. The microwave burst cooked his eyes."
"He doesn't need eyes," Jake said. "He has the helmet. He flies by wire."
Taranov looked terrified.
"You want a blind child to fly you through a blizzard?"
"Yes," Jake said. "Because he's the only one who won't ask questions."
The Airfield.
The Pe-2 bomber sat on the runway, engines idling.
Sasha sat in the pilot's seat. He wore dark glasses over his ruined eyes. The copper crown was on his head, wired into the plane's instrument panel.
"Ready, Comrade General," Sasha said. His voice was flat. Robotic.
Jake climbed into the co-pilot seat. He strapped in.
"Take us to Chelyabinsk-40," Jake ordered.
Sasha didn't touch the controls. He just leaned back.
The plane taxied.
It took off perfectly. Smoother than any human pilot.
Jake looked at the boy. Sasha was smiling. A beatific, empty smile.
"I can see the wind," Sasha whispered. "It's blue."
Jake shuddered.
He looked out the window. The lights of Moscow faded.
He was flying into the heart of his own darkness. To find his son. To find the ghost.
And behind him, the N-1 rocket sped toward the Moon, carrying the seeds of a new war.
Jake closed his eyes.
"Don't crash, kid," Jake said.
"I never crash," Sasha said. "I am the plane."
They disappeared into the clouds.