Tolerance

Heavy boots struck the steel deck plating. The footsteps echoed with a hollow ring.

"Damn flyboys..."

A man in a work coverall walked along, weaving between the columns, muttering irritably under his breath. Stamped digitally across his chest was the inscription: "Sr. Engineer V. Volkov." He held a small but very bright flashlight in his hands, sweeping its beam across the metal hull looming overhead.

"Everything's fine here, how many times do I have to tell him... Arrogant jackass, obsessed with his resonance."

Normally, the chief engineer himself didn't go on inspection rounds. But first of all, today was the decisive day for Project ‘Varyag’, and he needed to be certain everything would go according to plan. And second, the captain had been buzzing in his ear nonstop about this made-up defect. So today Viktor had made an exception.

The flashlight's beam slid across the fresh heads of fastening bolts, over perfectly smooth welds. The living quarters module looked absolutely solid.

Somewhere in the distance came the murmur of a conversation, though of course the words were impossible to make out. Then something metal clattered to the floor with a clang.

"Who the hell can't sit still in their cabin today?" Out of old habit, Viktor still called every living space a "cabin."

The engineer moved on between the support struts beneath the belly of the colossus. The next section was a transitional one — the so-called truss, built from titanium tubular struts. They formed perfect equilateral triangles. Viktor had always admired this technology. It reinforced the hull's strength while cutting its mass.

On the sea vessels where Viktor had spent half his life, everything relied on mass and the thickness of the metal.

When the first cargo spacecraft launched for the Moon, that was when the era began of hulls that looked like toy papier-mâché models. And yet, this design possessed astonishing strength.

A strange sound, echoing off the metal structures, interrupted Viktor's train of thought.

A chief engineer with his years of experience couldn't afford to let that go unheeded. So he headed toward where the sound had come from.

He reached the balcony of the launch service gallery. But there was no one on the balcony. Only a paper cup lay on the deck. Viktor stepped around a fresh puddle of spilled coffee and approached the edge of the balcony. He leaned over the railing and looked down.

People were converging from every direction on a single spot. From the height of the balcony they looked like ants. After all, the launch gallery was the highest point of the entire complex. But what were they all running toward?

Volkov strained his no-longer-young eyes, but couldn't manage to focus on the tiny point below.

And then, finally, Viktor made out what had drawn the crowd.

On the plaza, in a pool of blood, lay a body with its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. From this height, there was no telling whose it was.

At that same moment, the people below noticed a silhouette on the gallery balcony.

Some woman shouted:

"Up there!"

Faces turned upward, toward chief engineer Volkov. Shouts, gasps, curses rose from the crowd. He recoiled sharply from the railing and froze.

"Son of a..."

One week before launch.

A man in a gray technical lab coat walked down the corridor, a hefty folder of documents tucked under his arm. Industrial sounds carried through the walls somewhere — the crackle of welding, the pounding of hammers, the drone of machinery. Against this backdrop, the man reached a door bearing a gold plaque that read "A. R. Orlov, Captain."

He knocked.

"Come in."

The man with the folder entered the windowless office and closed the door behind him. All the working noise stopped instantly, as if a switch had been flipped.

"Good day, Alexander Romanovich. I've brought the results of the ten-day bench tests. Here," the man walked over and set down the folder.

The captain sat behind a spacious desk covered with various printouts of tables and formulas. He was tracing his finger along the curve of a graph, calculating something in his head.

"Thank you, I'll review it," the seated captain replied without looking up at the man who'd entered — a subtle hint that he should make himself scarce. The man in the lab coat caught the hint instantly and left the office, carefully closing the door behind him.

Only now did the captain notice the folder that had been brought to him. He opened it and pulled out the entire stack of paper sheets. One by one, the pages moved from one pile to another. Orlov devoured every paragraph, studied every graph.

As captain of the country's first interplanetary cargo vessel, he was obligated to know every detail, every nuance of how all the systems worked. All the more so now that the test results were in his hands. The simulation reproduced, in detail, the ship's various operating modes.

The captain, of course, relied on the engineering team for technical matters — especially once he learned it was headed by Viktor Volkov. Orlov had heard a great deal about him: the first man to hold the position of engineer-captain at the dawn of the lunar expeditions. And yet Alexander Romanovich believed that a true captain was obligated to work through everything himself, to be certain of its reliability, and only then to proceed.

For the long haul between Earth and Mars, central command — which many simply called the Center — had decided to return to the earlier crew structure. And so Viktor Volkov took the post of chief engineer, while an outstanding man, Alexander Orlov, was appointed captain. Dozens of successful spaceflights, a hundred percent equipment-return rate. Not a single lost vessel. The whole world already knew his name. And once Project ‘Varyag’ launched, that handsome, fair-haired face with the strong jaw began staring out at people from literally every billboard. Alexander had become the face of the project.

Orlov returned to one particular sheet more than once. A graph printed on it aroused his suspicion. The captain tossed the remaining papers to the edge of the desk and started digging through old documents scattered across it, searching for a specific sheet.

His pen fell to the floor; a few sheets glided off toward the entrance door. Chaos reigned on the desk.

But amid the chaos, he found the one he needed.

Alexander laid both sheets side by side. Using a complex-shaped engineering ruler, he began comparing the graphs. "Natural frequency of truss vibration" — that was the caption on both. What troubled Orlov was that on the new ten-day simulation image, new peaks appeared twice.

The captain picked up the phone and dialed a short number.

"Captain here. Leonid, could you tell me what might cause peaks to appear on the truss vibration frequency graph?"

A monotone mumble came through the receiver. The captain looked at the sheets of paper as he listened to his interlocutor.

"So you're saying this is normal?"

The mumbling started up again.

"Please send Viktor Gerasimovich to see me," Orlov said, cutting the man off. "Yes, right now."

He hung up. About an hour passed before a burly man in a lightweight spacesuit walked into the office. His face was covered by a thick, unkempt beard. He carried a cup of coffee in his hand. Without asking, the man crossed the office and sat down, setting the cup right down on top of the papers. The captain watched him closely, still marveling at his chief engineer's nerve.

"Have some."

"Viktor Gerasimovich, you know perfectly well I can't stand coffee. Why put on this show every single time?" Orlov gestured with his head toward a metal bin near the desk.

It was half full of identical cups. Alexander picked up the cup with the drink he found so distasteful and, with visible disgust, set it down at the far end of the desk.

"Oh, always forget... So, why'd you call me?" Viktor leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together in front of him.

"Take a look at these graphs," the captain turned both sheets toward the chief engineer. "Notice the peaks on the ten-day test graph," he pointed to one sheet. "Nothing like that on the earlier ones," he jabbed a finger at the second graph.

"Romanych, this is bench testing. We ran it for ten days without a single problem. And here you are looking for a drop of tar in a barrel of honey that's ready to launch," Viktor Volkov looked carefully back and forth between the two graphs. "There's nothing alarming in these peaks — obviously a structure this size is going to resonate. And these little spikes just look like statistical noise, nothing more."

"The technicians said the same thing... Statistical noise." The captain's gaze drifted somewhere past his subordinate.

"Is the face of the project getting nervous?" the engineer smiled sardonically. "The tests didn't show anything critical, I went through every result," Viktor nodded at the stack of documents earlier brought to the captain.

"I understand. But I feel like something's wrong..."

"Calm down, Sash. You were made captain," the engineer wrinkled his nose scornfully at the word, "for a reason. No point in whining, we're launching soon."

"Please observe the chain of command. Address me formally. We're not gathered here to split a beer at some bar."

"Oh sure, like anyone could gather with you," Viktor stood abruptly from his chair. "And to think I got called in for such nonsense. Flyboys..." he smirked. "Nothing's ever good enough for you people. Not for nothing did they scrap your department off the lunar rovers. And why on earth did I even agree to this interplanetary business..."

The chief engineer waved a hand and headed for the office door. The captain called after him:

"This is the most important project our country has. Here, everyone is responsible for its success. That's why," Orlov emphasized the word, "the Center reinstated the position of captain. I haven't taken your place."

As Viktor reached for the door handle, he glanced back over his shoulder. A barely perceptible smile had settled on the captain's face. In response, Volkov screwed up his face as if he'd bitten into a lemon, and disappeared through the door.

The captain shook his head, sighed heavily, and bent over his papers once more. Something wouldn't let him rest.

He began flipping through the pages one by one. Some he set aside into a messy pile. Others he stacked neatly. Then he picked up a pencil and started drawing lines, circling standout details.

He opened one desk drawer after another, trying to find the missing pieces of the puzzle. But he couldn't. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but deep down, he felt he needed to understand it right away.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in!"

The door opened, letting the technological noise into the captain's office. Standing in the doorway was a young woman with curly hair, in a dark business suit. In her hand was a paper cup of coffee.

"The chief engineer said you wanted coffee," the girl smiled and held up the cup, as though Orlov might not otherwise understand.

"Natasha, seriously, what coffee?"

"Cappuccino, no sugar."

Orlov merely exhaled heavily. His own secretary, of all people, should know he didn't drink coffee.

"Volkov... You bastard," he muttered under his breath.

The girl had barely opened her mouth to ask what she'd missed when the office filled with a droning hum, which then cut off just as suddenly. A moment later, something loud droned again from beyond the room. Then fell silent once more.

Captain Orlov exclaimed, "That's it!" Because the thrust wasn't constant — it was pulsed. Why hadn't they realized that before...

He began sorting through the papers scattered chaotically across the desk once more. But now he knew precisely what he was looking for.

The door swung shut. The girl realized coffee wasn't needed after all and left. The office sank back into silence.

The long-sought graph was found. Holding it, the captain jumped to his feet, wanting to shout "Eureka!" But as he rose, he jostled the desk. The ill-fated cup of black liquid crashed to the floor. Murky fluid spread across the parquet.

"So there's your drop of tar, Volkov..."

The workers of the orbital shipyard all called the chamber tucked beneath the transparent-segmented dome the "greenhouse," never the "Biological Regeneration Module." Of course, there were no bright flowers or exotic plants here. But it was the one place on the entire station where you could breathe in the real smell of plants, of Earth, of home.

Nearly the entire space beneath the dome was taken up by multi-tiered hydroponic racks. All the plants were lit by LED panels that created an atmosphere of dawn inside the room — standard white light with a faint pink tinge.

Between the rows moved workers in gray-blue greenhouse coveralls, pushing carts loaded with tools, cleaning supplies, and other equipment. One of the workers, a bald elderly man, rolled past a well-dressed man who was in the middle of a video call with someone.

"Afternoon, Konstantin Dmitrich," the worker said without looking, passing the man in the suit and rolling on without waiting for a reply.

"Afternoon," the man in the suit muttered back and glanced over his shoulder. Then he went right on talking cheerfully into the phone in his normal, upbeat voice. "Yes, yes, son, the internet's back up here, so Dad can call you. Look, I'm breathing actual, reeeal air," he drew out the words and, raising the phone above his head, spun around to show his son the towering racks of plants.

No one could hear what Konstantin Dmitrievich's son was saying back — an earpiece was tucked into his ear. He walked up to another rack, this one full of red strawberry bushes. He picked one of the largest berries and held it up to the camera.

"Just like Grandma's garden patch, huh?"

From the far end came a clatter of metal, a crash, a screech — someone had opened the door into the module. Konstantin Dmitrievich glanced toward the doors, though of course nothing could be seen past the plant racks.

The sound cut off just as abruptly, and he went back to his sweet chat with his son.

But he'd end up having to cut the conversation short anyway.

The greenhouse was quiet. Only the faint ticking of sprinklers and the hum of the ventilation created the illusion of nature, letting a person forget, for a moment, the metal of the shipyard and the cold of space.

"Good day to you, Konstantin Dmitrievich," a bass voice broke the silence — Captain Orlov's. He wore the same dark gray coverall many people wore in the living modules.

At that exact moment, the man in the suit had been about to bite into a strawberry for the camera, but froze with his mouth open. Slowly, he turned his head. Once he saw who was addressing him, he hastily said goodbye to his son, promising to call back later.

"The captain himself, Orlov," Konstantin spread his arms theatrically, putting on a show of delight at the encounter. "Pride of the nation's cosmonautics program."

"Oh, stop, you're exaggerating..."

"No, not at all. My son once told me he wants to be like you. Can you imagine?" Konstantin laughed genuinely. "To his own father, no less. What did you need?"

"You're hard to find. I went through the entire living module before anyone told me the director had gone to the greenhouse."

"I love this place — I always spend my free time here. You know, I'm actually the one who insisted this module be built. I read this one psychologist once..." the director snapped his fingers, trying to recall, "Can't remember his name... Anyway, he argued that there's still a lot of animal left in a human being. People always need access to nature. And voilà: nature in the middle of an orbital shipyard."

"I'm sorry, but I wanted to talk about the project."

"Oh? What is it?" Konstantin Dmitrievich finished the strawberry and tossed the stem under the rack. "Let's walk," he gestured for the captain to follow and moved off between the racks.

The director walked ahead, gazing rapturously at the leaves of the various plants. First came the strawberries, then rows of tiny but very appetizing tomatoes. Orlov walked right behind the director, watching him sample fruit from nearly every bush.

"I won't burden you with technical details, but there's a problem... In short, the launch will most likely have to be postponed."

"And what does the engineering department think about this defect? Was the problem found during bench testing?" They'd reached a rack of purple basil bushes, and the director inhaled the scent reverently, filling his lungs.

"I spoke with Volkov, and he thinks it's just noise on the graph..."

"And is there any reason to doubt the chief engineer's judgment?" Konstantin looked closely at Orlov, who remained pointedly silent. Volkov did, in fact, command genuine and enormous authority. "Alexander Romanovich, would you move that ladder over here for me, please?"

He meant the tall ladder gliding smoothly along the very top shelf. The captain didn't refuse to help. He lifted it from the bottom and moved it where indicated.

"For a project of the scale and significance of ‘Varyag’," the director checked that the ladder was steady and began climbing it, "we recruited the best specialists in every field. And I'm convinced that every single one of them, including you, is doing everything within their power for the good of this mission. Or don't you agree?"

Konstantin Dmitrievich had nearly reached the top shelf by now and so had begun speaking louder. Orlov looked up at the director from below and raised his own voice to match.

"I'm not saying anyone's doing their job poorly. Yes, I have a theory. But it's not baseless," the captain pulled a couple of sheets of paper from his coverall pocket and waved them in the air. "As the tests showed, the intermodular truss has its own resonance during flight..."

"Alexander Romanovich, my dear fellow, you've already discussed this with the chief engineer, haven't you?" the director shifted on the ladder, plucking basil leaves off various bushes.

"I told him only part of the problem. Then I cross-referenced it with other data and arrived at a disheartening conclusion."

"Did all this happen during the tests?" Konstantin Dmitrievich, with a small armful of purple leaves in hand, began carefully climbing back down. "Hold the ladder for me, please, I'm coming down."

The captain tucked the sheets back into his pocket, then took hold of the ladder with both hands, steadying it as the director descended.

Once down, he tucked his shirt back into his trousers with one hand and shook out his rumpled jacket. He looked down at Orlov attentively. The director stood nearly a head taller than the captain, though thin.

"I saw that the ion engine pulses fire in a certain sequence and create resonance. And if the engines' resonance coincides with the truss's resonance, fatigue accumulates within the truss structure itself."

"I think you really ought to discuss this with Volkov, not with me," the director shook his head. "I'm not competent in such technical minutiae."

"But it's not within his authority to postpone the launch."

"Nor within mine. You, of course, are the captain. But we can't cancel a project of this magnitude over speculation — even a captain's speculation," Konstantin tucked the basil leaves into his jacket pocket and pulled out a couple of small tomatoes instead. He popped one straight into his mouth and chewed with his eyes closed. "God, it's like they were just picked from the garden."

"My doubts are justified. We're risking the possibility that within a couple of months, our ship will be torn in half by metal fatigue in the truss!"

"You're being dramatic, Alexander Romanovich. The tests would already have shown such a prospect. And Viktor Gerasimovich would certainly have noticed it," a second tomato followed the first. The director bit into it and a trickle of juice splashed onto his jacket lapel. He swore quietly under his breath.

"I'm afraid that given his extensive experience as an engineer-captain, Volkov will never admit I'm right," Orlov stressed the last word with particular emphasis.

"Now that starts to sound like an accusation, my dear fellow. A captain shouldn't throw words like that around. Especially you — you're the face of the project, the cover photo," the director pulled a white handkerchief from his other pocket and tried to wipe the stain off his lapel.

"That's exactly why I came to you. Because this problem needs to be resolved. Otherwise, what use is a 'face of the project' who let a ship crash?"

"Don't talk nonsense!" Whether it was Orlov's words or the tomato stain on his jacket, something was irritating Konstantin Dmitrievich. "There can be no delays, our timeline is fixed. I don't need to explain Hofmann orbits to you..."

"Hohmann," the captain corrected.

"Whatever! The window is short, and we must launch within it. The next opportunity won't come for several years. If the launch falls through, heads will roll. You have to understand how many powerful people have a stake in this project's success. And you can't even imagine the economic scale of the disaster if it collapses."

"Better to lose money and time than to fail the launch in front of the whole world, lose the entire ship, and kill the crew."

"All this over nothing but your doubts. Talk to Volkov and put them to rest. The flight will proceed as scheduled!" the director checked his wristwatch. "I need to go. Goodbye, Alexander Romanovich."

"One more question, Konstantin Dmitrievich."

The director froze, half-turned, and fixed his gaze on the captain's face.

"Why do you need the basil?"

"My wife always cooked meat with it. My son loves it," the director relaxed. "So today I want to make some myself."

"And why'd you climb up there?"

"The tastiest fruit's always up top," a smile flickered across the director's face for a split second. "Worth the risk, for the best of it."

"I'll talk to Volkov. Enjoy your meal."

"Thank you, captain," a distinct note of sadness crept into the director's voice.

Konstantin Dmitrievich turned and walked toward the greenhouse exit. Without turning back, he said as he walked away:

"Don't rush into anything. The price is too high."

Out on the technical platform, work was in full swing. Generators roared, electric motors whined, a giant manipulator arm, its warning beeper blaring, shifted a container while people around it gestured, directing where it should go. Some workers hammered with enormous sledgehammers, driving wedges under the supports; others worked with welding torches, throwing harsh flickering shadows across the structures.

"Don't hold that electrode so close!" the chief engineer's booming voice cut through the noise.

He walked unhurriedly across the platform with a tablet in hand, closely watching what his subordinates were doing.

"If I catch you working without your goggles one more time!" he shouted at a worker cutting metal strips from a sheet, his goggles pushed back onto his helmet. "And put that wrench on properly, you'll strip every nut! One of those nuts costs more than your monthly salary," he snatched the wrench from the young man's hands and deftly fitted it onto the nut, demonstrating how it was done.

"Viktor Gerasimovich!!"

Someone called out to him over the noise. But looking around, Volkov couldn't tell who it was. He handed the wrench back to the young man and gestured for him to continue, then went back to scrolling through something on the tablet.

"Viktor Gerasimovich!!"

Through the shrieking of the manipulator arm, someone's shout broke through again. Volkov tore his eyes from the tablet and looked toward the source. The engineer spotted a figure that clearly had nothing to do with the manufacturing work. He looked closer. Captain Orlov.

"Just my luck..." Volkov muttered to himself and, as if nothing had happened, buried his gaze back in the tablet.

The captain noticed that the chief engineer had spotted him. But he also noted that Volkov hadn't given his appearance much weight. The workers on the platform tracked the captain with their eyes; everyone had heard about the conflict between the two leaders, and they were all wildly curious about Volkov's reaction.

"Viktor Gerasimovich! Did you really not hear me shouting?" Orlov wore the same dark gray work coverall.

Volkov turned smoothly toward the speaker, lowered the tablet, spread his arms wide, and smiled broadly.

"Well look who's out in the field! To what do I owe the honor?" the engineer's voice rang out loud, easily cutting through the surrounding noise.

"I'm here about the same matter. The problem..."

"Where are you taking that?!" Viktor Gerasimovich cut him off and shouted at a worker behind the captain, hauling a hefty barrel on his shoulders. "Give that to Palych!!"

"In any case, I've figured out what's been bothering me..."

But the captain wasn't allowed to finish that thought either. An angle grinder shrieked somewhere overhead, and a shower of sparks rained down right behind Orlov and Volkov.

"Let's go somewhere quieter. We'll grab a coffee under the truss," the engineer gestured for him to follow and walked off.

"I don't..." the captain started to say, but realized Volkov already knew perfectly well that he couldn't stand coffee.

They walked a good distance from the main work zone. Between the struts supporting the ship's hull stood a workbench with a tool board, though it was unlikely ever used for its intended purpose. On it sat a small coffee machine, a pack of disposable cups, jars of sugar and coffee, a glass of water with teaspoons in it. On the board, among the tools, hung an assortment of mismatched mugs belonging to the workers, on hooks.

Volkov set one of the mugs into the machine, poured in coffee, and pressed the button. He turned to Orlov and gave him a look that said, go ahead, start talking.

"The truss's resonance periodically coincides with the pulse resonance."

"I understand that, it's normal for them to line up sometimes," Volkov pulled out a mug full of coffee and took a loud gulp. "But what's the actual problem?"

"None, if it happens once. But in the latest tests, it was clear this repeats at a certain regularity — not just once," Orlov pointed a finger at the truss structure. "And all these joints... they'll accumulate fatigue from pulses like that. By my calculations, in a couple of months the truss will simply tear apart. We won't make it to Mars."

The engineer listened to the captain closely, drinking his coffee. He shifted his gaze to the truss and ran his eyes across the triangular structure.

"Nothing's going to tear. We tested everything, I personally oversaw every stage," Volkov tapped his chest with his free hand.

"Viktor Gerasimovich, I'm not against you. No one's ever run multi-month simulations, right?"

"No one ever does," Volkov grimaced and took another sip of coffee. "When I worked the Earth-to-Moon line, all our intermediate modules were held together with trusses. They proved themselves to be the most reliable design there is."

"Those runs were frequent, but short. We're now responsible for our first," Orlov stressed the word with his intonation, "flight across a distance this vast. I've already spoken with Konstantin Dmitrievich."

"You what?!" Volkov slammed his mug down onto the workbench with a crash, splashing what was left of his coffee, and stepped up almost nose to nose with the captain. They were nearly the same height and stared straight into each other's eyes. "And he agreed with you?"

"Calm down, please. Mind the boundaries," Orlov held up his palms and stepped back slightly. "He agreed with me, but asked that I discuss it with you as well," the captain lied.

Orlov noticed a couple of workers, who'd previously been sorting through some mechanism, now watching them intently.

"You've decided to make me look incompetent over some made-up nonsense you dreamed up!" Volkov clenched his fists so hard his knuckles went white. "Get the hell out of here, before I do something I'll regret," the engineer turned away from him, braced his hands on the workbench, and stared straight ahead.

"I don't have any idea what to do about this problem, but I can't risk the crew's lives knowing there's a chance of this."

"Get out..."

And the captain left. He had no desire to put up with being treated like that, especially since it hadn't accomplished anything. Given his experience, there was no way Volkov would ever agree to delay the flight. In fact, doing so would be, for him, tantamount to signing his name under his own incompetence. The captain walked among the workers, but now none of them found him interesting anymore.

Volkov stood still for about a minute, staring at one point. Then he grabbed a wrench off the tool board and hurled it at the triangles of truss looming above him. The wrench flew with a loud clang, ringing off the hollow tubes of the structure. Volkov, without taking his eyes off it, watched its whole flight. Then he muttered under his breath:

"All those years flying to the Moon, not one truss ever burst. Won't happen here either, nonsense..."

The chief engineer drained the rest of his coffee in one gulp and hung the mug back on the board.

The evening before departure.

The lights on the shipyard never went out. The only thing that reminded people of the time was the clocks hanging in every room. In the main plaza, beneath the galleries surrounding the ship, stood a stone platform topped with a pyramidal structure, each face of which was a clock dial.

A few scattered people crossed the plaza past these clocks. One carried some bulky, unrecognizable equipment, trailing cables behind him across the floor. Another woman, gesturing sharply, was talking to someone over a radio. No one looked around.

From above, Captain Orlov watched the people below. From the height of the launch gallery, they looked like toy soldiers.

Despite the enormous clock face on the pyramid right in front of him, Orlov kept glancing at his wristwatch instead. He held a thin black folder in his hands.

Quiet footsteps sounded behind him.

"Good evening, captain," Orlov turned and saw the director approaching him.

"Good evening, Konstantin Dmitrievich. I was starting to think you wouldn't come."

"I was tempted," the director smiled tiredly. "If it were anyone but you, I certainly would have declined," he scratched the back of his head, his eyes flicking to the folder in the captain's hands. "I imagine you haven't had much time to rest."

"That's exactly what I called you about. Shall we walk?"

Orlov nodded toward the technical platform and started off.

"You're scaring me, Alexander Romanovich," the director shook his head uncertainly, but followed after the captain.

The technical platform was unusually empty. The spaceship hung suspended by cables from enormous cranes. All that remained was to lift it off its supports and rotate it, and the vessel would be ready for launch.

Scaffolding lay disassembled in heaps of piping. All the production debris had already been swept up and bagged near the container. Not a single worker remained.

The captain led the director to a workbench beneath the ship's intermediate truss.

Orlov approached the bench and picked up a heavy wrench from the tool board.

"See those tubes above us?" Orlov pointed the wrench at the triangles of the truss. "This is extremely reliable. A lightweight, incredibly sturdy design. A brilliant invention."

"Captain, I don't think you called me here to give me a lecture," the director walked up to the workbench with easy familiarity.

He took a paper cup from a stack and set it in the coffee machine. Turned it on.

"Yes, of course," Orlov turned his back to the director and, winding up hard, hurled the wrench up toward the very top of the truss.

The wrench flew through the structure, ringing off each part of it as it went, weaving between the triangles, and clattered loudly onto the deck.

The coffee machine beeped. Coffee ready.

"Now listen carefully..." the captain raised a finger to his lips, asking for silence.

The director obeyed. He silently pulled the cup of coffee from the machine and held it in front of him with both hands.

In the resulting stillness, a faint ringing tone stood out. A few seconds later, it faded away.

"Did you hear that ring?"

"Yes, something like that," Konstantin Dmitrievich took a sip of the hot coffee.

"That's the tubes resonating from the impact, in simple terms. And that's what you heard when a small wrench struck them. Now imagine what kind of 'ring' the engine pulses will make?"

"I don't see what you're getting at. The engineers have already worked through this and, I'm sure, accounted for it in the design," the director took another sip of coffee.

"Yes, but they didn't account for the fact that these tubes will accumulate fatigue over months. And the regular engine pulses will keep making the problem worse and worse, until—" Orlov walked to where the wrench had fallen and picked it up. He carried it back and hung it on the board again, striking the panel loudly, "until the ship tears apart. The launch is cancelled."

The captain stood by the workbench, set down the folder he'd brought, and slid it closer to the director. They looked into each other's eyes and said nothing. The director couldn't stand it — he opened the folder, holding his coffee cup in one hand. Inside was a single sheet of paper. The director's eyes darted quickly across the text, widened, his eyebrows shot up, and he snapped his gaze back to Orlov.

"Captain, this is absurd!" the director cried out and flung the folder away from himself. "Everything's ready, we can't cancel! Why did you write this document? I'm not signing it!"

"I don't need your signature. This is a copy. I hoped that once you saw the problem, you'd understand me. But apparently not..."

"Why did you go over my head, over the engineers? Did you talk to Volkov?"

"Yes, he agreed with me," Orlov lied, picked up the folder, turned, and started to walk away.

"Wait, you can't just walk away in the middle of a conversation like this. Did you really send this document straight to the Council?" Konstantin Dmitrievich took a sip of the now-lukewarm coffee and hurried after him.

But the captain didn't answer.

The director pursued him at a quick pace.

"You have a contract, you're obligated to fly! All of humanity is counting on you."

Without stopping, Orlov turned his head and gave the director a sympathetic smile.

When they reached the gallery balcony again, the director couldn't take it anymore. He caught up with the captain and, demanding he stop, yanked at his shoulder. Not tolerating such a rough invasion of his personal space, Orlov made a lightning-fast boxer's move — a sharp pivot followed immediately by a straight punch to the nose.

The cup fell. The remains of the cold coffee spread across the floor. The director covered his nose with both hands and tilted his head back, trying to slow the bleeding.

"Son of a—" the director lisped through his hands.

"Don't touch me!" Orlov jabbed a finger into his opponent's chest. "I'm telling you the ship isn't ready, that people could die, and all you care about is the schedule and what the Council will say."

"What are the odds this even happens? This is just your speculation, your fear," the director pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the blood on his face, only managing to smear it further.

"Even the smallest chance is enough to call off the flight! I won't risk people's lives."

"If there's no launch, heads will roll — I already told you that. And mine will be one of the first. And I have a son at home..."

"You have a son..." Orlov lowered his hand, no longer pointing at him. "Everyone on this ship has families too."

"Captain. The Council isn't just a group of bosses. If this project falls through, they will absolutely destroy everyone they consider responsible."

"Listening to you, you'd think this project was run by some mafia. We're not in a movie, Konstantin, wake up! Living people are going to fly on that ship. I won't risk them," Orlov cut off with a gesture and walked over to the railing.

The clock on the main plaza showed less than twenty hours to launch. People still bustled busily across the plaza below, and still, none of them looked up.

"Alexander Romanovich, we don't have another choice," the director walked over and stood beside the captain at the railing. They both watched the clock hands relentlessly closing in on the moment of launch. "I'll explain everything to the Council, your document will get lost. As for this," he gestured at his nose, "I won't report it. Just, let's..."

"No, Mister Director. I was counting on your conscience. I haven't submitted any documents yet..." he waved the folder in his hand, "this is the original. And Volkov and I never agreed on anything — he's a stubborn old devil."

The director froze and fixed his eyes on the folder. He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket, leaving the now-dried blood under his nose.

"But I am cancelling the launch, we need more tests, without them—" Suddenly, right at that instant, the director lunged forward, grabbed the folder with both hands, and rammed his shoulder into the captain. He tried to tear the folder free and shove Orlov aside with his shoulder, but the captain, despite being shorter, was built far more solidly and only staggered slightly. Orlov growled and, letting go of the folder in response, shoved the director away with both hands.

The force of the push sent Konstantin stumbling backward until his back hit the railing. And here his height played a cruel trick on him. He toppled over the rail, cried out, and only by some miracle managed, at the last instant, to catch the railing with one hand, dangling dozens of meters above the plaza. The black folder with the document sailed down into the void.

The director, in shock, lost his voice, his mouth opening and closing silently, like a fish.

The captain swore briefly at his own clumsiness. Driven by reflex, he ran over and grabbed the director with both hands. He pulled upward, but the man only got in his own way, kicking his legs and dragging himself further down.

"Damn it, grab on with your other hand!"

And Konstantin grabbed on. But instead of the railing, he seized Orlov's sleeve in a death grip. The captain, with all his strength, tried to haul up the thrashing director, but his boots kept treacherously slipping on the floor.

The director yanked hard, trying to pull himself up. The captain lost his balance. He pitched forward under the weight of the man hanging from him, and the momentum carried him over the railing as well.

But the captain had nothing to grab onto. With a short cry, he plummeted downward. The rescued director tumbled back over the rail and sat there, leaning his back against it.

He couldn't calm himself, his whole body shook, his hair was plastered to his forehead, and his entire face was covered in sweat.

The sound of the fall reached him.

On unsteady legs, the director peered over the railing. A body lay below in an unnatural position on the plaza. Scarlet blood spread slowly beneath it. People were already running toward the fallen captain. The director recoiled from the railing.

He murmured, almost soundlessly: "How am I supposed to fly now..."

He looked around, making sure they'd been alone on the balcony. He noticed the beam of a flashlight flicker across the technical platform. And without looking back, the director ran off toward the gallery stairs, down and away.

A few moments later, chief engineer Viktor Volkov appeared on the balcony. He swept his flashlight over the railing, over the cup with its puddle of spilled coffee. Slowly, he walked toward the railing...

The room was dim. A box of gray, bare walls with a single door, lit by one lamp. As for furniture: only a metal square table and a pair of chairs, on which two men sat.

"Viktor Gerasimovich, I'm sorry, but I have orders..."

"Pash, are you seriously buying into this? And this — is this really necessary?" Volkov raised his hands, bound at the wrists by a plastic zip tie.

"Protocol... Has to be done...," the round-faced young man hesitated, waved a hand, and cut the tie with a small knife.

The plastic fell onto the table. Volkov exhaled with satisfaction and rubbed his wrists with his palms. He rotated his hands, working out the stiffness, and set them on the table. He looked intently into the young man's eyes.

"You're a sharp mechanic, good hands. How the hell did you end up in security..."

"Someone's got to keep order," Pasha shrugged. "And it's not a bad gig... wasn't, until today."

"Sure, real vacation spot."

Pasha smirked but quickly composed himself and turned serious.

"Viktor Gerasimovich, you understand how this looks, don't you?"

Volkov leaned forward, looming over the table.

"And what do you think, yourself?"

"Everyone knew you and Orlov argued badly. And you were seen on the balcony right after the fall... There are only two possibilities."

"Go on then," Volkov nodded. "Say it."

"Either you saw him jump. Or... it turns out you pushed him."

"No, it doesn't 'turn out' at all, damn it!" Volkov slammed the table. "Sasha was a real pain in the ass, but I wouldn't kill a man."

The engineer looked away, fixing his gaze on the gray wall. He replayed that moment before his eyes again, but there was nothing more to add.

"I didn't even know it was the captain who fell. You're the one who just told me that."

"Did you see anyone?"

"No, I already said. I went toward the shout, and then... I saw the body."

"I believe you, but you understand..."

The door opened. Backlit from behind, a tall figure was outlined in the lamp's glow. The silhouette stepped into the room.

Konstantin Dmitrievich walked up to the table and set a pair of coffee cups on it.

The young man from security shot up from his chair and stood at attention.

"Sir—"

"Leave us," the director cut him off, sat down in his place, and slid one cup over to Volkov.

The tone left no room for argument; Pasha simply nodded briefly, exchanged a glance with the engineer, and quickly slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. The lock clicked.

"Viktor Gerasimovich, the situation is catastrophic," the director began, and took a sip of coffee. "And it's shaping up... not in your favor. You were seen on that balcony. The whole staff has heard about your quarrel with Orlov," the director took another sip and set the cup down.

"I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I honestly don't know what happened there."

"I believe you. And I can help you," the director said, nearly whispering, leaning over the table, glancing at the door out of the corner of his eye.

"Say it plainly. I know there's some condition attached."

"The flight has to happen."

"What?!" Volkov leaned back in his chair and gave a quiet laugh. "We don't have a captain, what the hell flight are you talking about?"

"But we have you. Everyone knows about your invaluable experience as an engineer-captain."

The engineer's face turned to stone, his smile vanishing into his beard. He picked up the coffee cup, turned it over in his hands, and set it back down.

"If you take command of the ship, Orlov's death will be ruled an accident. I guarantee it," the director said, his voice returning to its usual tone.

"I... of course I wanted to be captain, but..." Volkov shook his head and lowered his gaze. "Not at that price. A death like that, horrible..."

"Undoubtedly, a great loss for us. But I think the captain would have approved of your candidacy."

"The hell he would have!" Volkov waved a hand dismissively.

"Are you agreeing to this? There's less than ten hours until departure."

"Do I even have a choice?"

"You're right — you don't. Departure's tomorrow... today at noon, now," the director rose abruptly from the table and accidentally knocked into it.

Konstantin swore quietly.

The cups on the table shook and threatened to tip over. Volkov caught his own; the other one fell on its side, and a puddle spread across the table. A trickle reached the edge, drops beginning to fall one by one onto the floor.

Volkov looked at the cup he'd saved, still in his hand. He didn't feel like drinking at all, and set it back down on the table.

"Konstantin Dmitrievich!"

The director turned, having already reached the door, knocking on it.

"Orlov couldn't stand coffee," Volkov said, staring at the spilled puddle.

"So?"

Volkov shifted his gaze to the director, but said nothing.

"I'll pass that along to security. We'll look into it," the director wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief.

The lock clicked and the door opened.

"They'll issue you new clothing and brief you shortly," the director had already stepped out, but glanced back into the room one last time, "get some sleep."

Volkov silently watched the drops fall, one by one, growing the puddle on the floor.

Volkov sat firmly strapped into his seat by the harness straps. Above his position, mounted on the wall, hung a plaque reading "Captain."

Only one seat in the cabin sat empty — the "Chief Engineer's." Volkov would have preferred to remain in that one, but the information monitor and the link to the launch site existed only at the captain's station. And he — was now the captain.

The rest of the officer crew occupied the remaining seats. The regular crew were in a different compartment.

Everyone wore protective spacesuits and helmets equipped with internal comms.

But the channel stayed silent.

Some crew members stole sideways glances at the new captain. Others looked away whenever the commander's eyes landed on them. Still others sat with their eyes closed, simply waiting for launch.

Volkov stared at the information display a meter in front of him, running through every parameter. Everything read normal.

"Let's go!"

The loud voice of the former chief engineer, now captain, cracked through the silence over the comms like thunder, and was swallowed back into it just the same. The emotionless, robotic voice of the launch site controller answered in the affirmative. The crew said nothing.

Creaks and metallic clanks sounded from outside. The clamps released. Then came an even droning, gradually rising in pitch. The launch engines began their work. The ship vibrated, and every crew member felt it in their gut. Viktor didn't close his eyes for a second — he watched the graphs on the screen. Peaks appeared on the resonance curve.

"There they are. But they were always there..." the new captain whispered.

"Separation confirmed," the emotionless robotic voice announced over the comms.

A few minutes later, the launch module completed its task. Volkov tapped the screen, and the module detached and headed back to the shipyard.

The ship's commander gave the crew the order to unstrap, activated the artificial gravity, and gave the order to resume normal duties. Someone's microphone crackled as if they wanted to respond, but just as suddenly went quiet. Everyone dispersed throughout the ship. The Peter the First set its course for Mars.

Two months after launch.

The flight had, on the whole, gone smoothly.

The brand-new ship, freshly off the slipway, rarely gave anyone cause to work. From time to time there were minor issues that hadn't shown up in the simulations — but of course, no one could predict in advance a burst gasket or a loosened bolt.

Former chief engineer Volkov sat at his large work desk. The desk was bare: nothing on it but a large, dark monitor and a desk lamp screwed down to the surface.

In his hands he held a large mug of hot coffee. Thin steam curled up from it, and the cabin was filled with the aroma of coffee.

"Viktor Gerasimovich, there's something strange here," the young mechanic burst into the open door of the engineer-captain's cabin without knocking, as the new plaque now read.

"What is it, Van?" Volkov sat in his large chair, in the half-dark.

The young man had brought several sheets of paper with him. He laid them out one by one on the desk in front of his boss.

"These are the truss vibration graphs. I've been watching for several days, and they aren't dying down..." Vanya scratched the back of his head and hesitated, "they seem to be growing, if anything."

Volkov shifted his gaze sharply to his subordinate, but said nothing. The young man stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot, unsure what to say next.

"Your thoughts?"

"Well... honestly, I don't really know. This wasn't in..."

"A lot of things weren't in there," Volkov cut him off and paused a long moment, taking a swig of coffee. "How long has this been going on?"

"A few days."

"Are you an engineer or not? Be specific."

"I've been monitoring it for four days now. And the amplitude isn't dropping."

"Rising?"

"Not yet, but..."

"Then keep monitoring it, but don't panic. You're observant, good work — you'll go far."

Vanya started nodding rapidly and gathering up the papers, but the engineer-captain firmly placed his hand over the sheets and shook his head.

"Go on."

Left alone in the cabin, Viktor Gerasimovich set his mug down on the desk, leaned in, and looked over the graphs again.

"Well, it can't just keep rising. It'll come back down."

Volkov pushed the papers to the edge of the desk, but didn't put them away in a drawer. He leaned back in his chair and simply stared at the ceiling. He exhaled heavily and pressed a button, switching off the lights in the cabin.

Darkness joined the silence.

Three months after launch.

Only one light source showed in the porthole glass — the reflection of the desk lamp. Everything else was impenetrable, coal-black emptiness. But Viktor Volkov loved looking at it. He could gaze at it for hours, feeling as though he were staring into the depths of his own soul, just as empty inside.

The monitor, as always, sat dark. The papers with the graphs lay at the edge of the desk, yellowed now, worn soft at the corners.

Central command kept demanding constant reports from the ship, but Volkov's authority let him ignore their requests for long stretches, citing completely made-up excuses. No one believed them, but everyone played along.

Volkov marveled at what a stir there'd been around this project, how many resources had gone into building the ship Peter the First — and now everything was done half-heartedly. Month after month, this flight had come to resemble a routine ocean crossing between America and Africa, rather than the country's first interplanetary voyage in history.

A knock at the door pulled Viktor from his thoughts. Right after the knock, without waiting for a reply, Vanya walked into the cabin. He again carried a stack of papers in his hands.

"Viktor Gerasimovich, this is important!" he shook the papers in front of him.

"Well, given how many pages you've printed this time, I've no doubt it's important," Volkov walked over to the desk and sat down on top of it.

"My suspicions were confirmed."

Vanya spread the papers across the desk. They showed various curves marked up heavily with marker pen.

"During engine ignition, a pulse occurs, see here," he jabbed a finger at one graph, "and the truss itself 'plays' at a certain amplitude on its own. And they line up too often."

Volkov's face turned serious. His brow furrowed, deep lines cutting across his forehead. He didn't comment on the young man's words, but bent over the sheets and studied each one closely, his eyes darting back and forth.

"I see they haven't gone beyond the safe range yet," Volkov's finger traced invisible lines over one of the graphs, and he looked at Vanya.

"Right, but the trend is upward. Almost every jolt rocks it harder than the last. I'm worried..."

"Vanya, you're an engineer! An engineer doesn't get scared. An engineer sees a problem and looks for a solution. Fear isn't a solution. Do you have one?"

"I thought maybe we could try rocking it in the opposite direction. Dampen the oscillation that way," the young man suggested uncertainly.

"The metal won't hold up," Volkov shook his head.

"Then... I'll think about it some more."

"That's the right answer. As an engineer..."

And at that moment, the ship lurched, as though it had struck something. Volkov grabbed the phone receiver and punched in the numbers.

But no answer came. Only long dial tones. He tried again, with no success.

"Get down to the engine room, check everything, and report back what the hell that was," Volkov ordered.

The young man nodded quickly and shot out of the captain's cabin. The captain himself began pacing back and forth. Hitting an underwater swell in the ocean could happen easily, and this had felt similar. But out here in open space, there was nothing to "strike." If some object — a cometary fragment or a shard of ice — crossed their path, it would simply hit the bow shielding. The crew inside would never even know it had happened.

Unpleasant gears started turning in the engineer-captain's mind, gears his young protégé's calculations had just oiled, and the jolt had set them grinding into motion.

Experience told him that, after all the tests it had passed, the ship was fit for a safe journey. There was no problem that couldn't be solved. But something inside his chest scraped at Viktor's soul... call it instinct, call it fear, it made no difference.

The phone rang. Volkov crossed the entire cabin in a single bound and had the receiver at his ear. He listened to what he was being told. And said nothing.

The ship jolted again, hard enough that papers lying at the edge of the desk went sliding off. Volkov nodded, more to himself than anyone, since no one could have seen it anyway.

"I'm coming down to the control station!"

Moments later, engineer-captain Viktor Volkov stood at the console, staring at the screens. Some readouts blinked red.

"Trajectory deviation."

One of the officers, standing at another screen, said this without looking at Volkov, without even confirming whether he'd heard. But Volkov heard everything. His mind greedily seized every piece of information from every source and processed it, searching for a solution.

But nothing like this had ever happened in all his years of experience, and a new solution had to be found. Urgently.

The ship lurched hard again, and Viktor noticed something strange. Pens and paper clips slid across the panel, as if the floor had tilted.

"What the—"

"We're spinning!" the same officer cried out.

"Viktor Gerasimovich, the truss structure's ruptured in one spot!" Vanya shouted from across the room. He stood at a monitor displaying the same curved lines he'd been bringing his boss on paper.

The captain closed the distance in a couple of strides and stared at the graphs. The peaks he'd seen before now looked like a wall rising up in the middle of a field. Now, even to the naked eye, it was obvious this was nowhere near any acceptable tolerance.

"We're off trajectory!" someone shouted.

"If we don't get back on course, we won't have enough fuel to reach Mars, we need to do something," Vanya said, half explaining it to himself, half to the captain.

Volkov closed his eyes. He pictured himself outside the ship. He saw the vessel flying, spinning around its own axis.

"Two minutes to the point of no return!"

He saw several of the tubes in the triangles of the intermediate truss burst apart. There was nothing to be done about them now. But they had to get back on trajectory.

"One minute to the point!"

Vanya patted Volkov's shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked at the young mechanic with a kind of detachment. Then he walked to the center of the console. And, without a word, pushed the throttle all the way forward.

The machinery in the engine compartment could be heard roaring to life, the drone rising to a near-deafening pitch. The ship shook violently. One of the officers lost his footing and fell to the floor. Volkov kept his feet and returned the throttle to its previous position.

"More beams just ruptured on the truss!" Vanya shouted.

"We're not back on trajectory! We only bought a little more time," the officer said, trying to get up off the floor.

A gaunt, older man ran into the control station, badly out of breath, his face pale. He said, stumbling over his words:

"The living module... it's sealed off! After the last... jolt, the airlock jammed."

"The tubes are bursting, the truss can't take it!" Vanya shouted.

"We're spinning! We have exactly one chance to get back on trajectory!" the officer said, getting back to his feet, standing at the screens again.

Volkov put his hand on the throttle.

"Activate the retro-thrusters! We push with everything we've got!" Volkov gave the order.

"But a burst like that will tear off the living module, the truss can't take that kind of impulse."

"I said activate it! We don't have time to think."

"But there are so many people in there... We can't condemn—"

"Damn it, one chance!" Volkov roared at the officer, but the man froze, unable to bring himself to carry out the order.

And at that moment Vanya bolted across the room, tapped something on the keyboard, and raised his hand over the button. Volkov looked into the young man's eyes.

"On three... Three!"

Vanya hit the button. Volkov shoved the throttle all the way forward.

The ship took such a powerful jolt that not even the artificial gravity systems could compensate, and the crew were flung around the room like toys.

The lights flickered. Alarms shrieked, and dozens of red parameters flared to life on the screens.

For long moments, the room fell into an unnatural silence. Or so it seemed to Volkov, at least.

Several long minutes later, the first to come to and get back on his feet was young Vanya. He walked over to a screen, dragging a badly wrenched leg, and stared at it.

"We're back!" he laughed hysterically. "We're on trajectory!"

But no one answered. The rest of the crew, scattered across the room like bowling pins after a solid strike, were only starting to come around.

Next to rise was the officer who'd refused to carry out Volkov's order. A trickle of blood ran down from a gash above his eyebrow. He, too, walked over to a screen. After a single glance at it, his already-pale face went completely white. Every readout related to the living module glowed red.

The officer's legs gave out beneath him, and he sank to the floor. Drawing his knees up beneath him, he stared blankly into nothing.

Volkov came back to his senses but couldn't get up. He looked at the screens and saw the same thing the disobedient officer had. Viktor lowered his eyes and had no idea what to say. Their happy escape had come at too high a price.

"The vessel Peter the First has successfully reached its destination..."

Viktor's lip twitched, his mouth curling into a barely perceptible smirk. He shook his head and took a swallow of hot coffee from his mug.

"...the crew faced certain difficulties, but under the leadership of Viktor Volkov..."

"Not one word about the dead..."

"...after maintenance, the ship's condition will be as good as new..."

Volkov snapped the magazine shut and set it down on the wide metal windowsill. On its cover was a close-up photograph of Viktor. The headline read: "Cutting a Path to Mars!"

Viktor himself stood on the balcony of a high-rise building, tucked beneath a dome. Through the transparent sections of the dome, two moons were visible: a giant, pockmarked stone and a tiny, bright dwarf.

He took another sip of his coffee.

"Man, this coffee here is garbage. Now I get it, Sash!" the engineer-captain raised his mug toward the sky.

A memory surfaced in his mind — the evening he'd last seen the captain, or rather, the captain's body. A quiet evening, the echo of footsteps, someone's argument on the empty platform, a clang, a cry. Viktor remembered how he'd run toward that drawn-out cry, how he'd stepped around the puddle of spilled coffee, how he'd looked down and seen the body...

"Someone had been up there with him..."