Still, he had been shocked and angered when Kondratko, the formerly jolly Russian commander, took him into the noisiest part of the Zvezda module for a private conversation the week before the arrival of Expedition 33 and Zack Stewart’s departure. “They don’t think you’re happy here.”

“Happy? Who’s happy here, Valery?”

“Your health is affecting your work.”

“What the hell are you talking about? When did this come up?”

During years of training, Dale had found Kondratko’s expressions and gestures hard to read. In microgravity, even faint clues vanished. The stocky Russian just floated a meter away, face blank, eyes dead. “It was reported to me last week. Today I received orders.”

“Orders for what?”

“Talk to Houston.”

An hour later Dale was on the radio with Bettyjane Handler, the chief of the astronaut office, who confirmed the news: “Your EKG has been out of family for the past three weeks.”

“And you’re telling me now?”

“It’s fine-line time, Dale. If it were just the EKG, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We had you adjust your diet, remember?” True, two weeks earlier Dale had been advised to temporarily eliminate some of the saltier foods from his intake. “But even with that, your tracings are more erratic and your operational errors are rising.”

“What does Stewart say?”

There was a long pause on the link. “He’s only responded to questions from here.”

He had noticed Zack growing more distant, but assumed that was because his colleague was packing for his return to Earth.

“Okay, fine. What do you want me to do?”

“We want you to take Stewart’s place on 30S.” 30S was the Soyuz scheduled to carry Zack and his two colleagues home in two weeks’ time.

“You’re aborting my mission?”

“Not just us. All the international partners.”

“Fuck that, B.J. They don’t do anything without checking with Houston.”

“Dale, I’m sorry. Tell me…wouldn’t you rather button it up and come home now, rather than press on for another three months?”

“Shit, yes.”

“We’re in agreement, then.”

Dale Scott had been happy to come home early. But while they worked cordially and politely for the next two weeks, replacing Zack’s gear on Soyuz 30S with Dale’s, the two never discussed the matter.

Even after Zack returned and they crossed paths in debriefs or Monday morning astronaut meetings, they never had a private conversation about what Dale had done wrong.

From one of his Russian colleagues, he heard what he had always suspected, that Zack Stewart had informed Houston about Dale Scott’s unwillingness to play with the others…that after three weeks of observation, it was Stewart who had made the call to send Dale home early—incidentally giving himself the U.S. record for time in space.

Fine. Whatever. Dale knew he had underperformed. Had circumstances been reversed, he would have dropped the hammer on Stewart, too.

But what was unforgivable was this: Zack Stewart had been too fucking cowardly to tell Dale face-to-face.

Besides, it was clear that Dale’s problems extended beyond Zack Stewart. Chief astronaut Handler was notably cool toward him…and when, after eight months, Dale realized he had no new assignment, not as an instructor or even as a loanee to one of the new commercial companies, he made plans to get out of Houston.

He was drinking too much. From his childhood experiences with an alcoholic father, he knew that was a bad sign—

His postflight public relations tour gave him the opportunity…he had learned that ISRO, the Indian space agency, was looking for people who knew the Soyuz to help with their version of the venerable Russian craft.

He had gotten a résumé to them, been hired at twice the money he could have expected in a comparable job in the United States (assuming any space-related company would hire a NASA dropout), and the rest, as Dale liked to say, was history.

Now, well, shit had happened, and here he was, once again dealing with the same dynamics that had so frustrated him on earth. Not only Zack Stewart, but Shane Weldon, Gabriel Jones. Bad enough that Indian baggage like Vikram Nayar and Valentina Makarova had come along, but these guys from Houston! For Dale it was like being sent back to junior high school—

Things were going to be different now. He wasn’t going to smile and play the game…. There was no game. There were no rules.

If he wanted something, he was going to get it.

With Valya’s help.

Number one…punch that self-righteous fucker Zack Stewart in the face.

At the moment, however, his perpetual target was up, pushing Harley Drake and his chair toward him.

On the way, they were intercepted by Shane Weldon.

It was time for Dale Scott to declare himself.

“Hey, Shane,” he said, interrupting an intense conversation. “Just wanted to say good luck on the election tomorrow.” He offered his hand, too.

Weldon didn’t hesitate. “You, too,” he said, though it was clear that even saying that much was painful for him.

Then Dale turned to Zack. “Hey, Zack, we haven’t seen each other in a while. Strange to be here like this, huh?”

“Strange is a pretty weak word for it.”

“Sorry to hear about Megan and, well, all that.” Whatever that was; he’d had a tough time getting information on the “resurrection” from Vikram or his little pet, Makali, the so-called exospecialist. But he had the general outline.

“Thanks.”

“I’ve got to ask you one thing, though.” He put his arm around Zack’s shoulder, winking at Harley Drake, who looked as though he wanted to shoot him.

“Yeah?”

“Does this qualify as a spaceflight?”

Dead silence! Oh, it was wonderful! Neither Zack, Harley, nor Weldon had any idea what to say.

Finally Zack found his voice. “Why does it matter?”

“If it is, and you’re the commander…could you work your magic and get me sent home early again?”

He waited for the trio to react to that. Weldon got red in the face. Harley actually rolled his chair six inches closer.

But Zack just stared.

“Hey, I’m just kidding,” Dale said. “Just trying to…lighten the mood.” He backed away. “See you at the polls!”

He turned, feeling really good about himself.

Until he realized that Valya and Camilla were gone.

Fuck. Fucking alien.

ARRIVAL DAY: VALYA

“Where are you taking me?” Valya asked Camilla, as the pair left the Temple and the clustered humans from Bangalore and Houston.

“I want to show you something.”

“Should the others see it, too? Commander Stewart and Mr. Nayar?”

The girl smiled and shook her head. The gesture was rich with dismissal and contempt. “You’re the only one who understands me here.”

She glanced at the purse Valya had been clutching ever since their meeting. (Valya had the strap over her shoulder, and the purse itself tucked behind her right arm.) “Can I see what’s in your purse?”

“Maybe when we get back,” Valya said. “Sure.”

Charmingly, Camilla took Valya’s hand…and, for the first time in hours, seemed like a normal nine-year-old girl.

Valya Makarova had had many strange conversations in her life, seemingly with every trip out of Russia. Her gift for languages guaranteed that, of course; so did the fact that her jobs usually involved translating work, so she was often in situations where people didn’t understand each other. Strangers on buses or in restaurants would realize that this otherwise-grim-looking Russian woman could communicate with them, usually to their relief and pleasure.

For example, when working in Baghdad after the end of the American occupation, she had emerged from her hotel early one morning, hoping to get some exercise before the day’s barrage of broiling heat, to find a skinny older man wearing jeans, a tank top, and a cap from some American sports team doing exercises with recitations that he claimed were the original human root language—her field of interest. They started in Arabic, and shifted to the mutual linguistic ground of American-style English, but were interrupted by the arrival of Iraqi commercial security, who put the run to this fascinating man before Valya could get a name or a cell phone number—