“You would think that the other oarsmen would have been jealous of Khmelnytsky’s favored status, but he never forgot that he was a slave and spent as much time on the oars as anyone. He convinced the admiral to provide more and better rations, and the oarsmen were able to row harder for longer. After a battle in which half the bowmen were killed, Khmelnytsky sold the captain on the merits of unshackling all the oarsmen, so that they might take up the bows of fallen soldiers. This strategy turned a later battle from defeat to victory, and on that night all eighty slaves were invited to join the admiral around a high fire on the beach, where a dozen animals, spoils of the victory, were skewered on swords claimed from fallen enemies and roasted.
“The admiral and Khmelnytsky became great friends. At the end of each campaign, the admiral brought him home to his estate, where the admiral had twenty wives and was willing to ignore it when one of them seemed to favor Khmelnytsky. The two men would stay up late into the night, discussing the great philosophies of the world, arguing over the outcomes of ancient battles, debating the merits of Western and Eastern art. Every meal was a celebration, visited by Ottoman nobles and merchants and generals. These men came not for the admiral, but for Khmelnytsky, the slave.
“Sometimes he would fall silent in a conversation at the mention of a place he had once known. The admiral never failed to notice and understand. He would refill Khmelnytsky’s drink and turn the conversation in a new direction.
“Who knows how many years his life went like this. Certainly not Khmelnytsky himself.
“Back at sea, as he oared, Khmelnytsky watched the coastline slip past through the round oar holes. Only that small circle was visible, but he started to recognize the features of the land, inlets and half-sunken stones, the wide mouth of a river, the delta beyond. It was the Dnieper. The land he saw was his home.
“Khmelnytsky dropped his end of the oar and strode to the prow. He took an officer’s saber right from the sheath. The officer died by his own blade before he could even notice its weight missing from his belt. The admiral turned, saw Khmelnytsky, and smiled. Khmelnytsky nodded to the admiral, and then lopped off his head in one swift, sure stroke.
“Alone on the prow, he turned back. The other Ottoman soldiers were stunned, unable to react. Khmelnytsky nodded once to the other slaves, long since left unshackled, and without further instruction, they overwhelmed the soldiers, whom they outnumbered three to one. Not a single slave died in the mutiny. Few sustained even a scratch.
“The slaves were Poles and Cossacks and other sorts Khmelnytsky could not recognize. But all followed his command when he bade them row up the mouth of the river, against the strong current, to a small town that welcomed them with long docks. The men of the town, at the sight of an Ottoman boat, took up arms. Khmelnytsky greeted them by holding up the severed head of the admiral, offering no other explanation. The former slaves rushed off the boat, especially the Cossacks, explaining what Khmelnytsky had done, the words tumbling out too fast to follow, each version of the story a little bit different.
“When they looked around to find him, to thank him, to celebrate his very name, Khmelnytsky was gone. He had already passed through the town, stolen a horse, and set off in the direction of his family and his home. The former slaves would never see him again, but they would speak of him. They would speak of him to any who would listen.”
“That’s why he’s a hero?” asked the younger Leonid.
“One of the reasons.”
The twins had never left the village. The older Leonid wondered what it would be like to come home after such a long time away. Their cottage emerging in slices through the gaps in the thinning forest. What would he remember? What would he forget?
“Khmelnytsky was a hero, yes,” said Grandmother, “but also a murderer. It’s interesting how one man can be both.”
Star City, Russia—1964
The Chief Designer was halfway through the report before he realized he had not paid enough attention at the beginning to know what it was about. He knew all the terminology, of course, and he understood the equations, but why these terms and these numbers were relevant to him he could not begin to guess. It seemed as if half his time was spent reading reports. He wondered what he might accomplish if he were ever given time enough to actually act. Instead, he relied on the work of a hundred others, conducting them as if they were an orchestra and he the maestro. The Chief Designer did not know much about music, but he was impressed that so many people could all end something at the same time.
He flipped back to the beginning of the report, skimming the first page, hoping the words that would make it all make sense would jump out at him. He did not have time to reread the whole thing again. Six similar reports, each over a hundred pages, crowded the edge of his desk. If half his time was spent reading reports, the other half was spent responding to the authors, many of whom he had never actually met.
A small commotion came from the waiting room outside his office. He heard Mishin or Bushuyev—they sounded so much alike—talking fast, a hint of irritation in his voice. The commotion drew closer to the Chief Designer’s cracked door.
“You can’t go in! He’s very busy.”
The door slung open, and the General Designer loomed in the doorway, Mishin and Bushuyev, looking panicked, behind him.
“I’m sorry,” said one of them.
“It’s all right,” said the Chief Designer.
Of all the people he would have preferred not to see, the General Designer held the pole position, but the Chief Designer had to admit that any distraction from the reports was welcome, even if the person of the distraction was not.
“Come in, General Designer. I’m sorry for the hassle. I asked not to be disturbed today, so Mishin and Bushuyev were just following my orders.”
Mishin and Bushuyev offered a small bow of apology from the doorway, and then one of them pulled the door shut.
The General Designer took a chair facing the Chief Designer’s desk.
“It’s not Mishin and Bushuyev with whom I’m annoyed,” said the General Designer.
“Since you’re here, I’ll assume I’m the source of your annoyance.”
“I’ve been ordered by Khrushchev to assist you. Khrushchev himself! He showed up at OKB-52 and told me to put my projects on hold. I don’t know how you managed it, and I don’t care. I may not like you, Chief Designer, but I never expected you to cheat.”
“First, comrade, what is there at which to cheat? This isn’t a game. Maybe you still think it is because you have yet to risk the life of a single person. Maybe when all you do is perform test after test on rocket engines, you forget that the real test only comes when you affix a man to the other end of the rocket. Yes, what we do is a competition, but it’s not against each other. It’s not even against the Americans. We compete only against gravity. Gravity is my opponent, and only someone with an ego the size of the planet would dare to think that they’re of the same interest to me as the stuff that holds the very Earth together.
“Second, comrade, your problem is with Khrushchev. I didn’t ask him to approach you. If you have a complaint, take it to him.”
The General Designer let out a bitter laugh. “Everyone knows you’ve cast some sort of spell on him. That man adores you, though it’s never been clear to me why. What sway do you hold?”