The Quiet Cosmonaut

by Philip Charter

Be glorious, our free Motherland

A reliable stronghold of the peoples’ friendship!

Banner of the Soviets, banner of the people,

May it lead from victory to victory!

The lyrics make my heart swell and I wish to sing along. So, taking breath, I open wide and try to belt out the words, but no sound escapes. It never does. I have no voice. Yet, in spite of this, it’s down to me to prove that greatness and Communism are inseparable. In three minutes I’ll open the highway to the stars for Russia.

I climb into the small vessel. The flight module has the appearance of a deep sea diving helmet and is only big enough for one seat and its occupant. Once inside, I enter a composed state and travel to my special place: Planet Quiet. To get there I block out the sounds and smells around me and focus within. By concentrating on the rhythmic beating of my heart and breathing, I carry out orders with efficiency and precision. This is the kind of attitude a cosmonaut must demonstrate. My silence is my strength; it heightens my other senses.

Helmet attached, I fasten the straps of the pilot’s seat. They must be well secured, the same way every instrument in the Vostok 3KA was precision designed and fitted. Although I’m on my own from here, I’m not alone.

The voice in my radio earpiece rings like a school bell. “Colonel Berezutski, Grigori, final systems check.”

RCS and main engine pressure gauges, electrical systems and battery charge—I make the readings and relay them in less time than others can. Morse code from the transmitter fitted next to my right leg is instantly decoded by Russian Mission Control Centre in Korolyov. The countdown drones away in my earpiece. I await further instruction.

I’m on the cusp of pioneering space travel and becoming a leader of the people. Back in Omsk, Father will be proud. My distinguished military career will bring good fortune to the collective farm this year. Mother will smile and toast my success with her friends. Yet, my biggest driving force has been not been the support of my family, but that of Grigori gluppy, or ‘Stupid Gregory’, once a favourite taunt of those at school. Then, the fists of the older boys in the Young Pioneers, and later the measured silences of the other Air Force pilots. They have made me this way: stoic for the Motherland.

As the countdown sequence approaches one minute, the voice at RMCC comes back to life. “Berezutski, fire alarm, sector 7D. Report.”

A warning light flashes and my mind skips forward three moves. If it’s overheating it will be a simple solution: employ the thermo-negative cooling fluid. But, if there’s a fire …

“Code 98, Berezutski. Report before T-minus ten.” I sense the urgency in the normally steady lieutenant’s voice. The whole launch is in jeopardy. My hands are already tearing off the canvas restraints and I roll out of the chair to face the fire. I smell no burning, but experience tells me the blaze could be coming from within the Vostok launch vehicle, housed between the unpressurized compartments of the reentry shell. My internal metronome estimates fifty-two seconds. Stay calm, Colonel Grigori.

When I rip off the control panel I feel no change in pressure. No blast of heat entering the module. No compromise. I return the panel and turn the pressure clamps. Forty seconds. Manoeuvring the SK-1 suit is almost impossible. I buck and pull like a reindeer caught by the farmer’s rope. To have any chance of saving the mission, I must return to the seat and deactivate the alarm. Twenty-five seconds.

Mission control maintains stone silence as I experiment with combinations of switches on the control panel, then perform an engine reboot. A searing bead of sweat drips down inside my spacesuit and I flinch. The clock ticks down to fifteen. Perspiration from my heightened breathing causes my visor to steam up.

The warning light still flashes and I cast my mind back to Command Officer Nizkhin’s lecture on logic gates—two negatives can create a false positive. I will not allow this launch to be postponed again. Twelve seconds. If I am wrong I’ll be reprimanded for activating an abort signal, but it may be too late to save the mission anyway. I reach forward and depress the cabin overheat button. I close my eyes.

“… False alarm signal, Berezutski. Mission proceeds in 10 ... 9 … 8,” says the voice with relief. Sometimes, even hi-tech electronic computer circuits can be outmaneuvered.

Back in position, I squint out of the front porthole. Visibility is poor, the sky an opaque grey. Wind speed is stable and the rain clouds will hold. Five seconds to launch. I tense my muscles, anticipating the force that will slowly build to 9Gs. After hundreds of flight hours and simulations, operations are muscle memory, but, keeping your body and mind together under such stress takes a special energy. Planet Quiet.

“3 … 2 … 1 …”

The engines fire with a furious burst of power. The small craft starts to rumble and finally inches off the ground toward the atmosphere, toward its orbit of 177 km by 471 km with 64.9 degrees of inclination. Toward history.

“Grigori Berezutski!”

Another emergency. What could it be this time? Perhaps a ground technician has seen something. Trajectory issues?

“Stand up this instant.”

The tone is sharp. Such commands cannot be ignored. I unfasten my harness and get to my feet, still crouching inside the cabin.

“What on Earth are you doing? Don’t you know it’s going to rain?”

My spacecraft begins to disintegrate around me. The Vostok 8K72K launch vehicle drops away, hurtling earthward. Next, the RCS propulsion tanks explode—boom, boom! Finally, the module walls buckle and peel away, leaving me exposed to the cool open air.

I motion the outline of my helmet and point to the sky. One day I’m going to be a cosmonaut.

She just laughs. “The dumb can’t be cosmonauts, Grigori. Now get inside before you get that Young Pioneers uniform even muddier.” Mother has interrupted another mission. The control panel in front of me fades and she towers over me with her arms folded across her good apron.

Why do they neglect me? Not one of the other Pioneers wanted to come and play either. They went to Sasha Andropov’s house because his father is a party official, and has a wireless system with dual sound. I struggle to hold back tears.

Mother smacks the dust off my shorts where the vibrations of the launch have caused stains. She ignores my protests and pushes me inside. Sometimes I think she blames me for the deaths of my twin sisters. “At least they could cry,” she once said.

Papa is inside. He sits in the big chair, with his boots off, fiddling with the knobs on the old radio. “Grisha, my boy. Ready for the broadcast? It will be magnificent.” He reaches out, gripping my shoulders as if he is testing the ripeness of a pumpkin. The skin on his hands is tired and worn.

“Don’t touch him, Vladimir,” says Mother. “He’s been rolling around in the mud like a stray dog.” Papa responds with a resigned nod.

Today was supposed to be a celebration—Mother opened a can of meat to eat with the pickles and I hoped Papa would fill three cups of vodka instead of two this time. But the mood feels different now.

The radio crackles into life and I’m transported back to RMCC.

—Young cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin prepares to achieve a great victory for the Soviet Nation. Conditions have been approved and the launch will commence at 1600 hours.—

First, they play the national anthem. Father stands up and we all hold hands.

“Be glorious, our free Motherland. A reliable stronghold of the peoples’ friendship!”

Determined to join in, I try to mouth the words, but the sounds that emerge are broken and deformed.

Mother turns down the volume on the wireless as the second verse arrives. She releases my hand and glares. “Grigori. Do not use that ugly voice. How dare you disrespect the anthem. Shut up.”

I close my mouth and stare at the floor.

Mother looks at Papa until he understands the order and he slaps the back of my head. “If God had wanted you to talk, he’d have given you a tongue,” she says. Then, she measures two more vodkas for her and Papa and turns the volume back up.

Another proud moment ruined. I turn to leave but she catches my arm. “And don’t think I haven’t seen the stains on that shirt, Grigori. You’ll pay for that with the belt.”

I squirm from her grasp and squeeze past her, as though I’m heading for the safety of my pilot’s seat before it’s too late. Papa is slow, and misses me. I make it to the door, pull it open and run out into the rain.

The Omsk sky is dark now, and big rain droplets come crashing down. I run out of the gate and past the Mokhnatkin farm. Soon my white shirt is wet and sticks to my skin. After a minute, I take refuge under a group of fir trees and catch my breath.

All I have ever wished for is the strength to one day become a Soviet hero. Planet Quiet can be a lonely place, yet no more lonely than my life at home. I decide that I will leave this place as soon as I am strong enough.

My internal metronome tells me that the launch will start in ten seconds. I march out to the muddy track and hold my finger in the air to determine the direction of Korolyov.

The sky punishes me by pouring water and I have to fight to keep my eyes open. “You can do it, Yuri! Make Russia proud!” I shout into the rain. I scream, again and again, filling my lungs and straining the muscles in my chest, but no sound comes out.

About the author

Philip Charter is a British writer who teaches writing to non-native English speakers. His work has been featured in Fictive Dream and Flashback Fiction among other publications. In 2018, he released his debut short fiction collection, Foreign Voices. He likes orange cats, but hates oranges. Visit his website at philipcharter.com.

About the artwork

The illustration is Transparency I, Yuri Gagarin 12 April 1961 by Joe Tilson, 1968. In the collection of the Tate Britain, London, United Kingdom. Used here under the Fair Use rationale.