Page 21 of Stars
One chuckle, a forced exhalation. Sasha thrust out his folder. “Better, Doctor. I’m cleared to finish training. All that is needed is your sign-off.”
Dr. Worrell tilted his head. His gaze shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Shut the door, Sasha. Let’s chat.”
Blyad. Fuck. Should he turn and run? Flee while he had the chance? Flight surgeons were not to be trusted.Let’s chat.Let’s clip your wings. You’re grounded.
Double fuck. What if Dr. Worrell had heard about him? What if Dan or Mark had lied? What if they had gone straight to Dr. Worrell, and this was all an elaborate ploy to flush him from the program?You almost made it to space, Andreyev. But you arepidor.
What if Dan wasn’t even gay? What if everything, all of it, was a trap?
His mind swirled, panic breeding dire betrayals as fast as his paranoia could spin them up and spit them out. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, the grinding of his molars the only sound in the office after theclickof the closing door. He perched on the edge of the stuffed chair in front of Dr. Worrell’s desk, his back ramrod straight like he was about to punch out of his jet.
Dr. Worrell folded his hands over each other on the desktop. “Sasha, what is it you think is going on right now?”
“You tell me, Doctor.”Reveal nothing.He would become a KGB training officer’s dream.
Dr. Worrell waited, silent.
A clock ticked. A watch’s second hand moved.
“I thought I passed every medical test!” Sasha exploded. His nails dug into the folder until the cardboard creased. “I have no dings! Everything was cleared!”
“You’re in peak physical condition, Sasha. You’re one of the healthiest astronaut candidates we have, and that’s saying something.”
“Then—”
“Do you know how we pick astronaut candidates?”
Sasha shook his head.
“It’s not just flight records and military achievements or scientific research progress. It’s not being the best of the best of the best. Astronauts, in general, have worked harder than everyone else has their entire lives, and they have achieved their successes because of that drive to be the best. But a good percentage of our astronaut corps would also qualify as B or C students in college. Brain smarts aren’t everything.”
Sasha stayed silent. He had never been to college. He had a Russian aviation degree, a piece of paper that claimed his five years in military flight school equated to an advanced degree. He was lucky he knew how to read.
“It’s a balance that we search for—between individual strength and group cohesion. Independent spirit, self-reliance, and self-resilience. And conversely, group compatibility. We balance how well a candidate survives on their own with how well they thrive in a group. Can an astronaut, for example, be a relied-upon member of the crew, so much so that other people are willing to put their lives in his or her hands?” Dr. Worrell held Sasha’s stare. “And, if an astronaut were to face the worst, could they carry on and do what was needed?”
His heart beat faster than the ticking clock. He felt his ribs tremble double time, shaken by his thundering heart.
“You’re one of the strongest, most self-reliant people I’ve ever met,” Dr. Worrell said. “There’s no doubting your individual strength. I can tell you are a survivor. Buuuut,” he added, stretching out the word carefully, “how are you with the group? When you go up into space with six other people, living in a tin can for months on end, how will you manage that? How are your bonds with others? Putting it simply, Sasha: do you trust other people enough to let them in? And not just put your life in their hands, but accept the responsibility of havingtheirlives inyourhands?”
Sasha’s gaze fell to the carpet. He knew what he had to say. He felt the words growing inside him, vowels and consonants like bombs going off, the nightmares he had of speaking them aloud shrapnel that ripped apart his insides. He shook his head. Closed his eyes.
“In my past, I was not good with teams. I was a loner in the military. I kept to myself. I… was picked on for that.” He looked away. “It took a long time for me to trust anyone. Things happened to me.”
“I know, Sasha.” Dr. Worrell’s voice was quiet. “You have an amazing resilience. It’s always been one of your strengths. We’ve seen it in the program over these two years. Can I ask, where does it come from? What helps you the most?”
He didn’t know how Dr. Worrell would feel about where much of that resilience came from. How would he react to Sasha’s drug-fueled spirit quest with a shaman in the Siberian hinterlands? Spirit-walking Sasha murdering his attackers, a victory rewrite of his life’s worst moments? His was a Siberian psychology, not an American one.
“Friends in Russia,” he said. “And… spiritual guidance.”
“Religion is a source of comfort for many. As is a spiritual leader.”
Kilaqqi. A shaman and a father figure. And a man as mysterious to Sasha as ever, no matter how closely their souls had mingled on the spirit plane.
“I’ve made friends here, too. Mark, and Dan Hillerman.” He breathed deep. Looked up. “I came out to them this week.” He clamped his jaw shut before Dr. Worrell saw it tremble.
Smiling, Dr. Worrell nodded. “I’m glad to hear that you trusted your friends with such a critical part of yourself.”
Sasha’s gaze narrowed. “Youknew,” he spat. “You knew I was—”
