Godlike Machines by Jonathan Strahan [Editor] Page B

various housekeeping tasks aboard the Tereshkova. Since we were only able to use the low-gain antenna—the high-gain antenna had failed shortly after departure—the data that the Progress had already sent back needed to be organized and compressed before it could be sent onwards to Earth. All the data stored aboard the Tereshkova would get home eventually-assuming, of course, that we did—but in the meantime I was anxious to provide Baikonur with what I regarded as the highlights. All the while I checked for updates from the Progress, but no signal had yet been detected.
    Without waiting for mission control to acknowledge the data package, I warmed some food for myself, took a nip of vodka from my private supply, and then carried my meal into the part of the Tereshkova loosely designated as the commons/recreational area. It was the brightest part of the ship, with plastic flowers and ornaments, tinsel, photographs, postcards, and children’s paintings stuck to the walls. I stationed myself against a wall and watched television, flicking through the various uplink feeds while spooning food into my mouth. I skipped soaps, quizzes, and talk shows until I hit one of the main news senders. The main state news channel showed me what the rest of the world—or the rest of the Soviet Union, at least—was getting to hear about us. The Tereshkova had been big news during its departure, but had fallen from the headlines during the long cruise out to the Matryoshka. Now it was a top-listed item once more, squeezing out other stories.
    The channel informed its viewers that the ship had successfully launched a robotic probe through Shells 1 and 2, a triumph equal to anything achieved during the last two apparitions, and one which—it was confidently expected—would soon be surpassed. The data already returned to Earth, the channel said, offered a bounty that would keep the keenest Soviet minds engaged for many years. Nor would this data be hoarded by Russia alone, for with characteristic Soviet generosity, it would be shared with those “once-proud” nations who now lacked the means to travel into space. The brave cosmonauts who were reaping this harvest of riches were mentioned by name on several occasions. There was, of course, no word about how one of those brave cosmonauts had gone stark raving mad.
    I knew with a cold certainty that they’d never tell the truth about Yakov. If he didn’t recover they’d make something up—an unanticipated illness, or a debilitating accident. They’d kill the poor bastard rather than admit that we were human.
    “I went to see him,” Galenka said, startling me. She had drifted into the recreation area quite silently. “He’s talking now—almost lucid. Want us to let him out of the module.”
    “Not likely.”
    “I agree. But we’ll have to make a decision on him sooner or later.”
    “Well, there’s no hurry right now. You all right?”
    “Fine, thanks.”
    She had rested less than three hours, but in weightlessness—even after an exhausting task—that was enough. It was a useful physiological adaptation when there was a lot of work to be done, but it also meant that ten days in space could feel like thirty back on Earth. Or a hundred.
    “Go and sleep some more, you want to. The Progress calls in, I’ll wake you.”
    “If it calls in.”
    I offered a shrug. “You did everything that was expected of you. That we got this far ...”
    “I know; we should be very proud of ourselves.” She stared at the screen, her eyes still sleepy.
    “They’re going to lie about Yakov.”
    “I know.”
    “When we get home, they’ll make us stick to the story.”
    “Of course.” She said this with total resignation, as if it was the least any of us could expect.
    Soon we bored of the news and the television. While Galenka was answering letters from friends and family I went back to run my own check on Yakov. To our disappointment Baikonur still had no specific recommendations beyond