Viktorenko roared with approval. “It is just like Disney World! Ha-ha! Now, Ralph and Natalie. You must imagine that we are returning to Earth aboard a real Soyuz, perhaps after spending a hundred days or more aboard our wonderful space platform Salyut. We have endured the gentle buffeting of reentry — a mere three or four Gs, thanks to the cunning aerodynamic design of the Command Module — and soot has coated our window following the scorching friction of the air. But we discard our window shields, and we see bright sunlight, a Kazakhstan morning. Now here come the parachutes: the three drogues, crack crack crack in swift succession, and then the main chute, a great white sail above us.” Viktorenko mimed a slow, featherlike rocking. “So we drift downward, like a snowflake, all three tonnes of us…”

She closed her eyes. She was certain something was intended to go wrong, somewhere down the line. It was just a question of when, and how bad it would be, and whether she’d be able to cope when it came. It was like every sim: it was a sadistic game, in which Viktorenko was in complete control. And the bastard knew it.

“And now the moment approaches,” Viktorenko said. “The reunion with the mother planet! But her embrace is hard. So compressed gases have been pumped into the base of your seats, to absorb the shock, you see. And, less than two meters from the ground, retrorockets will fire to cushion the impact. Of course we have no retrorockets, for this is only a training mock-up… Perhaps we will be fortunate, and the wind will be low; otherwise, we may bounce—”

There was a crackle, a brief Russian message on the radio. Viktorenko acknowledged and checked a chronometer.

“Three, two, one.”

Loose cables clattered against the hull. The chopper had released the capsule.

The Command Module fell, dragging her down with it.

The Soyuz slammed against a hard surface, with a vast metallic slap.

The impact was more violent than York had expected. Her ill-fitting couch rammed into her back, all the pressure points gouging her body.

“Fuck,” Gershon gasped.

At least I’m down She glanced around, quickly, at the still, almost silent cabin; she could hear the distant noise of the climbing chopper. Is that it? Is it over? No bouncing, no dragging — are we down?

Then the capsule tipped to her left, quite smoothly, so that her weight was pressed against Gershon’s.

“Fuck,” Gershon said again.

York shouted, “What the hell’s this, Vladimir?”

The window beyond Viktorenko was briefly darkened, though York couldn’t see by what. Viktorenko grinned. “Evidently something has gone wrong.”

The capsule started to roll the other way, to York’s right, and the weight of the two men came down on York again.

Beyond her window, obscuring the glass, water, silvery gray with murk, was bubbling up.