Thrust kicked, and Otryadyn Batu stole a glance at his companion. Even fearsome, confident Temujin had to be feeling the stress. But he couldn’t read the other man’s expression through the visor.

Batu turned back to the viewport but all he saw was a circle of light-blue Mongolian sky.

Alarms sounded in his helmet and a hundred lights painted the control panel in crimson hues. A voice over the radio shouted something unintelligible in a frightened voice.

He braced himself and fleetingly wondered if he’d return as something better in his next incarnation, before a sudden sideways thrust knocked the breath out of him.

The capsule tumbled violently, end over end, and the noise of the engines became distant. When the movement slowed, another kick started it up again and a hot orange light flashed through the tiny viewport.

His stomach reported he was falling and he had no reference to tell which side was up. A violent jerk stopped the spinning, but the respite only lasted a few seconds before a second colossal impact shook everything, and he felt reality slipping away.

“Batu, Temujin, can you hear me? I repeat, can you hear me?” A woman’s voice, businesslike but worried, a professional working to remain calm.

The voice was clear but Batu couldn’t respond. His head—brain, tongue, everything—seemed packed in wool.

A second voice, a man’s, cut in. “What’s happening?”

“The Chinggis Khan is destroyed.”

“What? Please repeat.”

“The vehicle was lost on takeoff.”

Silence ensued, broken only by occasional bursts of static. Batu found his voice.

“Hello?” he croaked.

“Please get off this channel. This is a military frequency.”

“Naiman?” he said.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Batu.”

Another pause. “Really? You’re alive? How is Temujin?” Naiman’s voice had lost all trace of professional detachment.

“I don’t know. It’s dark in here. Where are we? Did we make it into orbit?” Batu knew they couldn’t have. Not the right one, at least. Something had gone horribly wrong.

“Please check on him,” she replied.

“I can’t reach him. My arm hurts.”

“You can unstrap yourself. Do you see any smoke?”

“No. I can’t see much of anything. Just a couple of little lights from the instruments. Very dim, like they’re low on power.”

“All right, you need to check on Kovalev.”

He wanted to ask her where they were, but the habit of doing precisely what Mission Control ordered took over. He pawed at the button on his five-point harness. It was designed to be opened by gloved hands… but he was having trouble.

Finally, with a soft snick, the belt gave way.

Feeling slowly returned as he wriggled out of the seat. The pain in his forearm was quite intense, and would be a problem if it needed urgent medical attention in whatever crazy orbit they’d ended up in.

It was something to consider later. First, he needed to check on his companion.

“I can’t tell if he’s all right.”

“Remove his helmet.”

“Do we have hull integrity?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. If we’re breached, I’ll kill him by taking off the helmet.”

A pause ensued. “Batu, you’re on Earth. You only got about three hundred meters off the ground before the booster exploded and the capsule ejection system initiated. You can’t see anything because the portholes are buried in mud. There’s a helicopter on the way to retrieve you. The mission failed.” She sobbed. “We didn’t make it.”

And Batu understood the weight pulling on him. It was gravity.

His heart sank under it.

“It’s not fair,” Batu said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He and Naiman were seated at an Indian-style coffee house in Ulaanbaatar, just across the street from the Fine Arts Museum. The coffee was reputed to be the best in all of Mongolia, but he’d had better at government functions.

“I was responsible for the project. The rocket exploded, and that means I’m to blame. It’s right that they should have taken me off the team once the investigation ended.”

“But it was a faulty seal. It wasn’t built to the specifications you approved.”

“That doesn’t matter; it’s still my responsibility. The government had no choice. They needed to remove me. I just wish I knew how we could have caught it.” She looked wistfully at the passing traffic. “Maybe we could have added a secondary relief valve to give the seals double redundancy, and make the quality less of an issue. I’ll email the project team.”

“Take a rest. It’s not your problem anymore.”

“You can’t stop caring from one day to the next. That’s too much to ask.”

So unfair. He and Kovalev, who’d suffered a concussion, had received medals for bravery for sitting in a tin can. Meanwhile, a lot of the people who’d spent nights and holidays hard at work, the ones who lived and breathed the project for years, had been summarily terminated.

“They want us to pilot the next one,” he said.

“That’s logical. Training more taikonauts would only take up time and resources. You’re still the best… as long as you’re willing to get back into the capsule.”

“How could we not?”

She laughed. “After what happened? I wouldn’t get back in there unless they drugged me and tied me up.”

“The rocket exploded, but the crew escape system worked perfectly in the worst-case scenario, a launchpad explosion. I trust the team with my life.”

“We were lucky.”

“We were prepared. And that is thanks to you.”

“You’re good to say so,” she replied. “But…. Wait a minute, I need to take this.”

Her face went blank as she spoke. “Yes, sir. No. Yes, sir. All right, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Yes, thank you.”

“What was that about?”

“I don’t know. They want me at Sükhbaatar Square. I’m supposed to talk to the Minister of Defense.”

“Didn’t they say why?”

“No. Let me get the check. It’s the least I can do after nearly killing you.”

Batu stood and paid for the coffee. “When you actually kill me, you can send flowers. Meanwhile, I will pay for the coffee because you saved my life.”

She rolled her eyes. “Men. When will you ever grow up?” She held his gaze. “Will you come with me?”

“As far as they’ll let me.”

“If anyone tries to stop you, just show them that medal. Bureaucrats love that kind of thing.”

Several guards asked Naiman for identification on the way in, but no one questioned Batu. His face had been on TV almost constantly since the space program had been announced. One young woman in fatigues even saluted.

The minister of defense met them outside the door they’d been ushered toward. He nodded to Batu, not questioning his presence, and pulled Naiman aside. “Just play along. I’ll explain later.”

They entered.

China, Batu thought immediately. Ten people stood at the front of the room, and only two were Mongolian, easy to spot in their dark blue suits. The rest could only be an official Chinese delegation. Several men in black suits, beautifully tailored, and two women, both in white business suits that were even more spectacular. They exuded class, affluence and sophistication. You wouldn’t confuse a Chinese delegation with anyone else.

“We’re underdressed,” Batu murmured.

“We’d be underdressed no matter what we wore.”

A woman from the delegation stepped toward them. She looked to be in her thirties, or maybe a young forty. She held her hand out to Naiman.

“My name is Zhi Ruo Huang,” she said in Chinese. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“Thank you,” Naiman replied, “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“I apologize for calling you in on your day off. The amount of work on your plate must be staggering. They told me that, with the investigation done, you’ll be starting the work on the second attempt, so we are very grateful that you accepted to come in on your single free day. Unfortunately, someone forgot to put the award ceremony on the agenda.”

“Award?”

“Of course you don’t know. I’m the director of the Women’s Achievements Commission at the Chinese Ministry of Science, and we have decided to award you this year’s prize for Outstanding Contributions to Exploration.”

“I…” she glanced at the minister, who nodded. “I don’t know what to say. This is an incredible honor.”

“The honor is mine. Trust me, I know just how hard it is to get ahead in the sciences around here. Would you mind coming to the podium? The delegation will be making speeches.” She smiled. “It will be quite formal, I’m afraid.”

True to Huang’s promise, the delegates droned on and on, all speaking on the same topic: perseverance and ability in the face of almost overwhelming odds. Naiman had always felt that there was nothing special about one making it to the top of her chosen profession.

Finally, it was time for Naiman to speak. She thanked the delegates in Chinese, gave a curt, precise acceptance speech in Mongolian and sat back down. Huang closed out with a few quick remarks and the refreshments came in.

Batu found himself talking to Huang, as the rest of the delegation spoke to Naiman. She smiled and spoke to him in English. “I’m sorry I don’t speak Mongolian.”

“Not many people do,” Batu replied in Chinese.

Her eyes widened. “I knew Miss Hulaguny was educated in China, but I wasn’t aware that you are a linguist. It’s an honor to meet you.”

He chuckled. “Between you and me, I think that’s why we beat the other finalists. Kovalev speaks Russian because his father was from Yekaterinburg. I speak Chinese because I went to a bilingual school here in Ulaanbaatar. Since we both also speak English, that made us the right candidates. We’ll be able to speak to anyone we need to work with in orbit.”

“Or they could just send Miss Hulaguny.”

“Oh, she’s much too valuable to risk on our exploding rockets.”

“But I understand she went through the training as well?”

“She outscored most everyone, too. Only Kovalev and a couple of others had higher marks.”

“And you, of course.”

He nodded. “I had certain advantages. I’m an engineer and a pilot. I already knew a lot of what others had to learn.”

“Are you really going to get back onto the rocket after what happened?”

“As soon as they finish testing the engines.” He sighed. “I hate the delay.”

“All space programs have their setbacks. Mongolia is fortunate that Miss Hulaguny was there to set the safety parameters.”

“Trust me, I’m well aware of that. Probably more than anyone else.”

“Except Kovalev.”

“Kovalev is a fatalist. He would have signed on even if he’d been guaranteed to die in the explosion. All this safety gear insults his manhood.”

“But he’ll get another chance, too.”

“Yes, he will.”

“Excuse me.” She nodded and walked away. There was another round of hand-shaking and bowing and then the event ended. Naiman walked over to where Batu was sitting.

“Coming?” she said.

“Yeah, I was waiting for you.”

The minister met them at the door. “I guess I should be the first to welcome you back,” he said.

“I thought you were the first who wanted to get rid of me.”

“Political winds shift quickly in this city.”

“Whatever,” she said, and walked away.

Batu saw the minister chuckle, shook his hand and hurried after her.

“Want me to take you home?” she said.

“If it’s not too far out of your way.”

“No problem. My car is in the official lot. It looks like I get to keep my spot.”

“Yep.”

They drove for five minutes across the river, before pulling up at a newly constructed low-rise apartment complex.

“This isn’t my house,” Batu said.

“After all you did for me today, you’ve earned dinner. And in my defense, I never said I was taking you to your home. Besides, I have a bottle of arkhi to go with it. Are you coming?”

Batu went.

Sweat poured down Batu’s face. The delay meant he was still performing the same physical training regimen as before the explosion. The only difference being that they were taking it easy on his wrist.

He’d be in shape for the next one, at least.

As he walked toward the office behind the gym, Batu checked his phone. One email caught his eye. It was from ‘A Friend’ and came from the type of random free email address that should never, ever have made it past the tight security protocols applied to his Mongolian Defense Ministry account. He routinely missed emails from coworkers in other branches of the government, which made it even more surprising that he should get one from a free email.

Smirking at what the support monkeys would say, he opened the email, but his expression changed as he read.

Demand a vertical test of the main thruster. With the current design, the coolant recirculation circuit will suffer vaporization under vertical loads, and the system will fail. I don’t think Mongolia’s space program can afford another explosion during a manned flight.

He read it again and again. Whoever had written it was right about one thing: if they had another failure during a launch attempt, Mongolia would have to pull the plug on its most ambitious program since the Great Khans had ridden forth. It would be a blow to a land that had been trying to regain a feeling of primacy ever since, with little success.

Was the rest of the email correct? He didn’t know. It sounded well-informed, but…

But Qadan, the project subdirector—and the man who ran the project despite Naiman being the official head—was the kind of administrator who wanted each cog in his machine to do exactly what it was supposed to do, no more, no less. Baku would be thanked coldly and sent on his way if he brought up something like this.

Unfortunately for Qadan, Naiman was at the top of the org chart, even if she wasn’t the real director… and that counted for something, politically speaking.

She looked up from her computer when he knocked on the glass door, smiled and waved him inside.

“Thought you’d forgotten about me,” she said.

He hadn’t. He especially hadn’t forgotten how close they’d come to having much more than dinner that night, he knew she would wonder why he hadn’t called or asked her out again.

The truth was that he wasn’t used to women like Naiman. Most Mongolian women were content to stay in the home, content to let men lead. Naiman most certainly wasn’t. Doctorates from foreign universities, both earned through research and honorary, were framed on the wall behind her. No one who walked into that room would ever make the mistake of treating her the traditional way.

Batu wouldn’t have dreamed of that, anyway. He felt fine working with her, but when it came to something further… he could never keep the thought that she was so much more sophisticated and experienced in the world than he was.

So she was right; he’d been avoiding her.

“Of course not,” he replied, trying to match her smile. “But they’ve had me dancing like trained bear.”

She looked away, not wanting to call him liar, which was worse than if she’d confronted him. “So what brings you here?”

“You’re going to think it’s silly.”

She sighed. “I wish you would come see me for silly things, but I’m pretty sure whatever brought you here is important.”

“I suppose. Have a look at this.”

He handed her the phone and she scanned the message. “On your Ministry account.” She looked back up at him. “What do you think we should do about this? Vertical engine tests are expensive and time consuming. Since we know the rest of the vehicle works, if the motor works on the sled with the new seals we can just slot it in.”

“Can’t we at least investigate whether this risk exists?”

She smiled sadly. “Shouldn’t you take that up with Qadan?”

“Qadan would ignore me. He’d say that everyone is too busy to waste time on anonymous emails.”

“So you brought it to me.”

“I trust you. This feels real to me.”

Naiman stood. “I agree. But we need to talk to Qadan or it will never get done.” She marched down the hall and entered her supposed subordinate’s office.

The man looked up, annoyed at the lack of a knock. When he saw her, the expression turned to one of surprise. “Naiman.”

“Qadan,” she nodded. “Who’s running the engine development?”

“Erden.”

“Good. Get him in here.”

“He’s very busy.”

“I don’t care. I’m the director and I need him here.”

Qadan’s expression hardened. “This isn’t how it was agreed that we would run the program.”

“If you don’t like the way I’m altering the agreement, then maybe you should take it up with the minister. We can air it out in the press. Otherwise, we can do this internally and no one has to get yelled at. It’s just a quick thing I want to discuss, anyway.”

Qadan knew he was defeated. He was a political animal who knew when to stand immobile like a rock damming a stream—most of the time—and when to allow the raging torrent to pass. This, he’d decided, was one of the latter occasions. “All right, but be quick. We can’t afford to lose any more time.”

“We also can’t afford to lose any more rockets.”

Two weeks later, the vertical test took place. An anchored test, much cheaper than a launch.

The rocket fired up, burned beautifully for forty seconds, generated the nominal thrust and, about halfway through its power cycle, exploded spectacularly.

Batu, watching intently in a room full of video screens ten miles away, felt his heart fall.

“You were right,” Naiman said. She squeezed his shoulder.

“I was right to trust you,” he replied. “But we’re grounded again.”

“Not for long. I started parallel development on the cooling line route the day after we spoke.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I did. Erden had his doubts after we went through the design with a couple of his people, so they began to rework it. We’ll be able to test fire the new design in a few days.”

“And Qadan…”

“Is going to be promoted to minister for his foresight.”

On impulse, he said. “Would you like to have dinner tonight?”

Naiman seemed taken aback. “I… I thought you’d passed last time off as a mistake.”

“No. I didn’t. It’s complicated, but if you want, I’d like to have dinner.”

She laughed. “Are you a Mongolian Taikonaut or a tortured teenager from one of those American Netflix series?” He was about to turn away, humiliated, when she raised her hand. “But yes. I’d really love to have dinner tonight. I’d enjoy it very much.”

He bowed and left, not trusting himself to speak and certain that dinner would go badly, but determined not to allow himself to get caught in her word games.

As he crossed the grass between the control bunker and the parking lot, his phone vibrated and he glanced down to see another email from his anonymous friend. It was even shorter and more to the point than the last:

You’re welcome.

 Who could it be? It had to have been someone in the control room, or someone watching through the closed-circuit video. The most probable suspect would be one of Qadan’s engineers, who had spotted the problem but didn’t want to call attention to himself by openly questioning his superiors. Having a decorated hero do the job for him must have seemed a logical solution.

The second half of the question was stranger: why use the difficult method of sending an email from a regular address that actually managed to make it through the filters? That would require some very specialized knowledge.

The obvious answer was that such an email would be pretty much untraceable, but dropping a scribbled note into his locker while he was working out every morning would have worked just as easily… and been much easier.

He couldn’t help himself. Even if the support guys freaked, he had to know. He typed a response.

Who are you?

He hadn’t received an answer by the time he reached his car, and then, as they drove the hundred miles back to the capital, he let himself be lulled into senselessness by the vast, undulating landscape around him.

When he reached his apartment, walking distance from the Ministry of Defense, he checked his phone again.

A friend who’d like to ask for a favor.

Tell me, he responded.

Try to get the name of the vehicle changed. Chinggis Khan is not a hero to all peoples. To some, he was a mass murderer and an imperialist.

He felt a chill. There was no Mongolian to whom the great Khan wasn’t a god incarnate. How could a foreigner know what had happened? Even most of the Mongolian government was unaware that there was supposed to be a test. He should report this immediately.

He couldn’t, of course. And he was honor bound to try to get the ship’s name changed.

As he walked toward the launch pad, he looked up at the rocket towering high above. The design was based around the old Russian N1 booster that most of the smaller nations had been adapting for their space programs over the past decade. The Soviets might have been beaten to the moon by the Americans, but their technology—once refined—was cost-effective and reliable, even seventy years later.

Beside the familiar sky-blue, red and gold of the Mongolian flag, the name of the craft had been stenciled: Chinggis Khan 2. Not even his final, impassioned plea had managed to sway the prevailing opinion.

Now wasn’t the time to worry about that. He was worrying about where he’d be a few minutes after the launch. Would he be orbiting the planet preparing to test the upper stage’s maneuverability before reentry? Or would he, once again, be buried in the mud awaiting rescue?

Being dead didn’t worry him. If the escape capsule didn’t work, he’d simply be released onto the never-ending wheel to await his next life. Whatever fate awaited him, it would be better than being an unemployed astronaut in a country whose space program had been labeled the most unlikely thing ever to happen in Southeast Asia.

Once in the capsule, he had little time for thought. The process of strapping him in took an age, and was followed by all the checklists and double-checklists. Finally, he turned to Kovalev on his right and extended his hand.

The other man grasped it and the final ten seconds began to count down.

Batu unclenched his teeth when they finally reached orbit ten minutes later. “Mission control,” Temujin radioed down, “this is the Chinggis Khan. Mongolia has reached the heavens.”

“Mongolia is heaven,” Naiman’s voice came in over the radio. “But it’s an honor to reach another part of it.”

Batu smiled at the voice, but his eyes weren’t on the screens. He was looking at the blue ball outside the window.

“Well, the view from this part of heaven is incredible,” he said. “Almost as good as it is from the grass.”

“We know,” Naiman replied. “We’re getting the camera feed.”

If anyone had told him he would spend a good portion of his second day in space looking at the news over the internet, Batu would have thought them mad.

But the news was… compelling to say the least. The first module of Tiangong 7, the orbiting high-energy lab run that the Chinese National Space Administration was building in orbit, had been hit by a freak meteoroid and had vented a huge amount of air before the two taikonauts on board could get it sealed.

The problem wasn’t the men—they had enough remaining air to survive for the time the Chinese needed to get a resupply mission up—but the direction in which the air had vented: the outgassing had sent the module into a lower orbit which was now decaying.

China was rushing to get a mission out there, but even their most superhuman effort could only get a craft up in five days. The station might not survive that long, and the crew would need to bail and return to Earth within the next two, or risk burning up on reentry.

Everyone was scrambling to see if they could get a craft into orbit. The US, the ESA, the Russians, the Indians. Even the Ugandans had posted a press release saying they were looking into it.

But the earliest a craft capable of helping could get off the launch pad was what the Chinese were doing.

And they wouldn’t be on time.

Batu checked that the radio was off and turned to Kovalev. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

The other man hesitated. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I can’t see how.”

“We still have some fuel. Maybe we can use that to stabilize the orbit.”

“We don’t have enough. It would take a massive amount to get that thing anywhere near its old orbit. And even if we could correct, we wouldn’t have enough fuel for our return maneuvers. We’d burn on reentry.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He switched the radio back on.

Almost immediately, it came to life, even though Mission Control had assigned this as rest time, with only emergency communication expected.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice said in Chinese.

“Who is this?” Batu replied. Temujin just looked over and raised an eyebrow. The other taikonaut spoke no Chinese. His specialty was Russian.

“A friend,” the voice replied.

The silence stretched out as Batu thought about what this meant. He was already quite convinced that the unknown helping hand they’d received had come from China. No other country was particularly concerned about the Mongolian space program. Even the Russians had pretty much ignored it despite the obvious military potential of any missile capable of putting spacecraft in orbit.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do you the favor you requested before.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best, because I’m going to ask for a much bigger one.”

There was something about that voice…. “Zhi Ruo Huang, is that you?”

“I knew you’d find me out sooner or later. We probably don’t have a long time before your mission controllers block my transmission or enable the encryption on your radio, so I need to ask you a favor: can you get to our station and push it back into a stable orbit?”

“We don’t have enough fuel.”

“You ran the numbers?”

“We wanted to help. But there’s no way. We can’t push you back, and if we try, we’ll die.”

“We don’t need you to push us back. A small push can buy us enough time to get our resupply up there. You can do that.”

“But then we won’t be able to make it back.”

“It’s a space station. You can wait there until we refuel you.”

“And if you can’t?”

“Then the capsule our taikonauts were going to use is yours to return to Earth. They volunteered it.”

“I’ll let you know,” Batu said and turned off the radio.

He faced Kovalev, who was peering at him suspiciously. “I suppose you’d like to know what that was all about.”

“Yeah, it would be kind of nice.”

Once he finished translating the conversation, he looked Kovalev in the eye and said: “There’s only one person who can keep us from helping the Tiangong. That person is you.”

“Me? Why do you think I’d stand in the way? We’ll become heroes in two countries.”

Batu shrugged. “I never thought that might be important to you.”

“I’m a taikonaut. I’m a glory seeker by definition. But what about Qadan? Don’t you think he can lock us out and fly the ship from Earth?”

“He might. That’s why I already entered the override codes to stop him. The ship is now on manual control only.”

“You did what?” Kovalev asked, incredulous.

“I’m sorry. If you want me to reactivate their control, I will. I just wanted to talk to you first. I don’t think I’ve endangered us too much. We weren’t scheduled to do any maneuvering at this point.”

“No, I don’t mind that. I just wanted to know where you got the…” His eyes widened as comprehension dawned. “Naiman.”

Batu nodded.

Kovalev went on. “You do understand that they’re going to fire her for certain this time, right? Hell, they’ll probably throw her in jail.”

Batu hung his head and nearly called it all off. As always, the consequences would fall on the person who wasn’t famous. It was much easier, in Mongolia, to punish the unknown woman than the famous men.

Unfortunately, he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. He knew very well that Naiman would never forgive him if he backed out now. He’d gotten to know her well enough to know that, at least. How she’d known that the situation would arise was beyond him. She was probably predicting that Qadan would do something boneheaded. “I know. And I’ll do everything I can for her, but we need to do this.”

“Of course we do. I just didn’t think we could.” Kovalev was hard to read at best, and he played on that by also pretending to be arrogant and have a sarcastic streak as wide as the Khan’s pastureland. Even Batu, who’d trained at his side, hadn’t seen the reasonable side of the man more often than necessary. “I just want one thing. Let me tell Qadan.”

Batu chuckled. “Be my guest.”

Kovalev toggled the radio. “Hello, Mission Control?”

“Yes,” a desperate voice said. “We’ve been trying to reach you. We heard what the Chinese said, and the Director would like to speak to you.”

“What, Director Naiman?”

“No, Qadan.”

“Ah,” Kovalev said. “The sub-director. We’d be honored to speak to him.”

Batu grinned but said: “Don’t overdo it.”

“We’re going to make him very mad anyway. Might as well have some fun while we’re at it.”

“Hello,” Qadan’s voice came. “I heard what you discussed with the Chinese, and you cannot proceed. This is a Mongolian military mission and we cannot allow it to fall into the hands of another nation. Even our friends to the south.”

“To be fair,” Kovalev said. “We’re much more likely to see their secrets than they are to take any of ours. After all, one of the vehicles involved is a state-of-the-art facility and one is based on a Russian design from the cold war.”

“Even so, this is a vessel with proprietary technology. We can’t lose it.”

“We won’t. We’ll just extend the mission a few days.”

“And if you can’t? We lose the vehicle. We cannot afford that. The program would end.”

“Batu and I have decided that we’re going to help the Chinese.”

“I forbid it.”

“Then you will be forced to punish us when we return.”

A pause. “There will be no need for that. I am putting the Chinggis Khan under my control. It’s unfortunate, since this will mean we can’t test some of the systems we had planned to verify, but my priority is to keep the vehicle safe. We will discuss this further once you land.”

Kovalev switched off the radio and grinned at Batu. “I would give almost anything to be there when he realizes he’s locked out.”

“For that, you’d have had to give up this trip and never left Earth.”

“Anything but that.”

“Chinggis Kahn, we see you. You’re cleared for final approach,” the taikonaut said.

The Chinese were really good. Every instruction they sent up to the craft was precisely calculated and worked as predicted. It almost felt like they, and not the team under Naiman and Qadan, had designed the vehicle.

Which was a good thing. Anything else would have wasted precious fuel.

But it was also very disturbing, and something they’d have to talk about when they returned.

At least they wouldn’t be shot. After a couple of hours of bitter recrimination, Qadan had been removed from the communication link. His angry screeching was replaced by Naiman’s more measured tones and a message saying that they could proceed on their chosen course in the name of international relations.

Batu wondered how much of that was due to back-channel communications he’d never learn about, but he suspected that the Mongolina Space Program was now on solid financial footing for the foreseeable future, and would have considerable access to Chinese technology.

“We see you,” Batu replied.

“We’ve positioned the module so that the airlock compatible with your docking link is facing you.”

“Perfect.”

Batu brought the relative speed down to a few meters per second, and then down further. They approached at a crawl, which gave him the opportunity to make any manual corrections he needed. Fortunately, the design of these things was sturdy and also built to make it hard to miss the target. The vehicle and the station locked with an audible clank.

“Confirm lock on this end,” the taikonauts said.

From that moment, Batu became an extension of the engineers at BACCC. They told him thrust angles and strengths and he delivered. Finally, the station was in position and he waited while all the checks were performed.

“All right,” the young, male, nameless voice said. “You are cleared to burn.”

The Mongolian capsule burned its remaining fuel. The slow acceleration lasted for a few minutes, and then they turned the motors off.

“We’d be honored if you came inside,” the taikonaut on the module who’d been speaking to them said.

“Thank you. We’re opening the lock on our side.”

The process of crossing from one craft to the other actually took longer than the burn. By the time they’d gotten inside, word had reached the taikonauts that Beijing was delighted with the new orbit, and that they had bought at least twenty days.

The man who met them, helmetless, smiled and shook their hands. “We’ll remember this forever. An entire nation will be grateful to you for the rest of your lives.”

“Can you tell them something?”

“Of course.”

“We decided to change the name of our ship as we approached. It didn’t seem right to ride into Chinese territory with Chinggis Khan. Fortunately, that name was only on the booster. The vehicle we parked out there is called the Ber Tsetseg. Butterfly Blue, in your language.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“It’s the national flower of Mongolia. The most beautiful sight in the world.”

“It fits. Your approach was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Can you tell Zhi Ruo Huang about that?”

“Of course.” The man went to the console and, after a few minutes, managed to get her on the radio. After a short conversation of which Batu could only hear one side, the man turned to him and raised an eyebrow.

“She says to thank you.”

Batu bowed.

“And… I think she was crying.”

“I’m not surprised. Sometimes friendship is like that.”

He stepped past the man to explore the Chinese module. He might be the first Mongolian to set foot in another country’s space station, but something told him he wouldn’t be the last.