Beyond the Stars Read online

  “Yes, comrade.”

  “Before you ask why,” said Gazenko, “it is because of the cameras. The dark ones cannot be detected. Now, feed and cage them. Selection starts tomorrow morning.”

  *

  Tsygan woke. It was dark. Another dog yelped in her sleep. There was no other noise. The white coats weren’t there.

  She slept, she woke, she drank water from the bowl in her cage. It was still dark. She slept again.

  She woke.

  The white coats had arrived. They moved around the room, they sat and examined papers, they stood at machines. There was no laughter. It was not like the day before. Tsygan knew this was an important day, a day to be careful.

  The little dog in the cage beside Tsygan whispered.

  “Why are we here?”

  “I do not know,” said Tsygan.

  “My name is Dezik,” said the little dog.

  Tsygan didn’t answer her. They heard the older white coat, Gazenko.

  “No food until after testing,” he said.

  “What is testing?” Dezik whispered.

  Tsygan looked at her. She was younger than Tsygan, and frightened.

  “I do not know,” said Tsygan.

  Something in her, a feeling, nudged her to say more.

  “Do not be frightened, Dezik,” she said.

  All the dogs were taken from their cages and brought to a corner of the bright room.

  Pavel lifted Tsygan. He put her on to a metal basket. Tsygan had seen machines just like this before, in many of the shops in the city. They were used to weigh meat and other food. But why were the white coats weighing Tsygan? She wanted to jump, to bite, to run. But she stayed calm, she sat still.

  Gazenko gazed over his glasses at the dial.

  “Eight kilos,” he announced.

  “Good dog,” said Pavel, as he lifted Tsygan out.

  Tsygan knew she’d passed a test.

  Another dog was lifted, and weighed.

  “Ten kilos,” said Gazenko. “Too heavy.”

  The dog was taken away.

  The little dog, Dezik, was once again beside Tsygan.

  “What if I am too heavy?” she whispered.

  Tsygan looked at the little dog.

  “Dezik,” she whispered. “You are smaller than me. Do not worry.”

  “What if I am too small?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Dezik and other dogs were weighed. No more dogs were taken away.

  “This is good?” Dezik asked.

  “I think so,” Tsygan whispered.

  Large bowls of water were placed in front of the dogs and a the white coat stood with each one as they drank and drank until the bowls were empty.

  “Now, comrades,” said Gazenko. “The time has come to explain the male-female issue.”

  He pointed at Tsygan.

  “This one I like,” he said. “Female, yes?”

  “Yes, comrade.”

  “And this one,” said Gazenko, pointing at the last remaining male dog, Boris. “Dress them in their suits.”

  Two of the female white coats dressed Tsygan. She didn’t bite or pull away from them. They pulled something, some garment, over her hind legs, and up across her back.

  “It is like a nappy,” said Svetlana.

  The other white coat laughed.

  They pulled another garment over her head. She could see nothing for some seconds. A human hand went past her mouth, and she was tempted to snap. But then her head came through a hole and she could see again.

  “No helmet, comrade doctor?” said a white coat.

  “No,” said Gazenko. “The helmets are not yet ready.”

  There were metal rings attached to the garment – the suit.

  Pavel and Svetlana made Tsygan stand in a metal box. The metal box was like the weighing scales she had sat in earlier, but it was flat. There were hooks on the side of the box and Svetlana attached these to the rings on Tsygan’s suit. This worried Tsygan but Svetlana’s pats and whispers kept her calm.

  “Don’t worry, Tsygan,” she said. “Good girl.”

  The male dog, Boris, was also standing in his own metal box.

  “Pavel,” said Gazenko. “Stand here.”

  Tsygan watched Pavel move across to the other box and stand in front of Boris.

  “Now,” said Gazenko. “The dogs are full of water, yes?”

  “Yes, comrade doctor.”

  “Very good,” said Gazenko. “Commence vibration.”

  The boxes started to move. Tsygan could feel the box shifting under her feet. The box made little movements, back and forth, and shook. She almost fell but she put her feet further apart and stayed upright. The movements got faster. Tsygan felt like she was being shaken by rough human hands. Was this testing? she wondered. She didn’t like it. But she fought the urge to lie down – and she fought the urge to pee.

  “Increase,” Gazenko shouted, over the noise of the vibrating boxes. “Faster.”

  The vibration increased and, almost as bad, so did the noise. Tsygan had to pee; she couldn’t stop herself. She looked quickly at the floor of the box – no pee. The pee had been trapped in the suit.

  She heard laughter now, and cheerful human screams. She looked quickly across at the other dog, Boris, and saw that his pee had not been trapped. It was shooting up in the air, and Pavel was drenched. He had jumped away from the jet of pee, and he was laughing, like the other white coats, including the leader, Gazenko.

  The boxes slowed – and stopped. Tsygan sat, then lay down in the box. She felt sick – but also pleased. Another test I’ve passed, she thought.

  “So, Pavel,” said Gazenko. “Now you understand why our cosmonauts must be female.”

  “Yes, comrade doctor.”

  “All males are disqualified. Agreed?”

  “Absolute agreement, comrade doctor.”

  “A rocket full of dog pee,” said Gazenko. “That is not a good idea.”

  As Pavel and Gazenko spoke, the female white coat, Svetlana, unhooked Tsygan and put her gently on the floor in front of a bowl of water.

  Dezik was beside her.

  “That is testing?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Tsygan whispered.

  “What is cosmonaut?” Dezik asked.

  “I do not know,” said Tsygan. “But I think we will find out soon.”

  She shook herself, then drank. She yawned, and lay down on the floor. And slept.

  On August the 15th, 1951, after eight months of ‘testing’, Tsygan and Dezik became the first living beings to go into space. Their rocket, which was launched from a space station in Kazakhstan, went to a height of sixty-two miles above the ground. It was a short flight, and the dogs didn’t go into orbit.

  They survived.

  Tsygan never flew again. Dezik did, exactly a week later, and, sadly, she died when the parachute holding her capsule failed to open.

  Between 1951 and 1961, many more Russian dogs were sent into space, including the most famous, Laika, who became the first living being to orbit Earth, in November, 1957.

  Most of the dogs were found on the streets of Moscow. All of them were very small. All of them were female.

  Derek Landy is the author of the number one bestselling Skulduggery Pleasant series. He has won awards. He is not modest. He lives in Dublin.

  Alan Clarke is an award-winning illustrator, sculptor and occasional writer. His images conjure worlds that are whimsical, darkly comic, magical, sometimes grotesque, but always beautifully executed. His work has been published and exhibited worldwide. Alan is based in Dublin.

  “There may come a day,” roared General Tua, “when the legacy of Man falls! When his shields splinter under Fomorian sword! But it will not be this day!”

  A roar sounded among the troops, and Tua’s horse reared back on two legs, before the general kicked in his heels and galloped up the line.

  “When they speak of this day, they will speak of loyalty! Of duty! Of …”

 
The last word was lost to Corporal Fleece as Tua sped further away, but he was relatively sure it was ‘honour’. Tua was big on honour.

  Men jostled him from all sides, and despite the cold winter wind, Fleece felt uncomfortably hot. It stank here too. Bathing was not high on the list of requirements for the foot soldiers of the Hibernian Army. Being big, brutish and ugly, however, seemingly were, and as such Fleece reckoned himself to be a soldier lacking. He couldn’t even see the valley where they were going to be fighting – couldn’t even see the Fomorian Army amassed on the other side. Although this was probably a good thing.

  General Tua rode back into range.

  “Here, on the fields and in the valleys of Drumree, we will send these demons back to the seas where they were spawned! Then they will learn what it means to encroach on the lands of Man! They will …” And off he went again, up the line in the other direction.

  Fleece turned his head, got a blast of foul breath and wrinkled his nose. He saw Iron Guts, his best friend in the whole of Hibernia, and tried to squeeze through the throng of men towards him. Failing miserably, he resorted to waving and shouting over the soldiers’ heads.

  “Iron Guts! Iron Guts! I missed that last bit! What did he say? What did he say after ‘encroaching on our lands’?”

  Iron Guts looked back, and scowled. “Shut,” he said, “up.” Then he paused a moment before adding, “You idiot.”

  Fleece smiled weakly, and did as he was told. He didn’t want to antagonise his only friend, the only man in the army who had not yet threatened to kill him. He was sweating beneath his chain mail and his shoulders ached from its weight.

  He sighed; he was already exhausted and it wasn’t mid-morning yet – the battle hadn’t even started and he needed a lie-down. This did not bode well for any heroics he might later be required to perform. Not that he was ever required to perform any heroics, unlike the men around him with their glorious names. Ranfield the Raging. Wolftooth the Cruel. Iron Guts the Bloody. If anyone would ever be suitably motivated to come up with a name for Fleece, it would probably be something along the lines of Fleece the Thoroughly Unsuited to Battle, or Fleece the Far Too Pretty to Be Hit, or, the most likely option, Fleece the Where the Hell Has He Run Off to Now?

  Bravery was not one of his strong points. It wasn’t even one of his weak points. The fact of the matter was that bravery just wasn’t one of his points. During armed conflict, Fleece liked to pick a little section of the battlefield, somewhere along the edge, and pretend to be dead. He kept some fresh cow’s blood in a pouch inside his tunic, and he’d give himself a healthy splatter when he got comfortable. Then, when all the fuss was over, he would miraculously recover, and hurry back to camp with all the other survivors. It was a tricky business, and once or twice he had come close to actually encountering a living enemy, but his luck had held. So far.

  He didn’t like the turn this day was taking, however. He was jammed right in the middle of ten thousand Hibernian soldiers. When Tua gave the order to advance, he’d have to slip sideways to the edge, which wasn’t going to be easy. He looked up, trying to peek over the brutish, ugly, stinking men in front of him, and saw the top of Tua’s head as he rode back towards them.

  “For freedom!” Tua roared, and Fleece winced as the troops bellowed, “For Hibernia!” and then, in another bellow, even more animalistic than the first, “For the king!”

  Swords were drawn and held aloft and the roaring went on and on. Fleece didn’t know how anyone could have drawn their swords when they were this tightly packed in. Leaving his in the sheath by his leg, he instead waved his little knife and shouted a bit. It was all fairly ridiculous. Getting worked up about freedom and Hibernia was one thing, but the king? The king was a fat slug who’d had his golden throne shipped over just so he could sit back in the camp and eat and drink while his loyal subjects fought and died for him. Naturally, Fleece didn’t count himself among their number.

  “Advance!” General Tua roared, and the troops surged ahead violently.

  Fleece was thrown forward, his face squashed against the man in front. Trying to regain his balance, his feet were clipped by the man behind so he had to take tiny quick steps. He got an elbow in the face and howled as he reached out to steady himself. His knife nicked someone as he did so and they cursed at him.

  “Sorry!” he called. He could feel his face already starting to swell. He tried to slip sideways, to the edge of the throng, but there were no gaps between the hulking, shouting, grunting soldiers.

  Suddenly they were moving faster, jogging, but Fleece’s feet were no longer touching the snow-covered ground. He was being carried along with them, held aloft by the huge shoulders squashing in on either side. Now he could see over the heads of the men in front. Now he could see the Fomorians, their green skins covered in armour and leathers and furs, as they sprinted towards them. He started shrieking.

  The front line of Hibernian soldiers clashed with the Fomorians and Fleece jerked to a painful halt. He watched as swords cleaved skulls in two. Axes hacked at necks and arms and legs. Spears skewered. Arrows pierced. Knives sliced.

  “Let me down!” Fleece screamed, but nobody heard him above the roar of their own insanity.

  He struck out in desperation, heaved himself higher. Somehow he managed to clamber over the heads of his comrades-in-arms, terrified, trembling like a leaf on the surface of a fast-flowing and ill-tempered stream. Hands reached up, redirecting him, sending him straight to the front line.

  “Wrong way!” he screamed. “Wrong way!”

  A spear was pressed into the chest of the man beneath him and Fleece tumbled down. He was kicked and kneed and thrown about by soldiers bizarrely eager to get at the enemy. Through the gaps he could see the Fomorians – one in particular, the biggest he’d ever seen, stood out, his green skin slimy beneath burnished-red armour that was already splattered with human blood. His left foot was missing but that didn’t seem to slow him, and his headpiece was magnificent, a helmet carved into horns, a devil’s face on the head of a demon. Only one Fomorian wore such a headpiece, Fleece knew. This was Cichol Gricenchos, the Fomorian king.

  A Hibernian soldier charged. Gricenchos’s sword was a massive thing of shining steel. It knocked the Hibernian’s blade from his hand and separated his head from his body in one lazy swipe, cutting through armour and chain mail like it was nothing. Two more Hibernian soldiers went at Gricenchos, and two more were dispatched with similar ease.

  A circle of sorts had formed in the midst of the battle, an arena where the Fomorian king took on all comers. Fleece wondered what it felt like for the other demons to know that their leader was with them at times like these. It was probably inspiring. Not like for him and the other Hibernians with their fat slug of a leader back at camp. The only threat he’d pose to an enemy would be if he rolled over them on his way to the chicken.

  A heavy wave rippled through the ranks, knocking Fleece to his knees, and then General Tua charged through the crowd on his horse, heading straight at Gricenchos.

  The Fomorians screeched, maybe warning their king, maybe protesting at the unfairness of it all, but Gricenchos didn’t turn and run. Instead he stepped to one side and brought his sword round with both hands. The horse’s head flew, and General Tua was thrown from its saddle, the horse flipping over and landing on top of him. Gricenchos didn’t even do him the honour of killing the general himself. He left Tua to the stabbing of the Fomorians, and turned back to the Hibernian soldiers, awaiting his next challenger.

  Fleece was sent stumbling out of the crowd. The Fomorian king looked down at him. Beneath the horned headpiece his nose was long and his mouth was wide, filled with sharp black teeth. He was not, even as far as Fomorians went, particularly handsome. Fleece clasped his hands in front of him.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he whimpered.

  “Coward!” Iron Guts roared, breaking away from the Hibernian men, swinging his sword for Gricenchos’s head.

  The Fomorian king
moved faster than Fleece would have thought possible for someone his size. Steel clashed and Gricenchos sent Iron Guts stumbling away. He brought his great sword down but this time it was Iron Guts who moved, deflecting the blade with his shield and shifting sideways, as nimble as a dancer, although Fleece would never have said that aloud. He watched the man and the demon go at it, snarling and spitting at each other, swinging savage cuts, feinting and parrying and doing all the things that Fleece had once been shown by his father, but which he had never paid that much attention to. Pity. Such a skill set would have come in very useful today.

  Gricenchos battered the shield on Iron Guts’s arm, driving him to his knees, showing his back to Fleece and letting him, from his low vantage point, look right up between the scales of his attacker’s armour to the green skin beneath.

  Something strange and foreign seized Fleece’s heart. Courage? Was that what he was feeling? He highly doubted it, but couldn’t think what else it could be. This was his chance to turn his life round, to do something heroic and brave and noble. Only on the battlefield, he despaired, would plunging your sword into someone’s back be considered noble.

  The Fomorian king splintered the shield and Iron Guts, the only friend Fleece had in the whole of Hibernia, fell back. Fleece narrowed his eyes, focused in on the gap in Gricenchos’s armour. His hand went for his sword, and clutched stupidly at air. It wasn’t in his sheath! Why wasn’t it in his sheath? His eyes widened as he remembered. He’d left his sword in his tent.

  Gricenchos split Iron Guts’s head wide open, roaring as he did so, and kicked the corpse away from him. He turned back to Fleece, who only had his little knife.

  Fleece had had that knife since he was a boy. His father had done his best to teach him how to throw it. His younger brothers had learned well enough, but Fleece himself had grown bored of practice after a few weeks and never returned to it. It was fairly basic, though, from what he remembered: hold the tip of the blade, get the balance right, throw with the arm and flick with the wrist, and the blade embeds in the target with a solid thunk, he thought. Simple. Basic. The only chance he had left.