Page 140 of Stars

Kilaqqi stared at the sky, squinting. His face, once so open, so warm, so full of gentle mystery, was pinched and hard, his eyes as cold as flint. He pressed his lips together and sighed. “Hutechi,” he breathed. “Min enigin taptyybyn.”

“I’m sorry,” Ethan said. He looked away, clenching his jaw. Helpless fury choked him, made his blood curdle and his bones vibrate. Welby wouldn’t look at him. Even the Arctic seemed to howl in rage, punishing winds rising in gusts off the ocean and nearly knocking Ethan to the ground. Ice creaked around him as if it were trying to cleave the island in two. “I’m sorry. Sasha—”

“Is coming home,” Kilaqqi said, his voice hard, like the world around them. “Come. We must leave this place. Myhutechiwill need us soon.”

* * *

41

Roscosmos

Star City, Russia

“Mr. President.”General Yaluyevsky answered on the first ring. “I have been expecting your call.”

Sergey turned away from the television in the musty office the Roscosmos team had given him to rest in. Splashed across the screen were pictures of him and Sasha, full-color spreads of stolen moments together. Smiles across crowded rooms, secret brushes of hands in the corners of the Kremlin. Their public outings, always under the cover of the president entertaining Russia’s star, Astronaut Andreyev, now layered with a different meaning. Their bodies a little too close, their gazes holding a little too long. It was all on Sergey’s face, the love he had for Sasha. How had they even kept it secret for two years?

There were even pictures of him kissing Sasha, a gentle peck on the lips outside his apartment as Sasha flushed and tried to hide his smile. Pictures of Sasha living in the Kremlin. Living with him in the presidential apartment.

Someone in the Kremlin had taken those photos. Someone inside his home, someone he’d thought he could trust.

“General. I have news to report.”

It had been a one-two punch that morning: Ethan’s phone call and the news of Zeytsev’s death, and then their attack on Lazarus’s base, his lair. Elation, exultation, the taste of victory, of joy so pure and fresh he almost screamed—

Followed by the crushing understanding of what Lazarus’s death meant.

Without him, without his expertise, there would be no cure. At least, not until someone was able to study the virus, understand it, explore its characteristics, its genetic makeup.

But no one on Earth would ever see the virus. Not if the Americans kept their word and blew Sasha out of the sky before he made it through the atmosphere, or if they kept him trapped on the frozen ISS until he went mad or his crewmates devoured him—

And all that was left was blood and ash raining down on Sergey.

Sashaneededthat cure. They had to get him back to Earth. Someone had to save his love.

Informing his generals of Zeytsev’s death was one last thing he could do, maybe the only thing right now, as president.This much, at least, I did. “Russia’s nuclear arsenal is secure. Iakov Zeytsev was killed this morning by a strike team I personally directed.”

“Strike team? What strike team?”

Sergey ignored him. A strike team of Americans wouldn’t help his popularity with his generals. “Lazarus, the criminal responsible for the virus on the ISS, was also killed.”

Silence from General Yaluyevsky.

“I take it you’re pleased that the threat facing our nation has been eliminated?”

“There remains a greater threat,” Yaluyevsky said slowly. “Iakov Zeytsev was not alone in his convictions. There are others who thought the same as him, who believe the direction our great nation is heading in is the wrong one.”

“Is that why the Spetsnaz I ordered you to send to Yamantau wereprotectingZeytsev instead of storming the bunker? Is that why they defended him? Was it you who personally selected the detachment, General?”

“After this morning, I don’t think there’s anyone who would disagree with the choices I have made.”

Sergey paced away from the television. “I am still the president, and you are talking about treason, General.”

“Do you deny the news report playing as we speak?”

An escape. He could deny the story, repudiate the facts. Claim the photos were faked. There was a long history in Russia of smearing political opponents through wild sex scandals, each one more outrageous than the last. A president and an astronaut? Impossible. Inconceivable. He could deny it, and at least some of his people would believe him.

He would rather cut out his heart. “I donot,” he growled. “And who I love is of no concern to you, General.”