Episode 5

Eighteen-year-old Stanley Maxwell was taking his starship piloting exam today. The young man was noticeably nervous, as most of the cadets before him had failed, and only a few had managed to prove their skill, basking in their achievement as part of the chosen few. The honorary titles of pilots in the U.S. Space Guard were already in their pockets, and now they proudly recounted their success, offering advice and well-wishes to those who had yet to face the test.

“Good luck, Max!” a freshly minted pilot waved cheerfully to his classmate.

But Max did not rely much on luck. He had prepared thoroughly for this test, and while he sometimes struggled with theoretical subjects, he never missed an opportunity to practice.

Despite his naturally restless nervous system, which often caused Stanley to change decisions, give in to emotions, and struggle to focus on one task for long periods, he was remarkably diligent when it came to flying. Even a general would envy his endurance, self-discipline, and persistence. Yet his casual attitude toward the “boring” subjects, in his opinion, had earned him a poor reputation among students.

“Maxwell?” the experienced captain did not expect to see the young man. “I didn’t think you’d show up after your little stunt in class.”

“I apologize for my arrogance,” he said, lowering his eyes in guilt.

“I had a good laugh when the professor told me how you called his comment on the energy core construction ‘stories for apprentices.’”

“I don’t like that style of teaching,” the young man said firmly. “So if anyone should complain about disrespect, it’s the students whom the professor considers too dull to explain things clearly.”

“I used to be like you,” the seasoned pilot said warmly. “Smart, confident, thinking I was better than everyone else. But when one of our energy units failed during a journey, I regretted not paying enough attention to the starship’s design. If the passing starship, just a few light-years away, hadn’t picked up our hapless crew, if its commander hadn’t figured out the cause of the failure, and if the mechanic hadn’t repaired it, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you now, boy.”

Seeing that the student was barely listening, the instructor caught himself.

“Enough lecturing. I suppose you’re itching to get behind the controls. Come on, show me what you’ve got!”

Max took his seat in the simulator next to the captain. He confidently gripped the controls, deftly weaving between asteroid clusters, unafraid of sharp maneuvers.

Meanwhile, Bohdan lay motionless in his half-zipped sleeping bag, staring at the black glaze of the starry sky. If not for a few missing luminous points, he would have sworn that the Little Bear hovered above him and that the North Star glimmered on the horizon.

The captain could not close his eyes. Every time he tried to sleep, the distorted face of the mechanic resurfaced in his memory, and drowsiness retreated. Why did he die? And did the professor really have nothing to do with it? Their relationship was already tense.

The rustle of canvas suddenly interrupted his thoughts. He rose on his elbows and looked around. Brainy was standing guard diligently. The commander could see only the engineer’s back, so he paid little attention to the fact that the professor wasn’t moving. His focus was captured by a source of noise nearby. It was the senior pilot, who for some reason had abandoned his sleeping bag at this late hour.

“Hey, where are you going?”

There was no response. It seemed the man hadn’t even heard him.

“Stop!” Bohdan went after him. “I said, stop!”

He caught up with his companion and yanked at his shoulder with all his strength. Max paid no attention to the tug. His eyes were closed.

“You’re a sleepwalker too! Lord, what a team I got,” the captain muttered as his subordinate steadily moved away.

“Hey, wake up, wake ...”

Bohdan’s voice broke off mid-word. It was happening again. The terrifying vision that had already claimed one colleague now lured another.

Soon he regretted setting up camp atop the dune. Just a few meters from the edge of the cliff, a two-seat starship simulator hovered. To the right of the pilot’s seat sat a sturdy man clad in a U.S. Space Guard uniform.

Probably the instructor, thought Bohdan, and hurried after Max, who seemed enchanted, moving toward the edge of the precipice.

“Come on, show me what you can do!” encouraged the stranger in uniform.

“Stop!” the captain shouted with all his might, unable to take a single step.

For some unknown reason, his legs felt like lead, and no matter how hard he tried, invisible chains held him in place.

Drugged with a potent sedative, Stanley Maxwell approached his death. But when he hesitated at the edge, a glimmer of hope flashed in the commander’s heart—perhaps the skilled subordinate would resist the silent call of the abyss.

“Fight it, friend, you can do it,” Bohdan whispered, no longer expecting to be heard.

The pilot saluted the imaginary guard one last time and stepped into oblivion. It felt as if he was racing toward a meteor belt, while cosmic monoliths scraped and damaged the fuselage. In reality, small stones tore at his flesh. Max heard the crunching of the hull; in truth, it was his bones breaking. And when a large carbon block smashed the captain’s cockpit, one of the stones pierced his skull.

“Nooo!” the commander screamed.

He fell to his knees, clutching his head. For a moment, all composure left Bohdan. He wanted to sob in despair, but quickly pulled himself together.

The vision dissolved, giving way to the gray pre-dawn light. Realizing that his limbs were once again under his control, the captain hurried to the hollow to assess the aftermath of the night’s horror.

At the foot of the steep slope lay a weakened and thoroughly battered lieutenant. Determined to reach his companion, Bohdan hoped there was still a chance to save him.