GROUND CONTROL TO MAJOR WARD

by Huskyteer

"All systems check. Shutdown complete."

Major Conrad Victor Ward snapped the last switch closed and took a deep breath, ears pricked in the sudden silence. Lights stopped blinking; air stopped humming. There was only a tall, white-haired lion squashed up in a metal capsule, layer upon layer of metal and insulation between him and the world outside. It was cool in here, and neutral-scented. The windows were shaded. It was his little bubble of peace, like a private pod in some high-end spa. He laid a paw on the console before him, and purred.

"Soon, baby. Soon," he cooed, stroking the dashboard.

A voice buzzed angrily in his ear and he hit the release button for the hatchway. As it lifted, Conrad narrowed his eyes in the bright sunlight and flattened his ears against the onslaught of noise.

Fidoj, the little terrier engineer, could hardly get near him for the press of reporters. Normally the scientific activities of a tiny country in the former Eastern Bloc would not attract the attention of the world's media, but since Gordon's accident, which had been captured on mobile phones and leaked to the internet, the shoestring space programme had come under scrutiny.

"Major Ward! Can you comment on today's tests?" A spongy microphone was thrust under his nose by a young beaver in a beret.

He opened his mouth to answer, and was blinded by the flash of cameras. Great - he'd probably come out looking really gormless in those.

"Major Ward! Is it true that you have no official qualifications to fly?"

"Was your rank awarded by a paramilitary organisation of mercenaries, Major Ward?"

"Major Ward, how do you feel about occupying a dead man's shoes?"

Ears splayed against his skull, Conrad drew breath for a mighty, drawn-out roar that cut through the hubbub like a laser through metal. Microphones were dropped as paws clapped to ears. The ground vibrated. Conrad glared round at the stunned group of journalists, and showed them his fangs for good measure.

One voice, however, would not be silenced. "Major Ward! Is it true that budget cuts have meant severely reduced safety margins for the mission?"

Conrad stared at the speaker, a white vixen, for a long time. Then he turned away to talk to Fidoj.

"Who invited them to the party?" he growled. "I thought this was a restricted area? How did they even find us?"

The terrier rolled his eyes. "I am sorry, Major," he said. "They arrived in a bus and wouldn't take no for an answer."

"Don't we have security officers?"

"We don't shoot foreigners in Ylvania, Major Ward. Not any more."

Conrad made himself relax, smoothing out the frown in his forehead with a finger. "It's not your fault, Fidoj," he said. "And I've told you before - it's 'Wardy' to you, yeah?"

"Varrdy," said the terrier, rolling the syllables around his muzzle. Conrad grinned.

"You know, you remind me of someone."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. I'm going for a run, OK? Clear my head a little."

Fidoj nodded, and Conrad jogged back to his quarters to change into running gear. He 'borrowed' a Jeep and took off for Lake Blot, wishing he had a more powerful vehicle to make the most of the mountain bends.

The lake was his favourite place to unwind: a smooth expanse of clear, cold water, gold in the sunlight and silver under the moon. He often came here when things at the project were getting too intense, for a bracing swim, a run, or just to sit and think. Today, as he jogged around the permineter, he looked back on how he had come to be involved in all this.

It was, Conrad strongly suspected, his old Swedish friend Lars who had recommended him for this job in the first place. When the Ylvanian government had withdrawn funding from the struggling space programme, they had also stopped releasing armed forces personnel to train as cosmonauts. A few retired pilots had stepped up, but seldom passed the gruelling physical tests. The project staff had been faced with the difficult task of finding volunteers who were qualified pilots, mentally stable, yet prepared to accept being part of a risky venture for little pay. Conrad remembered the phone call from 'a friend' to say that another 'friend' had recommended him for a project that might be of interest. The mysterious voice with its foreign accent had sounded dodgy as hell, but had dropped enough hints to pique Conrad's curiosity, and enough technical terms to convince him that this was no hoax. So the lion had agreed to fly out to Ylvania, and within half an hour an electronic airline ticket had dropped into his inbox. With no business or family ties keeping him at home, and enough disposable income not to worry about letting his affairs run themselves for a few months, he had set off into the unknown.

He was met off the plane by a lynx with an astonishing set of whiskers, who introduced himself as Colonel Podjama (retired), head of the programme. He did not specify which programme. They journeyed up the motorway, rebuilt since the war, in a minibus with flat, inadequate cushions on bare metal seats, before turning off down a country road lined with fir trees. The road grew rougher and the country wilder, until they began to zigzag up the side of a mountain. The brakes, suspension and tyres weren't up to much, and Conrad was alarmed by the way the driver belted along the narrow, potholed road with nothing but an occasional white-painted boulder between them and a sheer drop.

At last Conrad saw a huddle of low, grey buildings behind a razor-wire fence. Behind them, a needle nose poked up towards the sky. Conrad inhaled sharply.

"Is that..."

Podjama smiled. "That, Major Ward, is your rocket. Welcome to the Aleksi II mission."

The next couple of days were a blur, as Conrad was introduced to the mission and its aims. Not only would this be Ylvania's first venture into space, the project was attempting to break new ground with a lightweight, reusable capsule designed by one of the country's leading scientists, Professor Nihil. Conrad was introduced to a bewildering series of technicians, engineers, and other personnel, all with long, unpronounceable names. The one figure to stand out was the other pilot, Hank Gordon, an American panther who stood as tall as Conrad but broader in the shoulders.

"Hiya, boy! This is all pretty crazy, huh?" he said as he held out his paw.

A week later Hank was dead, his neck broken when a chute on the dummy capsule failed to deploy during a reentry simulation. The American embassy kicked up an unholy fuss. The world's press began to take notice of what was happening in the mountains of this tiny, insignificant country. And Conrad found himself bumped up to first pilot, with very mixed emotions indeed.

Life for the semi-retired former mercenary pilot had changed beyond all recognition. Although he had kept his fitness levels ticking over with jogging and the gym, he was no longer used to belting round an assault course while a Dobermann with a stopwatch bellowed at him to hurry up, or swimming ten laps of a freezing pool only to be hauled out and strapped up to monitoring equipment. Nor had he been prepared for the amount of studying he had been doing or for the technical exams, which required him to grasp principles of mathematics and physics his GCSE teachers had somehow failed to cover.

Other areas of training were new and exciting enough to see him through the frustrating bits. Zero-g stuff took place in a knackered old prop cargo plane, which lumbered aloft like a double decker bus trying to do ballet. The flights afforded a gorgeous view of Ylvania's mountains and forests, and the vast, shining surface of Lake Blot, in the few moments available to Conrad before the plane started its series of up-and-over humps and he had to concentrate all his attention on keeping his breakfast where he had left it. There was a whole new cockpit to get used to, more cramped even than the prewar Tomcat, Mustang Sally, he had flown for Thunderbolt Black, and with a bewildering array of lights, switches and monitors. There was the suit, which was second- or possibly third-hand, with rectangles of darker orange where a previous owner's name and mission patches had once been attached. Conrad was encouraged to walk and move around in it, getting used to its weight and feel; he also spent more time than he would have cared to admit simply standing in front of the mirror in it.

There were other things to get used to, too: the food, heavy on cheese, potatoes and dumplings and not entirely suitable for the leonine digestive system, and the bureaucracy filtering down from the government and requiring paperwork hoops to be jumped through at every stage of the proceedings.

There had been a few wobbles, but no regrets. All his life Conrad had dreamed of going to the moon, and now this opportunity had dropped into his lap he intended to see it through or die in the attempt. The only point that gave him occasional pause for thought was the threadbare appearance of some of the equipment. It had been well looked after, but it was old, and even the components of the capsule itself looked as though they had reached the end of their flying life several lifetimes ago. Conrad was no stranger to older equipment - God knows he'd flown Mustang Sally for long enough to know it could outlast and outperform the new stuff - but he was uncomfortably aware that their tight budget left little room for error and almost no safety margin. On days when something vital blew and no spares were available, progress was held up until the right part could be procured or jerry-rigged. Sometimes, Conrad imagined that happening while he was attempting reentry.

"'Just go around a couple more times, Major!'" he said aloud, and snorted to himself.

All he really wanted was to be left alone to prepare for the mission. Conrad had never been a diplomat and his patience quickly wore thin when he had to deal with brass hats, bigwigs and bean-counters. Yet their remote base in the mountains was constantly overrun by visitors, all intent on bothering him. The lawyers arrived one day and he had to sign an inch-thick legal document in Ylvanian, which Podjama explained absolved both the project and the government should the mission result in the death or injury of the pilot.

"Fair enough. And what's this bit?"

"That, Major Ward, is your will. Do you have dependents?"

"Nah, not really."

"Very good, very good. Just sign, please."

One visit in particular stuck in his memory. All morning, Conrad had noticed more excitement than usual among the ground crew, and wondered what was up. Had the mission date been pushed forward? He was anxious to take off, but he still wanted to make absolutely sure he was fit and ready first. Besides, surely he would be among the first to know if that were the case?

Then a black car rolled in to the compound. It was old, of prewar manufacture, but had been cleaned and polished until it shone. Conrad, who appreciated a good piece of metal, padded over to inspect its chrome hubcaps, the huge curve of the radiator grille, and the bonnet mascot of a leaping wolf.

A real wolf emerged from the wood and red leather interior, greeting everyone cheerfully. She was shown around every inch of the complex, allowed to inspect the equipment, flick switches, and ask questions. Conrad wondered if she was someone's mum, dressed as she was in a smart red twinset with a simple gold chain around her neck.

Finally, she turned to Conrad himself and shook his paw with a firm, dry grip.

"I wish I could thank you properly for what you are doing," she said, in excellent English.

A quip sprang to Conrad's mind - she was very good-looking for her age - but he remembered that she might be someone's mum, and contented himself with "You can buy me a beer when it's all over, love."

The wolf gave a delighted laugh and walked back to her car. When she had left, Conrad grabbed Fidoj.

"Hey, Fidoj - do you think it was really a good idea to let that lass have quite such a thorough poke around, nice though she undoubtedly was? Who was she, anyway?"

"Do you really not know?"

"If I did I wouldn't be asking, would I?" Conrad said, with a hint of irritation.

"Varrdy. Do you know what is mean Ylvania in English?"

"No," said Conrad. "Is the pub quiz over now? I do have things to do, you know!"

The terrier looked reverently in the direction the car had taken. "Is mean: 'Land of the She-Wolf'."

"Then that was..." Conrad's eyes bulged. "Oh. Blimey."

"Don't worry. I think Her Highness liked you."

Conrad was glad he had Fidoj. Since Hank's death he had felt very alone on the project. Professor Nihil was a nice enough bloke, but his head was in the clouds and it was tricky getting anything sensible, or indeed comprehensible, out of him. He was happy enough to talk, but Conrad couldn't understand half of what he said about trajectories and tensile strengths. He just had to trust that the badger scientist knew what he was doing.

Colonel Podjama was a different proposition altogether. There was something about the lynx's hooded eyes and his obviously military bearing that put Conrad's back up. He had met the type before: the shadowy officer who saw soldiers as units, chess pieces to be gambled and sacrificed for the sake of a longer game going on far above their heads. Whatever Podjama's game was, Conrad had no intention of playing the pawn.

Then there was Iga Biva. Under other circumstances Conrad might have enjoyed getting to know the proud, feisty wolverine who controlled the project's purse strings, but he often found himself at loggerheads with her when her book-balancing led to corner-cutting on the ground.

Podjama had told him many times not to concern himself with the financial, political or technical sides of the project, just to concentrate on his own preparations. But the day a scaffolding pole fell from the gantry, just missing the lion's head, he was badly shaken. He retired to the base kitchenette for a coffee to calm his nerves, only to get an electric shock when he switched the kettle on.

"Right. That does it." His short mane still standing on end with static, he marched to the financial director's Portakabin office and rapped on the door.

"Can I have a word, Ms Biva?"

"Of course. Come in."

Iga was standing by the window when he entered, her short brown hair glowing in the sunlight. She swayed across the office with her odd, loping walk, which made her bob tail flick up and down and which Conrad had always found a little bit sexy. This morning, however, he was not to be distracted. Iga took a seat at her desk and indicated the chair opposite, but the lion shook his head.

"I hope I won't be here long."

"What is it that you want, Major Ward?"

"Well, for starters, why has no-one in this sodding country ever heard of a bacon sandwich? It's always ham, ham, bleeding ham, and I'm sick of it! And since you're in charge of the budget, how about splashing out on a slightly higher grade of bog roll? That stuff's like sandpaper!"

Iga cocked her head and regarded him with a quizzical expression as he paced up and down her office, tail lashing. She opened her mouth to dismiss his petty complaints, but before she could speak the lion had slammed both paws down on her desk, claws out.

"Am I wasting your time, love? I just want to know I'm not going to get killed before I leave the ground, let alone on the mission! Your cost-cutting came close to wiping me out this morning - Fidoj and the other engineers can't even afford enough rivets to hold the gantry together. Well, it's my life on the line while you park your bum cosily in your swivel chair, and if you don't allocate a bit more cash to the mission and a bit less to lining your own pockets, I'm going to walk. And I'm going to tell Colonel Podjama and Professor Nihil why." Conrad paused for breath, panting with the effort of releasing so much pent-up aggression in one burst.

"You are finish?"

"We need a new kettle in the break room."

The wolverine licked her lips and clasped her paws, displaying strong, sharp claws.

"Major Ward, what is the most easily replaceable component of the Aleksi II?"

"The bog roll?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You are."

"That's not true!" Conrad protested. "What about all the training? Pilots are your most precious commodity!"

"Pilots are two for a penny and you have completed your training in a few weeks! Conrad, believe me, you are not important around here. If you get hurt or killed they will drop you like you're radioactive and leave you with nothing, not even your dreams of space!"

She stood, coming up to the lion's chest, and stomped around to his side of the desk. "Put your hand on my leg."

"Er, I don't think..." Before he could finish protesting, Iga grabbed his paw, her claws digging in to the back, and slapped it down on her thigh hard enough to hurt. There was a hollow thump, and Conrad's pads met the solid resistance of a prosthesis.

"Shit. Iga."

"I was like you once. A pilot with stars in her eyes. Just after the war I was selected to train as shuttle crew for a private firm. I had nearly completed training when the light aircraft returning me to base crashed. I lived, but lost my leg. There was no pension, no apology. It was simply hushed up and a rumour was spread that I had got drunk and crashed my car."

Conrad kept his eyes locked on the wolverine's yellow gaze.

"But you're working on this project, aren't you?" he said. "A bit of you is still looking at those stars, Iga. I'm going to give this launch my all, but right now I need a little help to believe in it."

Iga's gaze dropped first, and Conrad blinked hard.

"I will see what I can do," she growled. "Now get out. I'm busy."

"Only if you come out for a drink with me tonight."

Iga's eyes widened with surprise and her ears flicked, then she shot Conrad a suspicious glance before replying.

"After the mission," she said. "When you come back safe."

"You're on."

Conrad found it hard to get to sleep that night. His conversation with Iga was preying on his mind, and the fact that the launch was now less than a week away wasn't helping. Nor was the army-style bunk, not quite long enough for his frame, or the blanket wholly inadequate against the mountain chill. Clouds were racing across the face of the full moon, which flashed through his window like a searchlight, and he was filled with the urge of the big cat to prowl.

He padded outside, closing the door noiselessly behind him, and stood in the shadow of the crew barracks. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness and looked up at the distant mountains, topped with dollops of creamy snow that glistened in the moonlight. His breath was visible as white puffs in the air. The stillness was absolute.

He heard a sound.

He held his breath.

Someone was creeping towards the rocket, darting from building to building, keeping even his shadow concealed while they lurked and waited for the next run. Whenever a cloud floated across the face of the moon, the figure made another dash. Even though Conrad was keeping an eye on the figure, when the moon was out and the compound was still it was hard to believe he had really seen anything.

In the old days, Conrad had specialised in covert operations, and the training was kicking in. He was thankful he chose to sleep in a plain black T-shirt and boxers, but the white curl of his mane would glow like a homing beacon in this light.

Silently, using the same techniques as his prey, Conrad shifted round so that what wind there was blew towards him rather than carrying his scent to his quarry. He flowed from one spot of cover to the next, gradually closing on the intruder. Then, covering the final yards at a crouching run, he pounced.

An overwhelming scent of fear and anger, and the intruder bucked him off with surprising strength for such a smallish figure. Conrad made a grab, but his opponent slipped from his grasp and aimed a karate chop at his neck. Conrad turned aside, and the blow thumped into his ribcage hard enough to make him wince. He feinted left, sprang right, and grappled with the foe. Each bared sharp, feline teeth, snapping at an exposed throat or shoulder, and they danced together on the tarmac as they tried to throw each other off balance.

The moon appeared in a break between the clouds.

"Major Ward! Why are you not sleeping? And why are you wearing your underpants on your head?"

Fortunately for Conrad's modesty, the moon slipped behind another cloud and he was able to rearrange his cunning mane camouflage, while Colonel Podjama removed the black beanie hat which had concealed his tufted ears from view.

"I might ask you the same questions, Colonel," he growled. "Well, the first one, anyway. What's your game?"

"These accidents, Major. Are they just accidents? Or are they the work of saboteurs and spies? Do you want to risk finding out the hard way?" The lynx lashed his stumpy tail. "I was patrolling."

"I dunno, mate. It looked pretty fishy to me."

"Ask yourself, Major Ward: do you have any choice but to trust me? Who else do you have, out here?" His pupils were wild and huge in the moonlight. He was either paranoid, which was dangerous, or lying, which was very dangerous. Conrad backed down.

"Why don't you go and hop into your pyjamas, Podjama, and I'll see you in the morning. OK?"

"Fine." The warrior examined him coldly before slinking away.

Before he stepped back inside his quarters, Conrad turned to salute the round face of the moon. He hoped to be seeing it a lot closer up, soon.

The last few days before the launch were so packed Conrad barely had time to think, let alone brood. He gave an official press conference on base, with a carefully-prepared speech provided by Podjama. His fur and mane were brushed and he wore his old flightsuit, cleaned and pressed for the occasion. This time he didn't blink and shy away from the flashes. This was his moment. Halfway through his speech, he held the paper script aloft and tore it in two.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press, until now you have heard someone else's words put in my mouth. Now you're getting plain Conrad V. Ward, as his mother made him. When I enter orbit the day after tomorrow, I'll be realising a dream I've had since I was a cub growing up in England. I never guessed how far I'd go to achieve it, or the route I would take. I'd like to thank Professor Nihil and Colonel Podjama for giving me this opportunity, but most of all I'd like to thank my parents, who encouraged me to keep believing in myself even if nobody else did. Mum, Dad, wherever you are, I hope you're watching.

"Now, are there any questions?"

A paw shot up immediately, and Conrad recognised the white vixen from before.

"Major Ward, aren't you afraid? The project's safety record isn't too good, is it?"

Conrad glanced at the Colonel, whose face had been stormy ever since the lion had torn up his script. "There's an element of risk in any great venture," he said. "I trust the project staff to do everything they can to keep me safe." He looked at Iga, who gazed steadily back.

"Of course I'm afraid. But some dreams are worth dying for."

The vixen tucked her microphone under her arm and clapped, the rest of the press pack joining in. Colonel Podjama stepped up to the lectern.

"That's all we have time for. Thank you so much for coming."

He hustled Conrad out of the side entrance so no rogue reporter could corner him off the record.

"Nice speech," he said. "You're completely crazy, you know that?"

"Thanks, Colonel. You're not so sane yourself."

The lynx snorted. "It's very nice for us that you'll do this job for so little pay. I just hope you're up to it. Now, come with me. Professor Nihil wants to brief you."

Conrad wasn't looking forward to that. The best he could hope for during one of the Professor's briefings was to nod in the right places. One of the other scientists generally translated what he had said into layman's terms for him afterwards. Podjama escorted him to Nihil's office, knocked and walked in.

"I've brought him, Jan."

"Thank you, Max. Conrad, Conrad, come. It's all right to say Conrad? I don't like all these titles."

He said something in Ylvanian to Podjama, who nodded and left. It always surprised Conrad how meek and deferential the Colonel was with this elderly, eccentric scientist in his scruffy old suit.

"Would you like a coffee?"

"Yes, please, Professor."

Nihil poured from a jug on his desk, adding cream and sugar. When Conrad took a sip, he discovered that the coffee was stone cold. He disguised his expression of disgust as best he could, licked his lips and took another swallow. Professors couldn't be expected to remember whether their coffee had been brewed that morning or the previous night, after all.

"How are you feeling about the launch? Are you happy, sad, confident?"

"I've never been happier in my life, Prof," Conrad admitted.

"But scared too?"

"A bit, yeah."

"Good. Only a mad person wouldn't be."

"I'm definitely not mad, then!" Conrad grinned. "But I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Nihil nodded as if satisfied. "And everything is good? Your quarters, the food? My people are polite and look after you? No troubles?"

Conrad knew that Nihil himself barely slept or ate, and that this was not the time to voice any complaints he had about the facilities.

"I've been a bit concerned about some of the cost-cutting," he said.

"Of course. You Westerners are used to failsafe upon failsafe. Here we simply try to make sure the failure does not occur in the first place."

"Accidents happen, Professor."

"Let me ask you something, Conrad. You have been in some scary situations against terrible odds - yes, I read your file. You have always survived. Do you believe in luck?"

"No, Professor Nihil, I do not."

"Right again. We make our own luck by being brave and resourceful. I am glad I chose you."

Conrad scratched his chin, wondering whether to bring up the point that had been bothering him. The Professor seemed genuinely concerned, and had specifically asked if anything was on his mind, so...

"Do you trust Podjama?" he blurted out.

"Max is an old friend," Nihil said carefully. "We have known each other from the military and he has always looked after me. When he is behind a cause, he will stop at nothing to achieve success."

"Do you think he's behind this cause?"

"I hope so, Conrad. I hope so."

The badger had a pen behind his ear, his paws were stained with tobacco and chemicals, and his jacket was buttoned up crooked. He was such a stereotype of the eccentric genius, Conrad sometimes wondered if he was for real. At least, he had the eccentric part down pat - the lion hoped the genius bit was there too.

"Conrad, I am sorry I haven't spent more time talking to you. I've been busy and I was never good at making friends, but I would like to be friends with you."

"OK," Conrad replied guardedly, not sure where the older badger was going with this.

He patted Conrad on the shoulder. "You remind me of my boy," he said. "He would have loved to be here. Such a good, bright boy, and always he wanted to go to the moon."

Conrad said nothing. He knew what was coming next; since the war, every family had its tragedy.

"The polio took him when he was ten," Nihil whispered, turning to look out of the window at the towering rocket. "My boy. My Aleksi."

The walk to the capsule seemed to happen in slow motion black and white. Professor Nihil gabbled some last minute instructions and wrung his paw. Iga gazed steadily and silently at him. Fidoj detached himself from the gaggle of technical staff to press a little toy terrier into his paw.

"Is for my daughter," he explained. "Take him to space!"

"OK, let's do this," Conrad said. He raised his paw to wave. "I'll see you on the dark side of the moon!"

Then he began the long walk, knowing it could be the last time his feet touched the Earth.

TEN

It was really happening. Conrad leaned back in his seat, taking deep breaths. Everything had been checked and double-checked. All systems were operational, all lights green. The lion was strapped securely into his seat in preparation for the launch, and there was nothing left to do but listen to Colonel Podjama's voice, booming and distorted, as it counted off the seconds.

NINE

Pretend it was just another exercise, that was it. Let the training kick in. Never mind the sweat oozing from between his pads, or his increased heart rate. You know what to do. You can do it.

EIGHT

He remembered their faces as he looked back for the last time before closing and sealing the capsule door. Fidoj eager, Iga flashing him a smile and a thumbs up. Professor Nihil trembling with excitement. Podjama inscrutable as ever. Conrad was carrying a lot of people's hopes and dreams into space with him. He would do his best to bring them safely back down.

SEVEN

Had he forgotten anything? Bit late now. His ear itched and he reached up to scratch it, but only bumped a gauntleted paw against his helmet. At that, various other bits of him broke out in sympathetic itching, and he wriggled in his seat.

SIX

Halfway through the countdown. It seemed to have taken a lifetime already. For all he knew, the remaining seconds were his lifetime.

FIVE

Come on. Come on. Come on.

FOUR

From the capsule's position at the top of the gantry and the way the windows had been placed, all he could see was sky - clear, blue, and seeming to go on forever. A cloud appeared at the edge of the blue square and began to crawl across. He decided to concentrate on that.

THREE

The red ABORT button glowed directly in front of him. All he had to do was press it and the mission would be abandoned until tomorrow, or the day after, or forever. There were all sorts of reasons why today wasn't a good day. Meteorological conditions. His back had been playing up (a little souvenir of the Tomcat's ejector seat). It was Monday - he didn't like Mondays. Who launched rockets on a Monday?

He stared at the button, knowing he wasn't going to touch it.

TWO

In the humming silence between the numbers, voices crowded his head.

"If you get hurt or killed they will drop you like you're radioactive."

"Saboteurs and spies."

"Major Ward! Is it true that budget cuts have meant severely reduced safety margins for the mission?"

"Hi, kid! This is all pretty crazy, huh?"

ONE

Oh shitbuggerbogroll.

LIFT-OFF

He felt the rumble before he heard it, as the rocket's powerful engines kicked in. Clouds of smoke rolled past the window. He heard a crash and his ears flicked jumpily before he realised that the gantry had fallen away and he was airborne, rising on the column of white exhaust gas he had seen in a hundred movies. The capsule wobbled as the rocket pushed its way up by sheer brute force.

The blinds closed automatically, and Conrad was thankful he'd never suffered from claustrophobia. Since cubhood he had read and watched everything to do with space that he could get his paws on, especially the earliest manned American missions. He knew, instant by instant, exactly what was going on, but experiencing it firsthand was a different proposition entirely.

He was squashed down in his seat by the forces acting on him. His eyelids and jowls were pulled downwards, and he was unable to lift his arms from the armrests. All his internal organs seemed to be trying to turn themselves inside-out. Even breathing was an effort, struggling as he was against the enormous, invisible weight on his chest. He let his heavy eyes close and extended his claws within the gauntlets.

The shaking of the capsule became more violent. For all Conrad knew the rocket was tumbling end over end, or pointing straight at the ground below; without reference points, all he could sense was speed. Despite his headphones, the roar of the engines was deafening.

He felt a slight bump as the first stage dropped away, and the noise dropped to a more bearable level. When the second stage went, the pressure on his body eased and the sensation of movement ceased. He might have been sitting in an armchair at home. He lifted his arm and it raised easily, with no resistance.

Unzipping one of the pockets of his suit, Conrad took out the dog mascot Fidoj had given him. He held it in front of his face, then took his paws away. It hung suspended in front of him before beginning to drift off to the side.

"All right, Snowy?" he asked. He recaptured the toy, gave it a quick squeeze, and returned it to his pocket. It was really happening. He had escaped Earth's atmosphere, and he was in orbit.

He was still playing with the way his body felt in the new gravity, laying his suited tail across his palm and watching as it stayed where it was, when, with a sudden whirr which made him jump, the blinds which had protected him from the heat and glare of the launch rolled back up.

Conrad craned forward, eager for his first glimpse of the world from space. His pupils narrowed in the strong sunlight, and he manually lowered the blind on that side.

Conrad's physics teacher had described the experience of weightlessness as 'an absence of stress and strain resulting from externally applied forces'. She hadn't mentioned that the effect was emotional as well as physical. As he saw the panorama hanging above him, the weight lifted from Conrad's mind as well as from his body. All his worries had been left down there, on the planet that had never been further away from him, or more precious to him.

He would be making three full orbits before reentering the atmosphere. The capsule was travelling towards the arctic, and already the blues of the ocean and the greens and browns of the land were fading to shades of white. Conrad's brain made pictures in the folds and shadows of the pack ice.

A voice in his ears broke the silence and made him jump.

"Aleksi II, this is Control." Podjama sounded tinny and far away, his mysterious machinations barely significant now.

"Aleksi II receiving you loud and clear, Control," Conrad responded. Then - because who was going to upbraid him about correct protocols now? - he added "Hi guys, how's it going? Great view up here!"

He thought he could hear laughter in the control room, behind Podjama's exasperated hiss, and imagined them all clustered around the monitoring equipment.

Professor Nihil's voice came through the headphones next.

"Hello, Conrad. It's all looking good so far. Start carrying out the planned tests. And don't forget to have a good look round yourself, too. You have approximately two hundred seventy minutes - enjoy them."

"Thanks, Prof. I will."

Conrad wasted no time in obeying Nihil's instructions. He unclipped himself from his seat, removed his helmet, and floated freely in the tiny cabin, moving from window to window to take in the view. He set up the onboard equipment to perform and record the tests the professor had requested, as well as taking photos and video for his own benefit. He made sure to include a few shots of Snowy floating against a backdrop of the Earth's curve, for Fidoj's daughter. From time to time he ate a cereal bar, being careful not to make any crumbs, or sucked water from a tube.

But he spent as much of the voyage as possible gazing out of the windows, sometimes through the viewfinder of his camera, more often just drinking the sights in with the naked eye, confident they would be permanently etched on his memory.

Half an hour in to his flight, there was a flash of bright colours that lit the capsule up like a firework display and made the Earth below bloom like a rose unfurling. Was the capsule breaking up? Conrad decided that even if it was, there could be no finer final sight, and settled back to enjoy it. When the spectacle went on and on, he realised what he was seeing.

"Wow," he breathed, paws pressed hard up against the toughened glass as he drank in the dancing, dazzling rainbow hues. There should have been a choir of angels singing, not just a muted whine of life support systems. Watching, Conrad remembered everyone who had ever been dear to him - those who had gone, and those who were still around. He wished he could share this experience with all of them, but he knew a photo wouldn't do it justice, and he didn't have the creative skill to reproduce it in words or paint. He felt unworthy of the privilege he had been given, although nobody could have longed for it more than he had.

He blinked, and noticed several minute balls of clear liquid floating in front of his face. Now what? A leak? He put his tongue to one of the globules, and tasted salt. Only then did he notice the tears rolling from the corners of his eyes and floating off his muzzle.

The aurora paled and brightened into a uniform white glow. Conrad had seen the sunrise from space, unfiltered by clouds and atmospheric conditions.

And, if he was lucky, he might get to see another one before he landed.

"Conrad? Is everything all right? You missed your ten-minute check."

Conrad gulped. "Everything's great, Professor," he said, his voice as steady as he could make it. "I'll tell you about it later. Over a drink."

Since he was orbiting the Earth more quickly than the Earth went round the sun, he was able to experience a day and a half in under three hours. He saw oceans gleaming under the light of the moon, and turquoise at midday with stripes of deep navy that indicated deep sea trenches. He saw the red rocks and deserts of Australia, the ice caps at the poles, and the tiny, familiar puzzle-piece shape of the British Isles. Cities in the dark made glittering patches; the entire continent of North America was picked out and outlined with pinpricks of light. But nothing could surpass that first glimpse of sunrise, and he suspected that nothing ever would again, not even if he lived to be two hundred.

"Twenty minutes until reentry." Colonel Podjama. "You should strap yourself in soon."

"Right."

He began to prepare for his return to the atmosphere, tidying away any loose objects into pockets or cubbyholes before hauling himself into his seat and securing the straps. He felt calmer than he had before the rocket took off; somehow, the prospect of burning up in the atmosphere or crashing into the ground was less horrifying than the thought of blowing up on the launchpad before he'd even gone anywhere. He took a last, deep breath of the stale air before enclosing himself in the even more confined space of the helmet.

As he sat forward, the seatbelt tugging against his weightless body, and waited for the signal to begin the reentry procedure, he felt a little less gung-ho about things.

"Start engines," Nihil told him through the headphones, gentle and patient like an uncle teaching his favourite nephew how to bowl a cricket ball.

"Engines started."

Conrad felt the capsule shift out of its orbit, although the Earth did not yet seem to be growing any larger, and the craft vibrated as the jets started up.

"Jettison service module."

He pressed the button. Nothing happened.

"Aleksi II, jettison the module!" That was Podjama's voice, playing Bad Cop as usual.

Conrad stabbed the button again, harder. "I'm trying!"

This time there was a jerk, and Conrad saw something spin away from the capsule. The Earth rotated in his windows until it disappeared below his sightline. The blunt, broad base of the capsule, with its ablative heat shield, revolved into its position, facing what suddenly began to feel like 'down' again.

The capsule seared its way back through the atmosphere, and Conrad saw the sky above him waver through a red glow flickering up from the heat shield. Why hadn't the blinds gone back down? Would it matter? As the sky turned from black to dark blue, masking the stars, the glow went white and became painful to look at, so that the lion squeezed his eyes to slits. The floor beneath his feet was uncomfortably warm, the air in the capsule stifling. This might be perfectly normal and nothing to worry about, but that didn't make it any more pleasant. Conrad, rendered immobile by the forces trying to pull him out of his seat and stick him to the ceiling, could feel the sensitive pad of his nose drying out. He concentrated on making the small adjustments to the controls fed to him by Nihil, to take his mind off the discomfort.

With a jolt and a fountain of sparks, a bright white rectangle flew past his view.

"Control! I think part of the heat shield has detached!" Conrad said urgently. "Control? Hello?"

There was a fizzle of static.

"Control, this is Aleksi II, come in please. Please."

"...course. Adjust...repeat...off...degrees..."

"Well, that were enlightening," Conrad muttered. "Repeat, repeat, Control."

No answer. He was on his own.

Conrad took stock of the situation. Without Control to guide him, anything he did to the capsule's settings would be flying blind. He decided it would be best not to meddle with his saucerful of secrets, just trust to luck. He surely couldn't have gone that far off course. He leaned back, watching his white forelock float in the pull of minus several G and feeling prickles of sweat break out everywhere he was capable of sweating. The sky through the window was lighter now and striped with clouds, which he saw through a shimmering haze of heat. His mouth opened slightly, the tongue protruding, and he panted.

The vibration of the capsule intensified to a shaking that made Conrad clench his teeth together so as not to bite his tongue. The heat rolled off the floor and walls in waves, and when his knuckles brushed against the console, it was hot enough to hurt and he snatched his paw away.

A warning bell sounded. Conrad rolled his head towards the control panel and saw the light for the oxygen supply had turned red. He pressed the button to start the emergency pumps, but there was no welcome hiss of gas. He closed his mouth, swallowed, and tried to breathe slowly through his nose. The capsule would fill with carbon dioxide - if he couldn't land and exit the capsule in time, he might be suffocated by the very system designed to keep him breathing in space.

There was a thump, and this time Conrad was convinced it was the capsule tearing apart under the terrific forces acting upon it. But, above him, a yellow flower blossomed and spread. The drag chutes had opened.

One of them, at least. The descent still felt too rapid, but it had slowed. Would it be enough, or would Conrad find himself in a ready-dug grave?

The landing happened suddenly, too suddenly for him to prepare or brace. One moment the windows were filled with sky, the next the tip of a mountain stabbed upwards. There was a brief impression of trees.

"I'm not in the middle of the Sahara, anyway," Conrad said aloud. Then there was the shock of impact. The windows went dark and the console light dimmed. Fumbling with his straps in the half-light, Conrad wondered if he was already dead. Once released, he dropped to all fours. The floor was hot enough to hurt even through the knees of the spacesuit. He stood up with an effort, his ears ringing and his lungs smarting from their search for oxygen. The suit - not working. He fumbled the helmet off, sucked in the warm air of the capsule - it was like breathing in front of a hairdryer - and tore off his gauntlets with his teeth. When he leaned against the wall of the capsule to catch his breath, it burned the pads of his paws.

"Drill," he said. "Emergency drill." He squinted upwards at the capsule's nose, so easy to reach up and touch while in orbit, now a seemingly impossible climb. "Let's do this."

The Jeep hurried along the mountain track, slicing into the curves in a manner only a maniac or someone very familiar with the road would attempt. It was closely followed by the ambulance and fire engine, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Lastly came Fidoj on his motorcycle, determined not to be left out and to help if he could.

The young marten at the wheel of the Jeep peered out through the windscreen.

"Smoke," he said. "That doesn't look good."

His companion, a beaver clothed head to foot in a fire-retardant suit, clicked his teeth.

"That's not smoke. That's steam!"

"Lake Blot!" The marten pushed his foot down.

The column of white steam rising from the lake was easy to spot. The usually calm, mirrored surface was choppy with wavelets. And bobbing in the middle was the capsule, the yellow skirt of the parachute spread out on the water behind it.

"I can't see a liferaft," muttered the beaver. "I hope he..."

"Look!"

Perched on the nose of the capsule, legs crossed in an attitude of relaxation, was a lion in a flightsuit. He appeared to be reading a book, and occasionally glanced down at his watch. Marten and beaver tumbled out of the Jeep, waving. The emergency vehicles pulled up beside them. Uniformed fire officers scrambled down with hoses and extinguishers, while two paramedics brought a stretcher. Lazily, Conrad looked up and saluted.

"About time you got here!" he yelled across the water. "I hope you brought a boat!"

Conrad had been to a few wild parties in his time, but he had never seen quite so much booze before, or such delirious joy. He had neither showered nor changed, just unzipped his flightsuit and tied the arms around his waist, and he was filthy with sweat, oil, dirt and blood, his suit ripped, his hands bandaged. That didn't seem to stop anyone wanting to shake his paw, to hug or even kiss him. The lion had downed three bottles of the local beer in quick succession, just to take the edge off his thirst. Afterwards, Iga Biva had persuaded him to try a strong, clear spirit flavoured with herbs that burned all the way from his mouth to his stomach. Professor Nihil bumbled over to join them, his eyes blurry with emotion, and he and Iga tried to teach Conrad the words of one of their country's traditional drinking songs.

He was dizzy from the heat and noise of the party, the effects of the alcohol on his exhausted frame, and his fraught return to Earth, but it was a pleasant, floaty sensation - almost like weightlessness - and he didn't want it to end. As Fidoj took his paws and did a sort of happy, skipping dance with him, Major Ward felt a sense of camaraderie he had sorely missed since leaving his old squadron. He had left the planet's surface among virtual strangers, and returned to find them friends.

"Cheers, Fidoj!" he yelled above the noise. "Do it all again tomorrow, yeah?"

Alone and unnobserved, Colonel Podjama slunk from the room. The lynx strode to his quarters, locked the door behind him, and pulled a briefcase out from under the bed. He spun the combination locks, snapped them open, and took a mobile phone from the case. Seconds later, it began to ring.

"Hello? Yes. Yes. No." Podjama gave a cold smile that pulled his black lips up and away from his teeth. "Yes. Everything went exactly as we had hoped."