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It was several days before enough rumors had trickled back to the Progress Space Rocket Centre in Samara to draw any conclusions.
First, that the satellite had been lost.
Then, a day later, that the transport plane had blown up in transit.
Another thirty-six hours before Vesna heard that it had been shot down trying to defect to China.
She had listened as Gregor had discussed whether or not to call his American “friend.”
“Just to see what she might know about it.”
But he’d dropped the idea when an odd rumor, only mentioned once, had reached him.
“They say there was a Zaslon defector,” he had whispered to her when they’d gone to bed earlier.
Vesna lay awake all through the night, long after Gregor had spent himself. Even in his sleep, he held her tightly.
She remembered the sca
