The ambassador is here to see Her.

Yes. Oh, yes. Finally, the ambassador has arrived. In an instant She feels energized, confident, hopeful. This could be it: today just might be Her day. The moment of truth is close at hand — all that remains now are Her final preparations.

First, inspecting Her attire. Given Her unique role in Soviet military operations and the particular importance of Her appearance, She was granted ample discretion to customize Her parade “uniform.” The items themselves are similar to those worn by other Strategic Rocket Forces personnel of Her rank: a peaked cap, standing-collar tunic, gloves, boots, and breeches (She opted against baring Her calves out of concern they would prove too distracting). The differences, however, are readily apparent: jet-black fabric in place of the expected wave-green, a richer shade of gold for the belt, aiguillette, buttons, and other minor details, and a conspicuous absence of service medals or other braggadocious trifles. Her luxurious black leather gloves and boots have been shined to an imposing polish, and the latter's unusual and elaborate lacing has been done up flawlessly. Then, of course, the all-important black leather coat worn on top, marking Her as something far more dangerous than a mere soldier. Every square millimeter of Her attire has been correctly put into place — there exist no errors one might point out to Her, even if one were daring enough (and She is certain that none are).

Next, her equipment. Her pocketwatch and secret weapon are stored in Her coat, precisely where She will need them to be later on. She requires nothing else; the game is ultimately a simple one, after all.

Then, finishing touches. Foundation, blush, highlighter, setting powder. Lipstick the dull crimson of dried blood. One more comb-through of Her shocking white bob and bangs. Her sole concession to jewelry — a pair of ruby earrings in the shape of five-pointed stars. The mirror confirms what She already knows: Her presence is larger than life. If She is to complete Her mission, it must be.

And with that, She's ready. She departs from Her office and heads straight for Her personal arena. No need to check on the mongrel — She knows the poor thing is right where She left it, half-comatose in its cell. One of the guards will bring it over as soon as the ambassador is seated. It is She who must enter that room first, and so that room is exactly where She goes. No one says a word to Her as She walks; Her comrades know better than to disturb Her on days like today.

She arrives. The interrogation room is set up precisely as it needs to be. In the center of the room, directly across from the doorway, stands a rectangular metal table. A comfortable office chair is set at each of the table's longer sides, and on the left side only there is a stool to the chair's right. Placed near the ambassador's chair, a large memo pad and fresh ball-point pen. Nothing further — the stage is set. She takes Her place in Her chair, next to the mongrel's stool. For several minutes She waits, until…

…without ceremony she arrives, confidently strolling in. The ambassador. An avatar of polished American gunboat diplomacy, ever the fitting counterpart for a living embodiment of Soviet excellence. Black pantsuit, skinny tie, and short heels; flattering white dress shirt; gray-tinged auburn hair bound in a deceptively tight ponytail; enough makeup to conceal her few flaws (but not an ounce more of the stuff). Absolutely nothing in terms of decoration or adornment — everything extraneous is absent, and what's present is pristine. In a word: immaculate. 

Crushing that woman will bring Her satisfaction like nothing else could.

«Посол Сьерра,» [Ambassador Sierra,] She says with a liveliness approximating warmth.

«Генерал-полковник Эхо,» [Colonel-General Ekho,] the ambassador casually replies as she takes her seat across from Her.

A perfunctory exchange, both of their tongues firmly in cheek. It goes without saying that She isn't truly a military officer, just as the ambassador isn't truly an ambassador. But pageantry, pageantry.

She calmly folds Her hands on the table and shifts into crisp Mid-Atlantic English. "As per our ground rules, I expect only My proper title once the mongrel is in the room."

The ambassador helps herself to the pen and paper laid out for her (the spook gave up on asking to bring her own equipment into the room many games ago). "Oh, I remember, Curator. Have I ever once deigned to cheat?"

"Well, I've never once caught you." Curator deploys a wry smile — the only smile She finds Herself making anymore. "Or if I did, I must have mercifully decided not to press the issue."

The ambassador laughs a short, polite little laugh. "I always walk away from our exchanges counting my blessings, Curator." She then clicks her pen into action and begins writing, writing, writing.

A minute passes before Curator decides to indulge Herself by breaking the silence. "How are your attempts at replicating My methods faring, ambassador?"

The ambassador's scrawling continues, uninterrupted. "You're still way ahead of us, don't You worry."

Curator notes the hint of frustration in her tone, and concludes the ambassador is likely telling the truth — but only likely. Though She is unobserved, She offers no reaction, not even a smirk (overconfidence is unbecoming, not to mention dangerous).

After the ambassador has finished committing to paper all of the details she memorized in the days leading up to today's game, she puts her pen down and meets Curator's waiting gaze. "Let's see Laika-16, Curator." The ambassador grins. "And let's also find out if I'll be leaving this room undefeated once again."

As expected, Curator doesn't rise to this. «Приведите собаку,» [Bring in the dog,] She calls out in loud, firm Russian, pulling out the stool to Her right shortly after.

Laika-16 is shoved into the room, nearly trips, catches itself, notices its Curator, beams. In sharp contrast to its betters, it is disheveled. Unkempt blond hair, sweat stains visible on its pale green polyester flight suit, viscous drool dribbling down its neck and past the bottom of its steel-cage muzzle. Its Curator indicates the stool at Her side, and without a word the mongrel hurries over to take its seat. The door to the room remains open, but the guards outside are careful to stay out of sight.

All is ready. The game begins.

The first word, as always, is Hers. "Laika-16. Listen to every word this woman says, answer any question that she asks, and above all else: stay in this room. Acknowledge."

Without hesitation Laika-16 barks, "listen, answer, stay! Acknowledged!" Wide-eyed, the mongrel then offers its Curator a slight pout, asking if it understood its orders correctly. In response to Curator's expressionless nod, it turns to the ambassador and grins for her its silly puppy grin.

The ambassador offers a more serious smile in return. "Hello, there. Would you mind introducing yourself to me?"

The mongrel waits for its Curator's 'go on' nod, then answers. "I am Laika-16. I am a cosmonaut."

"Laika-16 is a rather unusual name." The ambassador looks down at her memo pad. "Would you care to explain?"

Laika-16 doesn't fully parse the preceding statement, but manages to intelligently answer the question. "I was named for Laika, the cosmonaut aboard Sputnik-2. Her work was foundational for the development of manned spaceflight. Laika-2 was the first of her successors. I am her fifteenth, hence the name Laika-16."

"Right." The ambassador sets the memo pad aside and faces Laika-16. "Got it. Well, Laika-16, your Curator asked me to be here today to help Her conduct an important training exercise. Before we go full-swing into that, though, I want to tell you some things about the three of us: yourself, your Curator, and me. Who would you like to discuss first?"

Laika-16 is puzzled. "Curator? Which should I choose?"

Curator's answer is devoid of annoyance, or for that matter any human emotion whatsoever. "Whomever you are the most curious about, Laika-16."

Laika-16 contemplates this for a few seconds, and then addresses the ambassador. "You first."

The ambassador nods and smiles. "My designation is Ambassador Sierra. I'm with the Department of St–"

"The ambassador works for the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States, Laika-16," says Curator, flattening the ambassador’s disingenuous misdirection before it can get any farther.

Amused, the ambassador wags a finger at her accuser. "That's no way to talk to a diplomat, Curator."

Laika-16 is outraged by this insolent remark, but turns to Curator only to witness Her ever-ready wry smile.

Curator fires back, "and how would your handler at the Company prefer I speak to you, agent?"

The ambassador politely ignores this and faces Laika-16. "I do happen to work closely with individuals in the intelligence community, that I will admit. The more important thing is that the reason I'm here today, Laika-16? It's to help you."

Laika-16 blinks twice before stumbling into a response. "Help me… help me become a true cosmonaut? Help me earn the chance to pilot Zenith?"

"Yes," says Curator.

"Not exactly," says the ambassador.

"Oh," says Laika-16. It then asks Curator, "Sir, shall I thank her for helping me?"

Curator's wry smile returns once again. "You shall thank the ambassador when she leaves."

"Yes, Sir!" It salutes Curator, then jolts back to the ambassador. "I shall thank you when you leave."

"I gathered that," says the ambassador, sighing. "Any questions you have about me, we'll have time to discuss later. Who's next? Curator or you?"

Laika-16 absentmindedly scratches at its neck, just under the bottom of its muzzle. "Curator next."

The ambassador, again, nods. "I know Curator's formal designation, but I'm not permitted to share it right now. Your Curator wears a plethora of hats, Laika-16: war hero, politician, military instructor, psychologist, experimental chemist, and cosmonaut trainer, to name a few. As it happens, She used to work in intelligence, too."

"They thought I was a double agent." Curator leans towards the mongrel conspiratorially. "Turns out I was triple." She winks.

Laika-16 doesn't understand the joke, but obediently giggles anyway.

The ambassador politely coughs to regain the mongrel's attention. "Curator's got a finger in damn-near every clandestine military pie in the Soviet Union, but for the past few years She's been in charge of a special operation: an initiative to convert captured foreign agents into disposable personnel for suicide missions. Translated, that initiative's known as Project–"

"Curator," Laika-16 cuts the ambassador off, instantly thrown into a panic. "Suicide missions? You send people on suicide missions, Sir?"

"No, Laika-16," is Curator's calm, measured response. "I train individuals to navigate the treacherous and unforgiving depths of outer space. As you know, piloting spacecraft is a dangerous business. But if you are a good cosmonaut, and obey Me — as you have consistently managed to do so far — there's nothing in the world to worry about."

Every trace of doubt is gone from Laika-16's weary, blissful face. It will be safe. It knows it will be safe, because it will obey its Curator. "Thank you, Sir." It then promptly bows its head in gratitude.

Curator merely glances at the ambassador.

The ambassador is apparently not impressed. "I would add that irreversible neurochemical disfigurement and long sessions of psychological torture are central to the conversion process."

"Charting the stars is a formidable challenge." Curator tilts Laika-16's head up by its muzzle until the two have locked eyes with each other. "So shouldn't the training be challenging too, My brave little cosmonaut?"

"Yes, Sir!" It doesn't really matter if the mongrel understood the question — it gave Curator the right answer.

The ambassador sighs with disappointment as she retrieves her memo pad from the table. "In any case, that just leaves you, Laika-16. Are you ready for me to tell you who you are?"

The mongrel is lost in its Curator's eyes. It floats in them, serene, like they're twin flight decks keeping all the cold, scary danger far away. "I am Laika-16. I am a cosmonaut."

Curator rewards the mongrel in patronizingly affectionate Russian. «Хорошая собачка.» [Good doggie.]

Mongrel's grin becomes lurid, and it shudders in arousal. A hit. The little addict finally got its first hit in a long while, and it's practically squirming. "I am Laika-16! I am a cosmonaut!" It giggles, only mildly disappointed that the reward didn't repeat itself, too.

The ambassador taps the table with her finger a few times. "Laika-16."

Laika-16 snaps into awareness and focuses once more on the ambassador. "I'm listening! Listening to every word you say!"

The ambassador gestures with the memo pad. "Then pay attention to this. Your name is Alexis Senatorov. You are 32 years old, birthdate November 10, 1992, and a first-generation American citizen. You were born in the city of Sebastopol, California to your father Andrei and mother Polina, who emigrated there from Sverdlovsk. You have two brothers, Nicholas and Michael, who are two and four years younger than you, respectively…"

Laika-16 begins to softly shake its head. "No. No, none of that is true."

The ambassador goes on: "...bachelors in political science from the University of California, Davis, serving as the captain of the school's parliamentary debate team during your senior year…"

The mongrel's shaking becomes more agitated. "I don't want to hear this. Curator, are You sure I need to–"

Curator swings Her fist into the mongrel's collarbone, briefly stunning it. "Orders are orders, Laika-16. Listen to every word the ambassador says."

"Y-yes Sir." The mongrel resumes shaking, now violently. "Forgive me, Sir."

More from the ambassador: "...fiancée, Bethany-Anne Espinoza, 30, who you apparently met through something called 'dark yoga.' You dated for about a year before she moved into your apartment in South San Francisco, bringing along with her a calico cat named 'Fruitcup' to whom you are mildly allerg–"

"Ambassador." The mongrel slams its fists on the table. "Ambassador, I know everything that I want to know. You don't have to keep going, this isn't helping me. Please don't make me listen to any more–"

"We can move on," the ambassador smiles, "to a different topic. And please, call me Sierra."

Laika-16 bows its head to the ambassador in gratitude. "Thank you, Sierr–"

Curator grabs the mongrel by the back of its head and forcefully slams it into the table, muzzle first. "Do not interrupt the ambassador again, Laika-16. That is a direct order. Acknowledge."

The mongrel is disoriented, but nevertheless barks back its directive without difficulty. "Do not interrupt. Acknowledged!" Its Curator releases its head, and it promptly sits up straight.

Curator silently presents a hand, palm-up, to the waiting ambassador.

"Thank you, Curator." The ambassador returns the memo pad to the table and rests her hands on it. "Alright. Let's talk about today's exercise. You may have noticed that the door to this room is open." The ambassador tilts her head to her left, aiding the confused mongrel via visual cue. "Face the facts. The life you're living on this base is no good, Laika-16. You're suffering, daily and deeply. But: If you go through that doorway, I'll take you to a better place. Doctors will see to your good health, expert therapists will help you process your trauma, and you'll be kept well-fed with plenty of leisure time as you grow healthy enough to return to your real home — where your fiancée is anxiously awaiting you. All you have to do is walk on out of here. It's as easy as that." The ambassador pauses there, offering the mongrel a chance to respond.

"I will stay in this room." Inexplicably, the mongrel is staring off into space and quietly chuckling. "I'm not leaving this room. I am staying. It doesn't matter what you offer me, Sierra. I have orders, and I will obey them, and I will be safe here."

The ambassador frowns. "We'll talk about safety, Laika-16. But first, you should know the point of this exercise: my objective is to convince you to leave this facility, and Curator's objective is to keep you here. She will lie to you–"

Laika-16 practically bites out its own tongue, but cannot interject to defend its Curator's honesty.

"-distract you, frighten you, pacify you, say or do anything She thinks will tempt you into remaining by Her side. Ask me why, Laika-16." The ambassador then folds her arms.

The mongrel explodes into a frothing rage the moment it is certain the ambassador has finished speaking. "FUCK YOU. You're the liar! You're the temptress! You're just a spy, an enemy spy–"

Curator clutches the mongrel's arm to seize its attention. "Opponent, Laika-16. The Americans are our opponents, not our enemies. Isn't that right, ambassador?"

The ambassador merely shrugs, allowing Laika-16 to resume its ranting.

And so the mongrel does. "I learned all about you Yankees." Laika-16 spits, aiming for the floor but mostly hitting the wires of its muzzle. "Capitalist freaks. You've been going toe-to-toe with us in the space race for decades. Zenith is how we finally win that race, Curator told me so, and that must be why you're here — to sabotage our space program! By kidnapping me!"

Curator releases the mongrel's arm and pats it twice. "A most astute deduction, Laika-16." «Хорошая собачка.» [Good doggie.]

Agitated as it is, the mongrel is compelled by this second dose of praise to groan with renewed need. "But it w-won't work. I won't leave Curator! I'm Her c-cosmonaut!"

"You're Her tool." The ambassador points insistently at Laika-16. "She stole your identity and memories, to make you easier to reprogram. She uses special words to make you do things you'd never do otherwise."

The mongrel's groaning twists into growling. "I need Her to do all of that! I need it so I can pilot Zenith. It's too dangerous without–"

The ambassador slams her palms against the table. "Before you were captured — before She got Her hooks into you — you had never even heard of Zenith! You weren't a cosmonaut, no, you were a person, Alexis–" (Laika-16's growling spikes in response to that name.) "–a person who wanted to serve her country, and see the world, and share the rest of her life with the woman she loves!"

The ambassador has ended her sentence, but there is no immediate response. The mongrel's growling dies down and eventually ceases completely. It closes its eyes, breathes deeply, and begins centering itself.

After several moments' pause, Curator slowly intones: "Laika-16. Refute the ambassador's claim. Acknowledge."

"Refute. Acknowledged." Laika-16 pushes back the stool it was sitting on as it rises to its feet. The mongrel then leans forward, quivering with barely-restrained contempt, to loom over the ambassador as it delivers its counterargument. "I proudly serve my comrades — the people of the Soviet Union — as a cosmonaut. I'll see the entire world from low-earth orbit aboard Zenith, the spacecraft I will one day pilot. And my life belongs to Curator, who I love more than I will ever love anyone. I am Laika-16, and I am a cosmonaut. That is it. The end. Go ahead and tell this 'Bethany-Anne Espinoza' that if she really wants to see me that badly? She can go outside and LOOK. UP." The mongrel is left panting after those final two shouts.

No smile, but several slow nods of approval from the mongrel's proud Curator.

The ambassador stares into Laika-16's eyes, unflinching. Her expression is one of cruel mercy. "Alexis, you really need to come to terms with the fact that you've been brainwashed."

Laika-16 snarls and winds up a vicious punch–

–but its Curator was ready. «Плохая собака.» [Bad dog.]

The punch doesn't connect; the impudent mongrel's fist hits nothing but air as its body is suddenly wracked with severe, debilitating pain. In an instant Laika-16 is bent over the table, writhing and shrieking, oblivious to everything except the impropriety of its recent behavior. Though the ordeal is excruciating, the mongrel doesn't dare ask for relief — it knows the punishment must continue until its beneficent Curator determines that it has learned its lesson, at which point She will speak the two words that will absolve it.

In time, Curator does so. «Это всё.» [That's all.]

Laika-16's agony subsides, and its writhing dies down. Without the strength to offer either gratitude or apology it just softly whimpers, twitching intermittently.

The ambassador has been largely inured to Curator's methods, but nevertheless finds her hands hovering above Laika-16's shoulders as she considers providing physical comfort. She pulls back in the end, of course; the last time she laid a finger on a mongrel, she was flown back to Langley with stitches in her arm.

Curator gives the mongrel a few more moments to breathe before launching one of Her most crucial offensives. "Laika-16, My wayward little cosmonaut. Let's make something clear: I am exposing you to this interloper's lies because I know you can withstand them. This is a simple test of your faith: in your country, in yourself, in Me. You must prove that you can resist literally any temptation if you are to be entrusted with the dreams of half the world — and make no mistake, mongrel, Zenith is precisely that important. Listen, to prove that you are brave. Answer, to prove that you are strong. Stay, to prove that you are worthy. And now, acknowledge, to prove that you are Mine."

Laika-16 tenses its arms and slowly pushes itself upright. "...listen. Answer." The mongrel sniffles, powering through the discomfort. "Stay. Acknowledged. I am Laika-16, I am a cosmonaut, and I am Yours — Sir!" It concludes by standing at attention with a bold salute.

The ambassador sharply inhales, then lets out an irritated sigh. She has decided, as she usually does around this point, to take off the kid gloves. "Alexis."

Laika-16 releases the salute and scoffs. "I do not answer to that name, Sierra."

"You will when I'm speaking with you." The ambassador's eyes narrow. "You are under firm orders to answer every question I ask you, correct?"

"Correct."

"You claim not to remember your life before training as a cosmonaut under Curator, correct?"

"Correct."

"What were you doing before you were taken here?"

"Those memories have been made inaccessible in order to protect me."

"Protect you from what, Alexis?"

Laika-16 turns to its superior. "Curator, I require confirmation that the ambassador's question is being posed to me."

The ambassador applies her palm to her forehead. "Oh, Jesus…"

Curator's wry smile is reunited with the ambassador's misfortune, at last. "In this room there are only a Curator, a Sierra, and a Laika. One can only assume the question was posed to a figment of the ambassador's imagination."

"Understood, Sir." Laika-16 sneers at its interrogator.

The ambassador just glares at Curator, exasperated.

It is Curator's turn to shrug. Her shoulders rise and fall with impeccable grace.

The ambassador shakes the frustration off and returns her attention to the mongrel. "Why do you need protection from your memories, Laika-16?"

"They might prove a fatal distraction during spaceflight or training for it, Sierra."

"How can you conclude that you haven't been brainwashed without access to your memories, Laika-16?"

"If I've been brainwashed it was for my own good as Curator's cosmonaut. Sierra."

"You feel an unshakable dissonance between your apparent motivations and the ideas that occur to you before you've fully processed them: true or false?"

Laika-16 is forced to consider this question more carefully, and its sneer fades. "...false."

But the ambassador will not have it. "Need I remind you that you've been ordered to answer my questions honestly?"

"No such order has been given, Sierra–"

"It has now," Curator cuts in to announce. "Laika-16. Lying to the ambassador is absolutely unacceptable behavior. Apologize, and speak only the truth for the remainder of this exercise. Acknowledge."

Laika-16 is mortified. "Ap-p-pologize and speak only the truth! Acknowledged, S-Sir! Forgive me Curator, forgive me Sierra! I'm so, so sorry!"

Immediately, the ambassador pounces. "The dissonance. Do you feel it, yes or no?"

"Yes!"

"Does it upset you?"

"Yes!"

"Do you understand it?"

"No!"

"Can you prevent it?"

"No!"

"Can you rid yourself of it?"

"No!"

"Can you endure it?"

"I will endure anything for Curator!"

"That is not what I asked." The ambassador abruptly points at her host. "Curator, I'm taking my minute now."

For the first time in this match, Curator is caught off-guard — that's new. The ambassador has never been the one to use her minute first. Curator suddenly finds Herself in uncharted territory, feeling something of a thrill; at the same time, She knows that positive signs are reasons to bolster one's composure, rather than abandon it. After only a short delay, Curator raises Her fist and declares: "Laika-16, you will remain motionless and absolutely silent for the next 60 seconds. Give the ambassador your full attention. Do not acknowledge."

Laika-16 complies, and its full focus is affixed to its temptress.

The ambassador, of course, does not waste any of her time. "Alexis, you know deep down that all of this is wrong. Don't fight that feeling — it's there to protect you. The doubt you're having, the uncertainty you're grappling with, those are healthy, normal responses to the danger you're in. I've seen Zenith's schematics, and you've seen that machine up close: it doesn't have retrorockets, parachutes, or any other kind of reentry equipment. If you set foot on that spacecraft, you are never coming back. Piloting Zenith is a death sentence, and your Curator forced you to accept Her suicide mission against your will. You don't have to do this. Don't do this. Disobey your orders and get the hell out of here. Laika-2 did it, Laika-3 did it, every single Laika up to and including Laika-15 did it. We're helping them. They're healing. They're finding meaning in their lives. There is hope, I promise you, but not here. Look me in the eye: you know I'm telling the truth. Trust me. Believe me. Don't be the one who didn't make it, Alexis. Run."

Curator looks up from Her pocketwatch. "Your time is up, ambassador."

Laika-16 bursts into a sprint–

–but its Curator was ready. «Плохая собака.» [Bad dog.]

Laika-16 crashes to the ground about two meters from the doorway. The mongrel is now experiencing far too much sensory distress to allow for further progress towards the room's exit.

Curator walks over to the flailing mongrel and forcefully flips it over onto its back. She follows up by gently applying the sole of Her boot to Laika-16's throat, prompting it to continue its suffering in silence. "You're not leaving before you've heard My rebuttal, Laika-16, and I also have a minute of My own to use. Laika-2 committed suicide by firing a bullet into its own brain two weeks after returning to the United States. Laikas 4, 7, 10, 11, and 14 have also taken their own lives after choosing to abandon Me. Those Laikas that are still alive persist in states of madness ranging from 'acute' to 'stark, raving.' The ambassador's promise of a fulfilling life beyond these walls is a false one. My promise of a glorious destiny, one that many would eagerly kill for, is as genuine as can be. I care deeply for you, Laika-16, and I'm entirely invested in your success. Reject this interloper's lies and tell Me who you really are." «Это всё.» [That's all.]

Laika-16's breathing is ragged, and it can't seem to stop sobbing. "hah… hah… Laika-16… hah… cosmonaut… hah…"

Curator removes Her boot from Laika-16's throat. "Good enough. Pull yourself together, Laika-16. Ambassador, here." Curator walks over and places Her pocketwatch on the table. "My minute will begin shortly."

The ambassador doesn't move a millimeter, instead choosing to stare daggers into Curator's eyes. "Take as long as you want, Daria. The rules don't seem to matter much anymore."

Curator faces insolence bordering on full-blown sabotage, but does She lose Her cool? Does She show any outward signs of frustration? No, She does not. "So be it, Katrina. Just remember whose den you're sitting in." Curator about-faces and moves to lean over the still-supine mongrel. When She has its attention, She withdraws Her secret weapon from Her coat's inside pocket and holds it just above Laika-16's face.

Laika-16 sees the item, and is astonished. The mongrel seems almost unwilling to accept its present reality, but disbelief will do it no good. That is a collar in its Curator's hand: a thick strip of fine black leather, embossed with bright red symbols. The characters «З, Е, Н, И, Т,» and a five-pointed star repeat four times in total along the collar's exterior. For a moment, the mongrel appears to be hypothesizing some alternate interpretation of its Curator's gesture. This effort proves unsuccessful, and its tears of torment eagerly transition into tears of joy.

"Laika-16." Curator's unrelenting gaze pierces through to Laika-16's very soul. "Today's exercise is in fact your final test of worth. If you refuse to leave, if you reject the ambassador's offer, if you give yourself to Me one last time, you will be ready. Zenith will be yours. History will remember you for your peerless courage; our people will honor you as the hero of their time. There is no greater purpose than this, Laika-16. Your very destiny is within your grasp." Curator moves the collar a little lower, and allows Laika-16 to timidly reach for it — before the mongrel's fingers can graze its leather, however, Curator pulls it away. "Only after the exercise is complete. Only after the ambassador has admitted defeat and departed in shame. I will adorn you with this Myself, Laika-16. You will become the greatest cosmonaut I've ever trained, and the mongrel dearest to My heart. I want to reward you, but you have to earn it. Choose wisely. Commit to Me. When you have the strength to do so, get up and sit on your stool next to Me. Acknowledge."

Laika-16 is so moved it can hardly speak. "Choose. Commit. Get up, then sit. Acknowledged. Sir, I… I just need a minute, Sir. I'll be up shortly. I'm almost there."

Curator nods as She takes Her seat. "Relax. There is no reason to hurry."

"Yes, Sir." Laika-16 manages to sit up. Progress. It appears lost in thought; perhaps it's contemplating what launching into the atmosphere will feel like.

"I'll make my rebuttal in the meantime." The ambassador adjusts her tie and clears her throat. "You had a moment of clarity, earlier. I saw it. Something in you realized that you need to leave this place. That part of you is still there, and it will always be there. You have been drugged, indoctrinated, and branded with the name of a stray dog, but despite it all you continue to be Alexis — and the Alexis I know doesn't choose death. She chooses life: in the open air, on a sunny day, frolicking with her sweetheart and laughing. This abuser, yes, She is an abuser, Alexis, wants you to sacrifice everything else in the world so you can pilot one rocketship. All I'm asking you to do is forgo piloting one rocketship so you can enjoy everything else in the world. It's self-evident which of those deals is fairer to you. Take my hand, and we'll walk out of here together. Let's go." The ambassador stands and extends a welcoming hand in Laika-16's direction.

Laika-16 rises unsteadily to its feet. It stumbles slowly towards the table, veering neither left to its Curator nor right to the ambassador. The mongrel does not yet decide; it simply ambles forward. Step. Step. Step. One last step. And then it stands, depleted, and cautiously looks back and forth between its fates.

There is nothing more to be said, and for a while, silence reigns.

But eventually Laika-16 reacts. "I can't…" It starts clutching, then clawing at its chest. "I can't do this. I’m so confused. I want too many things." The clawing motions gradually become more frenzied. Its breathing becomes disjointed, frenetic. "You made me want too many things. Both of you. I can't handle wanting so many things. There isn't enough room. I can't find enough room in here, it doesn't fit — I can't make it all fit! I have to make room for all of the wanting, and I don't know how, and it hurts, and I'm scared, and–"

The ambassador pleads: "We'll figure it out! Stay with me. Help is on the way. You're going to be okay, Alexis!"

Curator scolds: "You are overthinking this, Laika-16. Be seated and tell the ambassador that her services will not be required. We can take you to Medical after this if we need to."

The mongrel's breakdown reaches its crescendo. It continues tearing at the chest of its flightsuit, hoping to eventually rend the flesh underneath, but it also starts screaming — full-throated screaming. It screams, and claws, and sobs, unable to find any way out of its nightmare… 

…until it forces itself to take a step to the right.

Нет. [No.]

Following that first step towards the ambassador, another.

Эта была другой. [This one was different.]

The mongrel finds its footing and takes yet another step away from its Curator.

Это должно было сработать. Всё шло так хорошо. [That should have worked. Everything was going so well.]

Their hands are almost touching. The ambassador is smiling.

Неужели опять. Не в пятнадцатый, блядь, раз. Только не так. Только не так… [Not again. Not for the fifteenth fucking time. Not like this. Not like this…]

The mongrel rears back, preparing to lurch forward–

"Laika-16," Curator carefully intones, "prevent yourself from leaving Me. Acknowledge."

Laika-16 freezes. Slowly processes what it just heard. Speaks: "Prevent. Acknowledged."

The ambassador's eyes go wide.

Laika-16 jerks upward, then sends its skull hurtling down into the corner of the interrogation table, taking the impact just above its left eye. A harrowing crack resounds in the air. Without even a cry of pain, the mongrel collapses into a heap at the ambassador’s feet. Blood begins to pool beneath its matted hair.

The ambassador, too shocked to come to the mongrel’s aid, silently covers her mouth with both hands.

Curator approaches the downed mongrel, prods it twice with Her boot, and concludes that it has rendered itself unconscious. She calls out to the two guards waiting just outside the room: «Отведите собаку в медпункт! Остановите кровотечение!» [Take the dog to Medical! Staunch the bleeding!]

The guards rush in and do as they were told. Laika-16 is collected, bandaged, and carried away.

The ambassador looks on in horror, speechless. After a while her hands fall to her sides.

As the guards head off, Curator closes Her eyes, folds Her arms, and frowns. In recognition — not resignation — She officially declares the game over with two dispassionately spoken words: «Это всё.» [That's all.]

For a while, Curator and the ambassador just stand there, silent.

The ambassador waits patiently for Curator to say or do anything, and nothing happens. Clearing her throat fails to prompt a response; her host apparently will not budge. In a deeply weary tone of voice, she eventually speaks her mind: "...so, will we be calling that one a draw, then, or…?"

Curator opens Her eyes and lets off a short laugh. "Ha. No, Ambassador Sierra. The win is yours — I respectfully concede. Well-played, as always." Curator then reaches over the table for a cordial handshake.

The ambassador merely stares numbly at Curator's gloved hand. "I'll pass on the pleasantries if You don't mind, thanks."

"Hardly sporting, ambassador, but so be it." Curator lowers Her hand. "You need only worry about your own travel arrangements. As soon as the mongrel's stable I'll have it shipped to Langley for you."

A somber nod of acknowledgement is the ambassador's only response.

After a moment, Curator begins idly tapping a finger against Her chin. "You know, Katrina, calibrating their agency is just the trickiest thing. Erase enough, and they're no longer fit to pilot a spacecraft; leave them with too much, and they'll simply use it to eject. What's a Curator to do…"

The ambassador, hoping in vain to dispel her visible discomfort, unthinkingly pushes words out of her mouth. "Perhaps there isn't a perfect amount, Curator."

"Oh?" Curator's eyes immediately bore into the ambassador's. "Care to elaborate?"

Realizing what she has done, the ambassador goes silent. Suddenly she can no longer meet Curator's gaze, and feels herself starting to sweat.

Curator deploys a wry smile — the only smile She finds Herself making anymore — and finishes the thought on Her own. "Well, if there isn't one perfect amount, ambassador, it follows that there must be at least two. Two perfect amounts. Ah, now that's a brilliant idea, My friend! It might even be the breakthrough I've been searching for."

The ambassador mutters a despondent expletive under her breath.

Curator chuckles and gestures to the open doorway. "Congratulations again on your victory, ambassador. Safe travels!" She then adds an edge to Her final five words: "Do come when I call."

The best the ambassador can do is utter a meek "yes, Curator," as she hastily flees the room. That will do. All in all, a marginally less embarrassing performance than Laika-16's.

Curator, now alone in the room, returns Zenith's collar and Her pocketwatch to Her coat. She then allows Herself a single, shallow sigh. Today is not the day She at long last humbles that blasted ambassador, it would seem. Ah, well. She still has everything She could ever ask for: generous funding, ample resources, minimal oversight, more test subjects than She could possibly process, even were She to rush… and there's certainly no need to rush now, oh no. Especially not with an idea as ingenious as the ambassador's generous parting gift. Quite the opposite — She should slow down, take extra care, ensure that every step taken in Her next attempt is meticulously planned and flawlessly executed.

Zenith will have its pilot. Curator will have Her cosmonaut. It's only a matter of time.