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The old man had spoken repeatedly about corruption—his tone measured, but weighted with meaning. Andrei understood the cue: he could speak freely here. Whatever the KGB's reputation, it was unlikely they had placed surveillance inside a private home like this, especially one that looked as inconspicuous as any other villa.
But Andrei also knew something else: the true cause of the Soviet Union's eventual collapse wasn't an external enemy, but internal decay—corruption that took root during the Brezhnev era and hollowed the system from within. A new generation of Soviet youth, disconnected from the sacrifices of the Great Patriotic War, had grown disillusioned with empty slogans and a stagnant hierarchy. That discontent had eventually fueled the rise of opportunists like Yeltsin.
The disintegration was no mystery to Andrei. He had lived through it once.
Now, as he sat across from the quiet yet inquisitive old man, Andrei said plainly, "The biggest problem we face is the permanence of political positions. Lifelong cadres—men who refuse to step aside—can no longer adapt to change. Their priorities shift from national interest to personal gain. They surround themselves with loyalists, forming interest groups that resist reform and exploit the system."
He paused, his voice sharpening with conviction. "When personal preservation outweighs the good of the people, when self-interest overrides duty—that's when a nation begins to rot from within."
A sharp crash interrupted the moment. Andrei turned toward the source of the sound. Ekaterina stood frozen in the doorway, a shattered teacup at her feet, her face pale.
She had overheard him.
For Andrei, raised in another time, these were the words of a concerned citizen. But in the current Soviet Union, such remarks could earn one a one-way ticket to a labor camp in Siberia.
"Father, dinner's ready," Irina said quickly, stepping forward to help clean up the broken porcelain. She shot Ekaterina a brief, knowing glance—both of them understood how dangerous that conversation could have been.
"Come, young man," the old man said, rising. "Let's move to the dining table. We can continue talking over food."
Andrei nodded and stood. As they walked, he caught Ekaterina's eyes. She was shaking her head, signaling him not to speak further on the topic.
Inside the dining room, it quickly became clear who held authority. Only the old man and Andrei sat to eat. Even Irina's mother stood by, serving the table, while the others remained respectfully in the background. This was a patriarch's household.
Recalling Ekaterina's warning, Andrei avoided any political discussion. Instead, he relied on something more culturally acceptable—vodka.
He drank. Cup after cup of strong, high-proof vodka. He remembered offering a few toasts, laughing at a joke or two, but beyond that, the evening blurred. His memory faded like vapor on a cold window.
The next morning, sunlight filtered through white curtains. A soft quilt covered his body. He woke slowly, his head heavy, but his rest had been deep.
"Andrei," Ekaterina's voice came from nearby. She entered the room carrying a neat Air Force uniform, already pressed and ready. "Today is the ceremony. You'll receive your medal at the Kremlin. Please—eat something, clean up, and whatever you do… don't say anything like yesterday."
Andrei nodded, groggy but alert.
"Where's your uncle?" he asked.
"He left before dawn. He's rarely home this early, so last night was unusual. He's busy… always busy." Her tone suggested the topic wasn't up for discussion, so Andrei didn't push further.
Soon, a car from the Moscow Air Defense Command arrived to pick him up. He climbed into the GAZ, watching the city pass by as they drove toward the Kremlin—the political heart of the Soviet Union.
He had seen the complex once before with Ekaterina, its walls towering, its spires cutting into the sky like frozen fire. Now he was heading inside to receive the highest honor the state could bestow.
The Gold Star of the Hero of the Soviet Union.
Once inside, he was escorted to a waiting room. Several others were already present—decorated men in crisp uniforms.
"Andrei Vladimirovich Tolstoy?" a voice called out as he entered.
"Yes, that's me," he replied, offering a polite smile.
"Alexei Arkhipovich Leonov," the man said, stepping forward. He was shorter than Andrei but radiated quiet confidence. "These are my comrades. We're all here for the same reason."
Andrei's eyes drifted to the small, brilliant medal gleaming on Leonov's chest—a Gold Star.
It was his second.
The name struck him instantly—Alexei Leonov, the legendary cosmonaut. The first human to walk in space, the man who stepped outside the Voskhod 2 capsule in 1965 and floated 24 minutes in the cold void, tethered only by a fragile lifeline. A hero not only of the Soviet Union but of all mankind.
This year, Leonov had led the Soyuz–Apollo joint space mission, the symbolic handshake between East and West in low Earth orbit. The two great Cold War rivals had docked spacecraft in space—and worked side by side in peace.
In that moment, surrounded by soldiers, astronauts, and men of valor, Andrei felt something stir deep within him. Despite all the rot and betrayal he had seen… there was still greatness here. Still honor.
Soon, he would be called to receive his medal, standing beside these giants of Soviet legacy.
But in his heart, Andrei knew that honor alone wasn't enough. It had to be protected. And if necessary, redefined.
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