Murmansk-13

“Heating is the least of our concerns,” replied Nilsen. “We’ve known since day one, we’d need to scavenge supplies from the station if we wanted to leave and even though the scouting mission was a disaster, our situation hasn’t changed. If anything it’s became worse.”

Heads bowed and faces blanched, memories of colleagues lost and near death experiences entranced the crewmen. Nilsen steeled himself to unveil his and Pettersson’s plan, when the mess hall door opened. Tor looked at the little gathering, he’d shaved and looked surprisingly well and rested. Nilsen held his breath, but Tor’s expression remained impassive. “Carry on, Chief.”

In silence, Nilsen and the crew watched Tor retrieve the empty chair from beyond the circle. Sheepishly, they shuffled outward, affording the Captain space to join the powwow. Discouraged, Nilsen suspected the crew were now perceiving the clandestine meeting as mutinous rather than essential.

Well damn it, what was done was done. Nilsen hoped Tor could forgive him in the long run but more urgent was his need to convince the crew that returning to Murmansk-13 was a necessity.

“You said our situation had become worse, Chief.” Sammy broke the silence. The eldest crewman left alive, he of all appeared least perturbed by the Captain’s unexpected entrance but most perturbed by the prospect of leaving the Riyadh.

Nilsen cleared his throat as Tor sat beside him. “I assume you were about to propose a plan, Chief?”

“Myself and Oscar have been studying some pictures Mihailov took aboard the space station,” Nilsen thought briefly of the second mate freezing and dying slowly in the bowels of their ship. “One of them was a schematic of the station, it wasn’t the most detailed shot, but we’ve made a map from what we could see and filled in the gaps with what makes sense.”

Beside him, Pettersson shuffled a number of copies of the crude, colour co-ordinated maps they’d created the previous evening and began distributing them around the circle.

“You guessed,” assessed Hernandez, rotating the laminated diagram from the right way up to upside down.

“Basically.”

“Why not ask the Captain, or Sec?” Hernandez averted the passive gaze of the Captain.

“There wasn’t time,” Nilsen ran bony fingers over his face, stubble had grown into a nascent beard. “Mihailov is ill, very ill. He needs help and so do we. I can’t just sit here and linger. Even with the crew diminished and rationing in place our stores will be expended within a month. Even if we bring the engine back online and start heating the vessel we will drain our fuel supply within six weeks and for what? Nobody is coming for us here. Here doesn’t fucking exist on the starcharts, there’s no reason any vessel will come here and without comms we can’t signal for help, all we have left are distress beacons and they have a limited effective range and lifespan. We need to get the Riyadh into a major shipping lane, near to other vessels and to do that we need to achieve escape velocity and get away from this planet and station and out of this system.”

“So we need fuel?” Sammy asked. The Chief Stewards voice was calm, but having helped Mihailov to the medical bay and still mourning for his friend Peralta, his expression betrayed fear.

Nilsen was scared too. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was. Beside him Tor sat emotionless, Nilsen didn’t necessarily believe in auras, at least he hadn’t, not beyond the majesty of the Norwegian backcountry, but something about Tor belied an absence. Whether it was his soul, his aura or some other metaphysical component of being, Tor was no longer there and Nilsen knew his trip to Murmansk-13 was responsible.

“We need fuel if it’s available, cryo fluid too,” Pettersson picked up the thread, “We also need basic supplies if we have to endure a long drift, food, warm clothing, medicine. But above all else, we need life support – water recyc filters and air scrubbers.”

“We don’t know if we’ll find fuel or cryo on the station, but the rest we should be able to find.” Nilsen purposely caught the eye of every man in the circle, every man save Tor. “I propose we split into two groups. Myself, Oscar and Hernandez will head for Central Command. I’m assuming their orbital stabilizer is running on something, hopefully Syntin. If not we should find scrubbers and filters in their Plant District.

“Diego, you and Sammy will head for the warehouse, District Six. Pick up clothing and whatever food supplies you can. We’ll take the ships hover-dollies so you’ll have a ton limit, if you find any air scrubbers or water filters in the warehouse bring those too.”

“What about myself and the cadet?” Tor seemed to look somewhere past Nilsen, perhaps into the portholes lining the mess hall bulkhead, toward the paint spatter nebulas that mottled the darkness of Reticuluum. Regardless, Nilsen held his off-centre gaze.