Murmansk-13

Tor knew Nilsen was an exemplary engineer, one of the best in the company, one of the longest tenured and experienced Chiefs. He trusted Nilsen implicitly, knew he ran a tight ship in the engine. By comparison, Tor had never been an exemplary officer, not even close. An exemplary kiss ass perhaps, his predilection for girls and good times made him an excellent foil for the first wave of ship to spaceship captains, looking to relive their youthful adventures on the seas within the nascent ports amongst the stars. He’d wound his way through the chain of command by being an affable, charismatic wingman to his elders. As the industry of vice flourished throughout the early spaceports, Tor sewed contacts with the upstart purveyors of booze and debauchery. He became a favourite amongst the companies masters, but his talent had never been for maintaining a watch, navigation or payload. Nilsen knew this, knew his weaknesses and managed to dampen the effects of his most hazardous shortcomings.

Tor had visited Nilsen in Nordland during vacation a couple of times to go hunting and fishing. An outdoors man, Nilsen preferred a beer by the lakeside with a freshly caught coalfish supper than Tor’s choice of a weekends – whoring in the gated brothels of Salvador.

They’d had numerous run-ins with Station rats, district gangs, dubious customs officials and pimps in their time, but Tor had never seen Nilsen as agitated as he was now.

“Our air and water recyc scuppers are spent.” Tor noted Nilsen’s hands quivering slightly as he tried to dampen the quake in his deep voice. “He’s obviously had to turn them on to sustain himself when he woke, but didn’t know how to control them. They’ve been running on full capacity since whenever he woke up.”

“How long have we got?”

“Two weeks. Three, if we ice non-essentials.”

Tor sat back down and rested his head in his palm. What had started a possibly significant, potentially career ending inconvenience was spiralling into something more dangerous.

“But there’s something else worrying me, Tor.” Nilsen now picked at the edge of a piece of paper, his shining eyes fixed on the distraction.

“What?”

“Whatever this is, this radiation or ionisation that is damaging our comms, our Exotic Matter.” Momentarily he trailed off in deep thought. “What is it doing to us?”

Tor paused, hadn’t had the chance to even conceive of that particular concern and could offer no solace.

“I mean we could be already dead for all we know,” Nilsen continued.

“We can worry about that later,” Tor offered weakly.

“What about my daughter Tor? I haven’t seen Freya in years,” Nilsen splayed overlong fingers around the back of his balding head. “I was going to call it quits after this trip, propose to Emma. I was going to take her down to the lakes. I met her there.”

Tor rounded his desk. He squeezed Nilsen’s shoulder but found himself bereft of platitudes or reassurances. He felt a sick emptiness in his stomach that afforded little sympathy as he contemplated his own mortality. He decided he wouldn’t burden Nilsen further with the tampered transponder. “I’ve ordered a meeting in the mess hall, I could use your support down there.”

Reluctantly Nilsen rose, blank, misted eyes regarded Tor. “Sorry. I’m not sure what came over me. I guess it’s just the effects of the cryo. We’ll be fine.”

The words came out hollow and faintly manic. If Nilsen lost his grip, the crew would follow. Tor patted him on the back, manly slaps to avoid seeming patronizing. But his mind was elsewhere, sinking into its own quicksand of fears both real and potential. He let Nilsen exit in front of him and held his hand to the light, watching his own digits shake.

☣☭☠

The crew of the DSMV Riyadh sat bleary eyed in the mess hall. The sharp tang of detergent hung over plastic fixtures and fittings. The same beige-orange flecked Formica veneers gleamed in sterile white light. Split into two rooms, one for officers, the other for ratings, the foldaway divider had been pulled back and trestle tables pushed against the bulkheads.

Cryosick crewmembers pulled primary coloured stacking chairs into the space once occupied by two rows of tables and benches. At one time, the Riyadh had been manned by almost thirty hands, now just thirteen men, minimum crew, operated the vessel. More officers than ratings. With Falmendikov AWOL and Mihailov and Stewart on the bridge, only eight haggard faces stared back at Tor.

He watched Nilsen take his place beside Pettersson, avoiding his eye. The situation had grown grimmer since the crew last convened on the bridge. Tor hoped Nilsen would keep his concerns about radiation to himself. Post cryo sleep deprivation and panic was the last thing Tor needed. The news he was about to relay was bad enough. Terminal conjecture could wait till later.