Murmansk-13

At the back Sammy Cruz, Chief Steward, stood alone, all five foot two inches of him. His whites were immaculate as always and he wore his Stewards epaulettes despite the lack of occasion. Cruz had already caught Tor in the corridors as he walked with Nilsen to the meeting. Stores were running low, but worse, luxury items were almost spent. A shortfall of coffee, cigarettes, beer and Skyflakes crackers would doom morale faster than rationed vegetables and meat products. Still, neither were as critical as a shortage of air and water.

At least porn was still in adequate supply.

Tor surveyed drooping eyelids and bloodshot sclera. A face was missing. “Where is Dr. Smith?”

Pensive heads darted from side to side. A shoulder or two shrugged. Hernandez, head in hand suggested: “Asleep?”

“Would you like me to call her room, Captain?” Sammy asked politely, motioning to an old wall mounted Bakelite telephone.

“Let her sleep, I’m going to keep this brief so we can join her,” the Filipinos and Mexicans gave tired wry smiles. “Figuratively, join her.”

Tor paused, let the ratings enjoy the humour. He feared humour would also be soon in short supply. “I’m going to cut the bullshit guys and I want you to remember we’re all in the same boat here.”

Heads straightened and jaws tightened. Dulled eyes focused on the Captain. The room was eerily silent except for the faint hum of the ships electronic systems.

“The situation is… bad.” Tor looked away for and found himself staring at more dark portholes. Reflexively he pulled the port blind nearest to him down hiding the perpetual night.

“How bad, Captain?” Peralta asked earnestly.

“Radio Officer Stewart is currently working on contacting the company, but so far we have been unable to broadcast, this station we’re docked at is apparently interfering with our communications array.

“Our air scrubbers and water filters have perhaps two to three weeks left before they become ineffective. On top of that we have no fuel for thrust, we basically cannot obtain escape velocity from the anchoring planet and our EM drive is also inoperable.

“Our supplies were due to be replened at Talus within a week, they were also not expected to be tasked during our scheduled cryosleep. With twelve crew members still aboard we may be on thirty percent rations.”

“Until when, our air runs out?” Hernandez sneered.

Tor answered the insubordinate question indirectly. “The other option is that the ratings and cadet return to cryo while we signal for assistance. Then we all cosy up until help arrives.”

“This is bullshit. What about our pay for this extra time?” Hernandez was now standing, lazily Nilsen cuffed his blue boiler suit and pulled him back to his seat.

“What about my space time? I’m supposed to be back at the academy in three weeks,” Aidan Bruce, first trip cadet piped up timidly.

“Yeah, well that ain’t happening kid, we’re still eight fucking months from Talus, let alone your academy, I wanna know if I’m being paid for this.”

“Seriously, shut up Hernandez. Right now pay is the least of our concerns, we can thrash that out with Saudi Shipping when we get home.” And when the company finds we’ve ruined a billion dollar exotic matter cargo and damaged an eight hundred million dollar exotic matter drive.

Tor kept the latter thought to himself. Even if they did get home they could expect months of being dragged into wainscoted courtrooms for hearings and inquests. Blame would have to be apportioned someplace, the buck would ultimately stop with Tor. His career was already over, Falmendikov’s stunt could leave his retirement a destitute one. He shut his eyes briefly and felt the sharp pain and pressure forming behind his eyeballs. How long before the likes of Hernandez realize he was a spent figurehead?

“Cryo is the only option if we want to give ourselves some legroom,” Tor said, emphasizing each word. He prepared to reveal his list of all non-essential crew when Dr. Smith entered the room. She was dressed in civvies, an ugly crocheted turtleneck poncho and black leggings. Rheumy eyes suggested she was freshly awake, but the dark circles suggested she’d enjoyed only a fitful sleep. Despite her tired visage, she looked much younger out of her uniform. “Good of you to join us Dr. Smith.”

“Cryo won’t work,” Dr. Smith pulled up a chair directly in front of Tor and stared at him. “We were due to return to Earth from Talus following a minor jump, the ship wasn’t scheduled to replenish the liquid nitrogen onboard until it reached Earth. We’re out of the primary composite for our cryo fluid.”