Murmansk-13

A gentle rap at the door stirred his senses. Tor heaved his stiff body over to his IKEA recliner and retrieved the pair of neoprene boxer shorts he’d worn since entering cryo eight months ago. Pulling them on he glanced around his cabin; clothes were strewn everywhere after the previous evenings exertion. Tor would have to speak to Sammy, ensure housekeeping came back up on track as soon as possible.

Galley needed to wake a day earlier, that would have been a great idea, Tor supposed he would not be attending another Master’s Conference. In an odd way it made him feel sad. He’d always found them rather grinding affairs. Daytime conferences a prelude for evening debauchery. The company always ensured they were situated near a strip club or bordello, subconsciously sewing seeds of compliance, safeguarding themselves from costly requests and difficult questions. The realization that his career was almost certainly over filled him with an isolating detachment.

A second more fervent knock. Tor hoped it wasn’t Dr. Smith and cringed at the memory.

He limped to the door. “Morning, Tor.” It was Nilsen. The words were cheery but his face grim. He didn’t look rested.

“Is it?” Tor asked, Nilsen looked puzzled. “Morning. Is it?”

Nilsen glanced into the port side portholes. “Well you know what they say Tor, it’s always dark in space.”

“Except when that fucking gloomy star is blasting in.”

“You slept through our last pass, it’s the opposite side of the station now,” Nilsen appraised Tor’s disposition with cold eyes. “You OK Tor? You seem a bit more dishevelled and terse than usual.”

“Fine. Bad night I guess.” God, Tor wanted that final cigarette.

“Get dressed I have something I want to lend you.”

☣☭☠

The leatherette recliner, identical to the one in Tor’s cabin, was cold on his back. Tor sat, gooseflesh prickling his skin, in his neoprene boxers and black truckers cap, holding a cordial glass of Linje aquavit. Piss brown-green coloured, faint caraway and aniseed redolence.

Nilsen bustled around his pristine living quarters, furniture positioned in obsessive lines, engineering manuals ordered by descending height. Nilsen pulled the last book from the shelf, a short tome about the Kon-Tiki expedition and placed it with reverence on a large Perspex coffee table bolted to the deck. The coffee table was now covered in a jumble of oddments, situated in a peculiarly ritualistic fashion.

“When was the last time you EVA’d?” Nilsen asked crouched down and working the lock on a battered dark green lockbox, previously concealed somewhere in his en-suite.

Tor sipped the aquavit, letting the spirit warm his chilled body, and tried to cast his mind back. “Did some training in enclosed environments as a cadet. Probably twelve years ago. The company I flew with as a rating never EVA’d except in critical situations. Usually just let repair teams do the work at station or back on Earth.”

“Hmmm.” Nilsen’s picks sprang the lock, Tor tried to peer over his shoulder.

“I guess it’s the same with the Saudi’s, I’m hoping Tala or Peralta have some experience with the flyby nighters.” Tor was still trying to see what was in the box when Nilsen spun on the pads of his feet. “Is that what I think it is?”

Nilsen smiled, presenting the object in open palms like a precious artefact. “What do you think it is?”

“It’s a rifle stock,” Tor answered drily. “You want to give me a gun?”

Nilsen nodded sombrely and handed him the gunstock. He then spun back on his heels, picking through the possessions on his table, each one concealing an element of the rifle. Receiver, barrel and finally the nut, concealed in the Kon-Tiki book, clinked dully against the Perspex. “She’s a Henry Repeating Arms, AR-7. They call it a survival rifle. Designed to be used by US airforce pilots, shot down behind enemy territory. For me, she’s my trusty hunting backup. She packs down small, good to have in the woods if my primary has a problem. Saves a wasted hike.”

“Useful attributes onboard,” Tor remarked sarcastically. “Why do you have it here?”

“Privateers, station gangs. Cold War tensions building even out here. Don’t want to be stuck in the big black and unarmed if the shit hits the fan.” Nilsen handed Tor the constituent parts of the gun. His penetrating eyes belied a misplaced fierceness Tor would have found comical were they not so defiant.

“How the hell have you managed to smuggle this onboard and through station customs for so long?” Tor began assembling the gun. At first he thought it would be simple, however his inexperience with guns was betrayed immediately and Nilsen took the stock and receiver from him, fitting them together with ease. Tor felt his cheeks heat.

“The same way Hernandez does with his amphetamines, same way all contraband is smuggled. Hidden compartments, magic pipes,” Nilsen pointed to a white plastic pipe running from deck to deckhead in his en-suite. “That doesn’t go anywhere. I didn’t put it there, probably Skaarsgard, or someone before him. Smells of weed.”