Murmansk-13

Tor wondered if Nilsen knew for sure that Hernandez was on speed, and if so why he hadn’t come to him earlier. Vaguely he mused what lay beyond the other fake veneers and hidden compartments, what secrets did Nilsen want to keep?

“You must have concealed stuff in the past?”

Tor suddenly realized Nilsen was looking at him, he shrugged. “The odd bottle of rum, some questionable porn. You know, when the Saudi’s were a bit more stringent. Not a gun though.”

Nilsen waved in mock umbrage and screwed tight the knurled nut that fixed the barrel to the receiver.

“And you want me to take this on the EVA?” Tor asked. Nilsen nodded again. “Why?”

Nilsen placed the gun across Tor’s lap and began pacing the room. His mood had appeared lightened after rest, but the dark clouds Tor had seen before in his office were building once more behind the engineers eyes. “We could have been here for months. Have been here for months looking at the state of the engines.

“Almost bloody seized if we hadn’t heated up the turbo pumps. Engines must have been running for him to get us here, takes a while for the engine to reach that state from operable.”

“So?” Tor felt a shiver play down his spine, fresh gooseflesh pricked his skin.

Nilsen turned to look at him in the dim corner of his cabin where his pacing halted. “So where is he now? What happened to him?”

☣☭☠

Able bodied spacefarer Diego Fierro sat in the darkness of the DSMV Riyadh bridge in the comfort of his civvies. The bank of ships communications equipment obscured the view of the space station beyond the windscreen. He was not unhappy about that.

Idly, he flicked through the various user manuals that lay strewn on the small table in front of him and tried to recall his radio operators training. The radio log read:

October 12th 1992 – All Radio Equipment. Dead. Test Call. Failed. Internal Test. Functioning – Report Damage to Array. Array/Aerial Failure. Radio Officer STEWART

Dead was a cold, ominous word. Dead was the station. Fierro could barely conceal his relief that he hadn’t been called to EVA. Finally his training had amounted to something.

It had been seven years since Fierro stood proudly between his mother and father, flanked by his six siblings, in the brutal summer’s heat outside the Monterrey Space Academy. Draped in a dark gown, he’d graduated as an Interstellar Radio Specialist. He’d achieved something, the hopes of his family rested on his shoulders. He could put his two younger sisters through college, maybe get his family US visas. His proud girlfriend took a photograph.

Fierro hadn’t realized that picture would be the zenith of his career.

A year after he qualified the International Spacefaring Organization scrapped the radio specialist position, radio officers would also have to be watch keepers. Fierro had taken a single contract on a solar coaster, not nearly enough money to cover the additional fees for training to become a watch keeping officer.

Where his brothers had failed through slovenliness and his older sister through a shortage of funding at college, Diego had failed by the raising of expectations. His failure had been catastrophic.

While the Saudi Shipping Inc. honoured his contract to the extent necessary, that by giving him a job in the galley and later as an Ordinary Spacefarer, the money had been significantly less, the contracts longer.

His sisters grew up and passed college age. Diego saved everything he could to at least get Patricia through, the youngest. But what he sent home his father squandered gambling. His girlfriend lost interest when his contract extended to three years. Diego quickly lost touch, if not interest.

His family were a reminder of just how badly he failed, how far his expectations had fallen. He’d heard rumours Patricia had ‘gone to work’ in Tijuana to try and pay off their fathers gambling debts. Diego couldn’t reconcile the thought.

He watched blinking yellow standby lights play over the well-thumbed Hi-beam receiver manual, startled by how quickly the knowledge was lost.

The elevator doors opened.

“Hey, chicken-shit,” Hernandez brayed, clomping onto the bridge in his grey EVA suit. Helmet uncomfortably tucked under his arm. “How comes you get the desk job?”

Diego flipped him off. “Some of us have special skills, Hernandez. Others, are just expendable.”

“Ha. Electrician, cabrón. They probably just didn’t want you pissing yourself in the suit.”

“Whatever, man.”

Hernandez walked with laboured steps up to Diego and placed a heavy gauntleted hand on his shoulder. “Didn’t see your sorry ass trying to help Tala in the canteen.”

“She seemed to have you under control.”

“Ah, she just likes being on top of me,” Diego didn’t look up, but he could feel his cheeks colour, his stomach flutter. Hernandez deftly pushed the manual down with his index finger. “Fucking knew it.”