Murmansk-13

Tor found Peralta, Tala and Mihailov waiting for him in the Evac Suite. The three of them were already suited up and sat around the hexagonal table. Their knees bent awkwardly outward by the suits convoluted rubber joints. The two Pinoy were trying to explain the rules of Tong-its to the Bulgarian officer. A rummy game similar to Tonk or Mahjong. Mihailov was clearly being played. His broad Slavic features a picture of confusion.

Tor winced, it took a moment for his still cryo weary eyes to adapt to the dazzling whiteness of the strip lights. Thirty-six hermetically sealed, Perspex fronted wardrobes housed the ships compliment of EVA suits, cheap Chinese reproductions of NASA Apollo designs. Half the suits maintenance and test sheets had large, lurid red stamps blazoned across them; FAULTY or FAILED. They’d long been due for servicing, had been rudimentary to begin with, but since the crew cuts the Riyadh had more than enough functioning suits for their compliment and that sufficed for the company.

Quietly, Tor sat beside one of the still unopened wardrobes and tried to work the lassitude from his muscles. Every single part of his body ached dully, each movement requiring concerted effort.

He propped the rifle against his leg and rested his head against the white padding of the bulkhead. Enjoying the shade cast by the wardrobe, he let his head sink slowly into the leatherette upholstery. The bulkheads in the Evac Suite were padded because this was the mustering point when all hell broke loose on board, even the table and benches were covered in thick insulation to minimize injury.

Suddenly, raucous whooping and laughter stirred Tor. He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes. Flinching, the rifle clattered to the unpadded deck, drawing the attention of Peralta.

“Good morning, Captain,” Tor sat forward and noted Peralta’s half expression change as he spied the rifle. “We didn’t see you there.”

Tensely, Tor retrieved the rifle from the deck. Both Tala and Mihailov now saw Nilsen’s gift and visibly stiffened, their smiles replaced with uncertainty. “That’s quite all right, Bosun, I wasn’t trying to be seen.”

“Is that a gun, Captain?” Mihailov ran a gauntleted hand over prominent cheek bones.

“Well it’s not a watering can is it?” Tor replied, standing up. Turning from the crowd, he keyed in his pass and released the wardrobe’s seal, stale air rushed passed him to fill the vacuum.

“Why do you have it?” Mihailov asked, in a thick accent.

Tor stepped into the wardrobe and began unzipping his EVA suit. He sighed and back stepped to address his reconnaissance party. “Chief Engineer Nilsen has lent it to me. He is concerned that we may require protection.”

“Protection, Captain?” Peralta asked, the group were now stood and were pensively approaching the rifle.

Tor returned to donning his EVA suit, he didn’t want to betray the cold sense of foreboding Nilsen’s words had left him with. Flatly he replied: “He is concerned that Chief Officer Falmendikov has not returned.”

“How exactly is a rifle going to help?” Asked Mihailov.

“How did he get the thing onboard?” Asked Tala.

“Guys, this isn’t a Q and A session.” Tor stepped into the suit, vaguely recalling his first efforts as a cadet when he broke his nose tripping over the crotch and slamming his face into the opposing bulkhead.

The suit smelled of old rubber and white petroleum used to keep the joints supple. A familiar, yet nostalgic essence. Memories of his time in the Norwegian Space Academy, Bergen. A nineteen year old college dropout who had fallen into an unfathomable opportunity. He’d segued nimbly from bakery delivery driver to deep space frontiersman, all because he’d slept with the bakers wife, one of the academy’s recruiting agents. A homely, prurient forty something turning to fat. Fortunately, he’d shipped out on his voyage before his employer discovered his wife’s infidelity.

He’d not returned to Bergen since.

Sleeping around had afforded Tor a number of opportunities in life that better skilled, more rounded people would have deserved. He supposed it was fitting that this extensive chapter of his existence was drawing to a close being fucked by someone else.

“What does this fire? .22’s?” Tala had brazenly picked the rifle up and was inspecting it.

Remembering, Tor pulled the two eight round magazines Nilsen had given him -cached in a fake Artex panel – from his neoprene boxers waistband and tossed them to Tala. “Whatever these are.”

“Long rifles, standard velocity.” She said, rotating a round between her thumb and index finger. One eye closed as if appraising a precious stone.

“You know how to shoot?” Tor motioned for Peralta to do up the zip at the back of his suit.

“I do a little airsoft when I’m home,” Tala replied.