Murmansk-13

Beyond, the morgue lay quiet and chill. The hum of refrigeration units emanated from some unseen place. A single, steel gurney lay unattended, pushed to the bulkhead, on the opposite side banks of stainless steel cold chambers ran in ordered rows and columns. There was no dust here, shining white tiles appeared eerie green in the isolate light of Russian exit signs. The little group broke tentatively up, inspecting the sizeable morgue like amateur sleuths drawn in to the story of a murder mystery weekend.

Tor ran his gauntleted hand over the first of three stainless steel autopsy slabs, gleaming in the rationed light. He was sure he could feel the bitter cold through his EVA suit, crawling up his back. He tilted his head back and forth, working the kinks from his tense neck, watching the green light dance and circle around the slabs drain. He watched Tala pick up and appraise a bonesaw from a wheeled table cart occupied by a medical examiners implements.

Mihailov stood to the side of the cold chambers. A medical clipboard listed the names of the unfortunate inhabitants of the morgue. “All the names have been scored off,” he said after a long while. “All but one.”

The party reconvened around the Bulgarian, his finger tapping the little clipboard. Tor shivered and squinted in the gloom at a list of names in Cyrillic. All had ominous black marker lines through them except one that read – Катя Николаевна Фалмендикова. Tor turned to his second mate who never took his eyes from the board. “Katja Nikolaevna Falmendikova, she was twenty-four. A lab technician.”

“I’ve read that name before, in Falmendikov’s personnel file,” said Tor, sorrowfully. He could make out the date of birth 01-01-1967 and the number 21. “She’s been dead for four years?”

Mihailov nodded and lowered his hand from the clipboard slowly. For four years, Falmendikov must have sought the opportunity to come to Murmansk-13. To see his daughter, he’d put himself through tireless training and rigorous voyage schedules that had cost him his marriage. Tor was still bitterly incensed it had been his voyage, his ship and his crew that Nikolai had commandeered, but he also felt sad. The burden Falmendikov must have bore, the loss that had led him to such ends. This place was uncharted, a Soviet secret, Tor wondered if Falmendikov had ever learned of his daughters fate. It appeared he’d come fifteen million light years and fallen just twenty meters short.

Tor thought of Olaf. So much lost time, perhaps Nikolai had done him a favour, bringing his career in space to a close. He could probably find an office job in crewing or vessel operations in Brazil, his raging muscles evidenced a close to his swashbuckling ego that had perhaps been dead for years anyway. Whether forty-three or thirty-eight, neither was a bad age to grow up and settle down. Maybe he could grow old with Lucia. Maybe. “Take a picture of that board, Mihailov. We’ll need it for evidence.”

Tor paced away as Mihailov obliged. The flash ricocheted around the morgues stainless steel fittings and implements as Tor slumped against one of the marbleized supports for the autopsy tables. He kneaded his temples, trying to dissipate the pressure within his cranium. He could feel his legs stiffen almost immediately.

“We shouldn’t dally too long,” said Peralta, placing a hand on Tor’s shoulder. “We’re not alone, here.”

The other footprints brought renewed vigour to Tor as his flesh prickled at the thought. “We also need another EVA suit.” If Murmansk-13 was as occupied as it appeared, Tor in good conscience could not leave Tala alone aboard the station.

“I suggest we check the accommodation level, they may have escape sets which will be enough to get her back to the Riyadh.”

Tor nodded his agreement to the bosun as he struggled back to his feet. Beyond Peralta, he could see Tala opening the cold chamber that housed Falmendikov’s daughter. Tor pushed past Peralta to stay her hand. “That won’t be…” he began.

The little port clicked open and the tray on which Katja Falmendikova lay slid smoothly out in counter rotation to the station. Mihailov and Tala prevented the tray from escaping from the guides and the chamber altogether.

Tor too, placed his hand on the tray and looked down at the girl that lay upon it. She’d been preserved perfectly, lightly closed eyelids suggested she was merely sleeping. Her face was one of a much younger person than twenty-one. Inclined to fat, her face was a little chubby and little blemishes textured her cheeks and forehead in bumps. She was deathly pale and porcelain; her features positioned evenly, naturally platinum hair lay in a long dishevelled side plait that extended beneath the tarp that covered below her shoulders.

“Sleeping beauty,” said Mihailov after a quiet moment.

“I prefer my girls slim and muscular,” replied Tala, eyeing the dead girl.

Mihailov grinned. “So you fancy yourself then.”