Murmansk-13

“You will be joining us then?”

“I am suiting up now. Ensure my route is clear. I will give the scouting party a head start.”

“Soon then,” he said.

☣☭☠

With Hernandez and Stewart’s concentration fixed to the stripped VHF aerial, Aidan Bruce tried to loosen the high tensile steel lifelines cinched to his EVA belt loops.

“Don’t you touch those lines, rookie.” Hernandez’s high voice squawked through the helmet intercom. Hernandez’s mirror shade visor could not possibly permit him sight of the cadet, but Aidan thought better of attempting to further slacken the wires. Instead he tried to wiggle his numbing posterior in an effort to regain sensation and find something approaching comfort.

They’d been sat atop the Riyadh’s bridge for over two hours, nestled amongst the multitudinous metal and plastic aerials of the communications array that pushed like marsh rushes upward. Various violently coloured health and radiation warnings covered in skulls and electrocuted stickmen littered the monkey island railings surrounding them, cartoonishly mimicking grim portent.

Stewart and Hernandez had watched as Captain Tor and his recon party entered the unfathomable interior of the station. From his vantage, Aidan could see little more than the dark impact gouge Falmendikov used to gain access. He had however observed the subsequent radio silence.

“Diego, you got a copy? Everything OK topside,” asked Stewart, his Liverpudlian accent kicking up a spray of feedback as he pressed the button on his chest plate.

“Eh, you sound far away,” Diego replied, a whisper in static fog.

“Man, these comms are fried. That pendejo may as well just shout out the window.”

“I don’t see any visible damage.”

“There’s a little corrosion on the insulation, see here, where the gold plating has worn off and the underlying metal’s oxidized.” Hernandez pointed at various portions of the exposed aerial. “But that’s not uncommon, I mean, shit man, when was the last time this got serviced?”

“Paperwork says it got an overhaul last time on Earth.”

“Yeah, well this kind of deterioration shouldn’t cause a comms blackout at any rate, regardless of how shitty the overhaul was.”

Aidan looked out, past the array sat atop the bridge of the Riyadh and tried filtering out Hernandez and Stewart’s technical discourse. Long, thick black shadows stretched away from the maintenance crew and were crisscrossed by the thin knifing shadows of the aerials and railings that bent suddenly away with the curve of the Riyadh’s structure. The supergiant had moved behind them diffusing a delicate vermillion radiance that danced on the beautifully polished and intricate electricians tools; gleaming vanadium chrome spanners carefully ordered in the tool belt entrusted to the cadet.

The heat was less intense than Aidan had expected from something so vast, but after two hours anchored to the space pitted titanium fuselage, sweat sheened his back and forehead. Uncomfortable, he squirmed in the confines of his moist suit, desperate to fidget with his flash hood and relieve the pressure points building on his hips where the karabiners dug in.

“Hoy. Tool boy.” Aidan could see his awkwardly seated figure, like a discarded toy reflected in Hernandez’s visor. “I need the 6 mill spanner.”

“Sorry,” Aidan fumbled at the tools. Flustered, he momentarily forgot the limited dexterity of the EVA gauntlets, almost scattering the contents of Hernandez’s belt into space. Cussing, Hernandez batted his hands from the belt and plucked the small spanner from its housing.

“Fucking useless man, how long has this kid been on the ship?” Hernandez spat, gesturing with the spanner. His voice was an abrasive squeal in Aidan’s helmet speakers.

“Give him a break Hernandez, you were a trainee once.”

“I was a fucking good one.” Hernandez pounded his chest in slow motion, Aidan could sense the Mexican’s volatile, intense eyes piercing through the gold shading before he turned away. He was never entirely sure how genuine the motorman’s anger was.

Aidan had been onboard the Riyadh since Snake’s Head. It was a hard Chinese frontier outpost for a teenager to be flown to, alien and unwelcoming. English was suppressed in favour of Mandarin, the signage and warren like layout of the station seemed obstinately designed to confound and intimidate foreigners.

Seventeen months had been the ships expected turnaround, give or take a month. Aidan had needed just fifteen to complete his cadetship. Instead the Riyadh had encountered delay after delay. Bunkering issues, docking clamp failures and postponed replenishment services. When he’d gone into cryo he was already running late for his academy return date. Now he would miss the entire semester.