Murmansk-13

A large solar panel drifted from beneath Aidan’s visual horizon, rising inexorably behind Hernandez coiled form. The Mexican hunched his knees to his chest and then sprang like a flea against the panel. The two objects began spinning in opposing directions from one another.

Hernandez hadn’t got all of the panel, his jump was off and he was drifting to the extent of Aidan’s reach. Aidan pulled against the karabiners, keening into the mic, stretching with every reserve of strength. Aidan angled his shoulders, extending his span. That limited him to his right hand. He braced himself. Aidan watched his own figure grow in the mirror shade of Hernandez’s visor amid a plain of devastation.

Hernandez grasped Aidan’s arm just below the suits wrist couplings. Aidan felt Hernandez Chromel gauntlets slip against the rubber exterior of his suit. Dogged, clumsy fingers grasped the inner seal at Aidan’s wrist, threatening to pull his gauntlet and Hernandez into endless hard vacuum. Aidan spun and clasped Hernandez arm with his left, stealing his wayward inertia. His agonized neck shot daggers of pain down the right side of his body. He could hear himself scream.

Hernandez stamped a mag boot down on the Riyadh, securing himself to the ship. His left boots magnetic coupling had been ripped away so he knelt beside Aidan, his ragged breaths the only sound. “You OK, man?” Hernandez asked after a long while.

Aidan found words clotted in his throat, enervated tears running freely down his cheeks. For the first time since he left Addy, he didn’t find solace in solitude, even if Hernandez was his only company. As he calmed and marshalled his thoughts Aidan managed to ask, “Stewart?”

“He didn’t make it. Fuck.” Hernandez lowered his helmet and scanned the immediate scene. “That’s his boot coupling over there.”

Hernandez pointed to a magnetic sole, peeled partially from the deck in situ where Aidan had last seen the Brit. A spray of tiny internal boot parts formed a semi circle away from it. The sight left Aidan detached.

“You did good, man.” Hernandez clasped his hand on Aidan’s shoulder and squeezed. The camaraderie coming at the price of his agitated neck muscles.

Aidan patted at the tool belt he’d been entrusted with. “I think I lost your tools.”

Hernandez laughed a little too manically as he removed the tethers shackling Aidan to the deck. “Let’s get back inside, man.”

Chapter 7

The morgue was quiet once again, Katja slept fitfully, swaddled in fading mint green scrubs and scraps of musty sackcloth found in an otherwise emptied cupboard, her chest rising and falling steadily. She lay on one of the cold autopsy slabs like an ensorcelled princess, the only sound was Peralta, soothingly cooing to her in a display of latent paternalism. The old bosun held the girls hand and recited some muttered cantrip in Tagalog.

Tor, heavy lidded, packed away the museum-piece portable defibrillator cart Mihailov had used to jump start the girls heart, all science fiction wires and dials encased in wood vinyl. Small mercy that the Riyadh had been blessed with more than one Cyrillic reader.

Now, Mihailov paced around the morgues entranceway, peering occasionally into the corridor. Dark circles had formed under his eyes and he appeared to be running on anxiety alone. Furtively his hand would play across the gaffer tape scabbard holding the rifle to his back. Tala, by contrast, was dozing, slumped in a corner and washed in sickly green light.

Tor worked a kink out of his straightened back. Restive fingers kneaded into knotted sinew. His body quivered with exhaustion. God, he needed to sleep, they all did.

Tor drew beside Peralta and let the Pinoy’s hushed lullaby wash over closing eyes, lilting words carrying him someplace warm and elsewhere.

Katja flinched in her sleep and reflexively Peralta squeezed her hand, bone white against his Demerara brown skin. Tor wondered what hibernating nightmares they’d dredged from her long dormant memory. What had come to pass that she would lie frozen and abandoned in this hinterland of deep space?

They couldn’t be sure if an answer would be forthcoming. Whilst they’d managed to reanimate her body, none of Tor’s party were qualified to assess the neural damage. This had been no standard cryo sleep. In fact it had been decidedly backyard and Mihailov was convinced some rudimentary cocktail had been administered to lower her heart rate and metabolism prior to refrigeration.

While her breathing unaided provided solace, it was the look in her bright blue eyes when she first awoke that gave Tor the most comfort. Darting and fearful, they’d at least appeared aware. Tor only hoped it wasn’t the fevered look of a dying mind and fleeing soul.

“How’s she doing?” Tor asked.

Peralta turned to regard Tor with rheumy, bloodshot eyes. “She’s cold, Captain. Very, very cold.”