“Unconscious and in shock. He’s lost a lot of blood and looks feverish. We bandaged his wounds and elevated his legs,” Nilsen sighed. “There’s not a whole lot more I’m trained to do, Tor. We ain’t got anything for a blood transfusion, just a few plasma bags. If he wakes and he’s in pain I can sedate him, maybe see if I can get him on a drip to replace fluids. I don’t know, I’m just reading this from a book.”
“How about Hernandez and the cadet?”
“They’re OK. In shock I guess, but I let them go back to their cabins. They didn’t want to get in the way when we brought Mihailov in anyway. They were damn lucky.”
“Too bad James didn’t get some of that luck.”
The room slipped back into the unerring total silence of the Riyadh. “I’m sorry, I know he was your boy.”
“He was a damn good cadet, best this company had since I became a Captain. Fucking diligent and hardworking. I wanted to make sure he got a job.” Tor shook his head, his eyes glistened. “The only reason he was on this fucking voyage was because I insisted.”
Nilsen made to say something, then stopped.
If you work with somebody long enough an understanding is formed. You learn to adapt and to compromise. You learn when to push and when to hold back. Like any kind of relationship, for it to be successful there has to come symbiosis, particularly in space. You don’t get to go home and vent every night.
For several years, Tor only flew with Nilsen barring the occasional overlap with Skaarsgard. Tor knew him as a calming influence who meted out discipline in appropriate measures. From the time of boarding to the time for signing off the predictable choreography of the voyage with Nilsen in the engine allowed Tor to adapt to the endless turnover of Chief Officers the Saudi’s kept throwing his way. But nothing like
“Tor, the crew are going to need to be addressed. They’re going to know what is going on.”
“I know.” The time for friends was fading. Now the crew needed a commander. He’d already tried that part in the station and gotten Peralta killed and Tala dispossessed. Tor didn’t know how to command and he wondered how long it would be before Nilsen felt the need to assume leadership. “I just need to sleep.”
Bonelessly, Tor heaved himself up, letting the heavy remnants of the EVA suit slough off to his ankles. The innards reeked of warm rubber, stale perspiration and urine. Stepping from the mag boots, dressed in only his stained boxers, Tor shuffled from the room. He could feel Nilsen’s eyes on his gooseflesh covered back. “Goodnight, Jan.”
Tor struggled to recognize the man staring back at him from the mirror. In the dim warmth of his cabin his skin looked gray and slack. Waxy flesh had become infirm around his jaw, his eyes, wide and blank, receded into reddened sockets. His shoulder length blonde hair lay straggly and limp behind his ears or pasted to his forehead. Loose strands following the deepened lines of his face. Through heavy eyelids, Tor watched his chin dip toward his chest. He staggered back allowing himself to tumble over the rim of the footboard.
The tousled sheets still smelled faintly of Dr. Smith. Tor drew them around him and in their yielding softness found succour. He could hold his eyes open no longer.