Murmansk-13

Tor put the back of his hand to Katja’s icy forehead, memories of Olaf as a young boy feigning sickness to avoid school flooded his mind. Olaf had always played him, with Tor away so much, he couldn’t bear to be the bad guy when he was at home. It was Lucia who bore the burden of being the disciplinarian. When she said no, Olaf knew Tor would say yes. It was one of many reasons Lucia had come to resent him.

Tor pulled the sheets up around the girl. She was clammy as well as cold, but mercifully she was alive. He wondered what his son was doing right now, so very far away.

In the silence of the morgue, Tor realized the metronomic steps of Mihalov had ceased. The Bulgarian was standing in the doorway. He paused, then broke away from his nervous circuit to stand beside Tor and Peralta.

“Captain, we know we’re not alone on here,” Mihailov whispered conspiratorially.

“I know,” replied Tor, his voice oozed exhaustion.

“We just made a lot of noise,” said Mihailov, glancing over his shoulder back toward the door. “We can’t stay here.”

“I know, Sec.”

“Captain,” Mihailov started, then stopped. “Captain, this girl isn’t our responsibility.”

Tor felt the anger of before, when Mihailov had photographed the comatose Katja. It welled up inside him again. He wheeled on the balls of his feet, but the raw emotion no longer cut through the firewall of fatigue. Through gritted teeth he said, “she is our responsibility, now.”

Mihailov bowed his head and made to walk away. “We still have to find a suit for Tala and get back to the Riyadh, which has no life support. What are we going to do with her?”

Tor’s mind cycled through his limited options. The Riyadh couldn’t support supernumeraries, heck, in its current state it couldn’t even support its compliment. There was no saying what kind of medical care Katja would require, or whether they could even portage her to the ship.

But for all Falmendikov had fucked him and for all that Tor had eschewed Falmendikov in life, Tor owed it to his Chief Officer to honour the effort he made to save his daughter. In death, Falmendikov had grown exponentially in Tor’s regard.

Noble intentions however, did not a plan make. “I don’t know.” Was the only response he could muster.

“Captain, Falmendikov screwed us and knowingly left us for dead at this godforsaken outpost,” Mihailov had drifted back toward the doorway. “We are not obliged to babysit his daughter.”

“Then why revive her?” Tor hissed. “Why help me save her?”

“I was reacting, not thinking. Captain.”

“And now you’re thinking and you’re thinking of leaving her to die here.” Tor could hear his impassioned words echo in the morgue.

“Captain?” Peralta implored.

“I didn’t say that. There are options, we could put her back in a coma and call for help.” Mihailov stepped out of the shadow, no longer cowed. Tor distantly could feel the reigns slipping further from his command.

“Sec, Captain…”

“For all we know that could kill her. I’m in charge here and I make the decisions.” Tor gestured angrily across the vacant marble autopsy slab separating him and Mihailov. The rational and irrational blurred in fatigue.

“Then make a decision, an objective one.” Mihailov snarled.

“Shut up!” Peralta’s usually calm voice rocked the morgue, slamming the door on any further discussion.

Tor stared at Mihailov across the slab, his body shaking against the polished marble. Cold indignation seethed through testosterone tired limbs and thoughts. Mihailov’s angered expression quickly faded to disgust. The Bulgarian pushed himself away from the slab and slinked back into the darkness. Tor watched him resume his sentry role, then caught Tala’s glittering eyes regard him from the shadow.

“Where am I?” Asked a small, gossamer voice. “Why are people shouting?”

Katja half-sat shivering, eyes widening as Tor turned to regard her. The little chair Peralta had sat on squealed and toppled backwards, clattering on the morgue tiles as the bosun stumbled to attention. Behind him he could hear Tala scramble to her feet.

Katja regarded each member of her rapt audience, blinking long closed eyes against the weak light. “Who are you people?”

☣☭☠

“So my father is dead?” Katja said impassively, her hands clasped around a tin cup of water poured from Peralta’s canteen. She battled convulsions of cold shivers to place the rim of the cup to her pale and cracked lips.

“We’re not sure,” replied Tor after watching the girl take a long draft. “But we think so. He has been missing from the ship for some time. His trail becomes cold here. I’m sorry.”

Katja handed Peralta back the cup and dabbed the corners of her mouth with the back of her wrist. “I guess he felt guilty. We argued a lot… about me coming here.”

Since waking Katja had drifted between coherence and bewilderment. The periods of lucidity had slowly increased but now her glazed eyes appeared vacant, her thoughts unfinished returned to a personal dreaming void. Her brows knotted in confusion and her lips moved wordlessly.