Murmansk-13

The little motor struggled against the steel, the drive wheels slipping against the low friction wire. Tor pulled with his free hand, careful not to catch his gauntlets against the handheld pulley. The drive wheels spooled up in protest. He wanted to be away from Murmansk-13, away from the smell and sound of rot. “Hang on Mihailov.”

Incrementally, Tor and the pulley drew them closer to the silhouette of the Riyadh. The Supergiant flared, forming a great corona beyond his vessel. How long had they been on the wire? In the gentle solar winds the wire flexed creating little ripples. Tor closed his eyes, he could see the beach in Salvador and feel the warmth of the sun. Then it was gone and all he could see was the darkness of his eyelids

A sense of wrongness overcame Tor, Mihailov was suddenly heavy despite the absence of gravity. Urgently, Tor turned the Bulgarian over in his arms. The visor on Mihailov’s suit was fogged with condensation, Tor tried to peer through the haze as the pulley slipped behind him, its tiny motor threatening to burn out. He saw nothing.

Then Mihailov flexed, Tor almost dropped him. A ragged gasp filtered through the helmet mic in a wash of harsh static. The condensate slowly cleared as the suit tried to regulate its internal atmosphere.

The face staring back at Tor was no longer Mihailov.

Olaf Gjerde, his son, lay quiet and still. Somehow he appeared younger than when Tor left him and Lucia at the airport. Lucia had been checking her watch a lot, Olaf played on his Gameboy. Tor’s leaving for three years had been an inconvenience in their day. That half empty page where one chapter ends and the next waits to begin.

Manhood had been touching that Olaf, the first gossamer wisps of facial hair reminded Tor that everything would be different when he returned. This Olaf however was the Olaf he had returned to from his last voyage, still a boy. His face was still round with puppy fat. An awkward mop of brown hair that refused to be styled ringed his soft features. His light olive skin had grown pale and sickly. Arteries and veins ran prominently under translucent flesh.

The boy gave another rattling breath. Sleeping features flexed as if in nightmare.

“Olaf?” Tor’s voice was a static laced sob, his mind reeled.

Olaf’s eyes opened, milky and glazed. His mouth worked, struggling to form words. Tor’s visor was open against the hard vacuum of space, yet he breathed.