Murmansk-13

Determined not to be remembered in his current state, Tor made a furtive attempt to regain his balance, slithering from his platform. The floor was cold and unforgiving, wet feet slipped on the seamless surface. He jammed his hands into the side of the pod, thrusting his thermal blanket apart, naked save for the shorts beneath.

He quickly gathered the foil material around himself again, hands smarting, dignity zero. Tentatively he tested long idle muscles. Like the first strides of a brittle morning run, his calves ached his thighs taut and recalcitrant.

Tor shakily padded around his platform, drawing the ire of the female doctor. “Captain, you really should wait until all your faculties are warmed up before you start walking around.”

Tor stopped and eyed the women suspiciously, she was young, perhaps late twenties, but her stern face and sharp features held an ageless quality. She was not unattractive, but the plain, long, unnaturally straight hair that framed her pinched face gave her a severe appearance. She wasn’t the ships usual doctor. “How long were we out?”

“Eight months, fourteen days,” she replied flatly as she attended to Jan Nilsen. The Chief Engineer looked newly thawed. He stared at Tor with misty eyes and agape mouth.

“Everyone okay?” Tremulous words scratched at his dry throat.

“Everybody is fine, life signs normal.” For the first time since he started speaking to her, she looked up from behind Nilsen and met his eye. “Please, Captain. Sit down.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Doctor…?” Before she could reply a commotion in the bay drew both their attention.

One of the pods had malfunctioned, the cryo fluid had drained, but the pod failed to open. Inside the frantic deckhand beat at the blue Perspex with little more room than a coffin. The Doctor rushed to the bed, releasing the small Filipina. Angela Tala Herrera sprang from her pod, barely any indication she’d spent over eight months suspended in a liquid nitrogen solution – even her Grace Jones fade had retained its rigidity. Throwing her breathing tube and nose clip aside, she punched the pod. “Fucking piece of shit,” then turned and saw her Captain looming over the tableau. Wide eyed she said: “Good morning, Captain,” before doubling over and vomiting brown-green bile over the pristine white floor.

With the Doctor preoccupied, Tor knew a name would not be forthcoming. “Carry on,” he said as she rushed away. “I’m going to the bridge.”

☣☭☠

Stiff legged, Tor made the short walk down the arterial corridor, rubbing his eyes in response to the dazzling white light. Long closed, they were slow to react to the imperceptible changes in light intensity. The Medical Bay had been tailored to newly awakened deep spacers in a way the rest of the ship wasn’t. A sudden memory jarred him, the blue lights and shadows, had that just been a dream? He closed his eyes and charted two fading parallel marks that traced a spastic path across his retinas, he’d barely registered them when he woke. Déjà vu, a memory on a memory, he’d probably stared into one of the bay’s strip lights before his sentience had returned.

Tor contemplated the stairs and the burning sensation down the back of his legs. Blood returning to normal temperature cascaded through his musculature, made him think twice. He called the elevator for the two flight journey to the bridge.

Auto lighting illuminated the bridge in a comforting wan glow. To the side, the chartroom was littered with starcharts annoyingly disorganized. Some had fallen on the deck, beside them a set of brass dividers. Tor returned them to the chart table, next to the large faux-leather bound ships log. He squeezed old droplets of water from shoulder length blonde hair. It once flowed down the length of his back, but upon receipt of his first command he’d been ordered to cut it. The company was still not happy with its length.

The hanging light above the chart table – green painted like a billiard hall with ornate brass filigree, hung at an odd angle. Out of place. Tor stared at it for a moment.

Various instrument panels winked, pallid greens and reds. The auto pilot would be engaged for another day, time to allow the crew to adjust to their waking surrounds, assess their position. If for some reason the crew remained dormant fail safes were designed to cut in at that point, a distress would be broadcast and the ship placed into a stationary orbit around the nearest safe object.

Tor pressed the power button on the ships video printer. The grey cathode tube lit up, spooling out green nonsense text as part of its warm up procedure, each bit accompanied by a digital tapping sound. Beside it he let the noisy ribbon printer sit motionless so as to enjoy the comparative quiet of the bridge.