Cryosick crewmembers pulled primary coloured stacking chairs into the space once occupied by two rows of tables and benches. At one time, the Riyadh had been manned by almost thirty hands, now just thirteen men, minimum crew, operated the vessel. More officers than ratings. With Falmendikov AWOL and Mihailov and Stewart on the bridge, only eight haggard faces stared back at Tor.
He watched Nilsen take his place beside Pettersson, avoiding his eye. The situation had grown grimmer since the crew last convened on the bridge. Tor hoped Nilsen would keep his concerns about radiation to himself. Post cryo sleep deprivation and panic was the last thing Tor needed. The news he was about to relay was bad enough. Terminal conjecture could wait till later.
At the back Sammy Cruz, Chief Steward, stood alone, all five foot two inches of him. His whites were immaculate as always and he wore his Stewards epaulettes despite the lack of occasion. Cruz had already caught Tor in the corridors as he walked with Nilsen to the meeting. Stores were running low, but worse, luxury items were almost spent. A shortfall of coffee, cigarettes, beer and Skyflakes crackers would doom morale faster than rationed vegetables and meat products. Still, neither were as critical as a shortage of air and water.
At least porn was still in adequate supply.
Tor surveyed drooping eyelids and bloodshot sclera. A face was missing. “Where is Dr. Smith?”
Pensive heads darted from side to side. A shoulder or two shrugged. Hernandez, head in hand suggested: “Asleep?”
“Would you like me to call her room, Captain?” Sammy asked politely, motioning to an old wall mounted Bakelite telephone.
“Let her sleep, I’m going to keep this brief so we can join her,” the Filipinos and Mexicans gave tired wry smiles. “Figuratively, join her.”
Tor paused, let the ratings enjoy the humour. He feared humour would also be soon in short supply. “I’m going to cut the bullshit guys and I want you to remember we’re all in the same boat here.”
Heads straightened and jaws tightened. Dulled eyes focused on the Captain. The room was eerily silent except for the faint hum of the ships electronic systems.
“The situation is… bad.” Tor looked away for and found himself staring at more dark portholes. Reflexively he pulled the port blind nearest to him down hiding the perpetual night.
“How bad, Captain?” Peralta asked earnestly.
“Radio Officer Stewart is currently working on contacting the company, but so far we have been unable to broadcast, this station we’re docked at is apparently interfering with our communications array.
“Our air scrubbers and water filters have perhaps two to three weeks left before they become ineffective. On top of that we have no fuel for thrust, we basically cannot obtain escape velocity from the anchoring planet and our EM drive is also inoperable.
“Our supplies were due to be replened at Talus within a week, they were also not expected to be tasked during our scheduled cryosleep. With twelve crew members still aboard we may be on thirty percent rations.”
“Until when, our air runs out?” Hernandez sneered.
Tor answered the insubordinate question indirectly. “The other option is that the ratings and cadet return to cryo while we signal for assistance. Then we all cosy up until help arrives.”
“This is bullshit. What about our pay for this extra time?” Hernandez was now standing, lazily Nilsen cuffed his blue boiler suit and pulled him back to his seat.
“What about my space time? I’m supposed to be back at the academy in three weeks,” Aidan Bruce, first trip cadet piped up timidly.
“Yeah, well that ain’t happening kid, we’re still eight fucking months from Talus, let alone your academy, I wanna know if I’m being paid for this.”
“Seriously, shut up Hernandez. Right now pay is the least of our concerns, we can thrash that out with Saudi Shipping when we get home.” And when the company finds we’ve ruined a billion dollar exotic matter cargo and damaged an eight hundred million dollar exotic matter drive.
Tor kept the latter thought to himself. Even if they did get home they could expect months of being dragged into wainscoted courtrooms for hearings and inquests. Blame would have to be apportioned someplace, the buck would ultimately stop with Tor. His career was already over, Falmendikov’s stunt could leave his retirement a destitute one. He shut his eyes briefly and felt the sharp pain and pressure forming behind his eyeballs. How long before the likes of Hernandez realize he was a spent figurehead?
“Cryo is the only option if we want to give ourselves some legroom,” Tor said, emphasizing each word. He prepared to reveal his list of all non-essential crew when Dr. Smith entered the room. She was dressed in civvies, an ugly crocheted turtleneck poncho and black leggings. Rheumy eyes suggested she was freshly awake, but the dark circles suggested she’d enjoyed only a fitful sleep. Despite her tired visage, she looked much younger out of her uniform. “Good of you to join us Dr. Smith.”
“Cryo won’t work,” Dr. Smith pulled up a chair directly in front of Tor and stared at him. “We were due to return to Earth from Talus following a minor jump, the ship wasn’t scheduled to replenish the liquid nitrogen onboard until it reached Earth. We’re out of the primary composite for our cryo fluid.”
The room fell silent again, crewmen bowed their heads. Then flimsy plastic capped metal chair legs scraped across linoleum. Chattering as the little chair clattered to the floor. “Oh this is awesome man, this is fucking awesome. We’re as good as a year from home and we have no cryo, no food, no water and soon no fucking air.”
“Sit down Hernandez.” Tor stood and watched the diminutive Mexican rage. Nilsen also got up.
“No Captain. no. We’re fucked man. Fucked. Fucking Commie prick.” He balled a paper cup and threw it aside.
“Hernandez calm yourself.” Now most of the crew were standing, Tala Herrera was bee lining through chairs and frozen colleagues, Sammy was backing away from him.
Hernandez flailed at the wall, denting the plastic, his second shot cracked the panelling. He turned his body for a third shot when Tala came up behind him, bracing his arms from behind. He flung his head backward as if to try and headbutt her, deftly she moved sideways, dragging him to her side and sweeping his leg out from underneath him. They both tumbled to the floor. Nilsen, Pettersson and Peralta stood over the pair.
“Calm down!” Tala hissed into her friends ear.
“Okay, okay,” Hernandez’s breathing was heavy with exertion. “Okay.”
Hernandez struggled from Tala’s grasp and rolled to his side. Peralta and Pettersson helped Tala to her feet. Nilsen loomed over Hernandez who stayed on the floor.
“Another outburst like that Hernandez and you’re done, got it? I’ll have you medicated and put in sickbay.” Tor was already regretting giving Hernandez another chance after Snake’s Head. The kid was unhinged. Rumour had it that he was addicted to amphetamines and had been booted from his previous contract due to possession onboard. He’d twice neglected drug testing and was on his final strike with Saudi. Tor had intended to covertly have his cabin searched, but if word got back to Hernandez it would only have made the trip less tenable. At the time Hernandez would only have had a month left and Tor could have ensured he never flew with the company again. Now they were stuck with him and without cryo for how long, nobody knew.
Hernandez rose to his feet and retrieved his chair. Dejected, he slumped back into it in silence. Everybody else returned to their seats. The outburst provided no catharsis, only winding the tension further. All the crew were sat a little too erect.