The Base Commander – Part 2: Stand Down

The regime was discipline in its purest form: rules, routine and attention. She made him recite the station log until his voice was hoarse. She had him stand at the window while she read his faults aloud, one by one, in the dry language of an incident report. She had him kneel beside the stove with a mug of tea he was not allowed to drink until she said so. She corrected every slip with a quiet word and a fingertip. It was severe and slow and entirely without cruelty, and he sank into it as into warm water.

Every half hour: "Do you wish to continue, Technician?" "Yes, Commander." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

At three, the aurora began, green fire across the black window. They both looked, and neither spoke.

"Whiteout," said Ingeborg, softly.

The gloves came off. The parka slid from her shoulders. She sat beside him on the floor in her jumper, spread a sleeping bag over them both and pulled him against her.

"How are you?"

"Debriefed," said Tomas, with a laugh that shook. "Completely."

"Wonderful." She kissed his forehead. "That was a model technician."

"Will the station need me again?"

"The relief flight is Friday," said Ingeborg. "I have asked for a delay. There are further regulations to review."

"I'll study them," said Tomas.

Outside, the sky blazed green, and the snow whispered against the glass.

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