Ice Wraiths

1.

“Come.”

The cabin door swung on its hinges, aided by the rolling of the ship. The briny smell of the ocean mixed with that of petrol crept through, dragged by the growling of the engines.

“Doctor Lindholm,” said the tall lean man who had just come in. His black uniform with dark green cuffs was dotted with ice. The Arctic winds whipping over the deck of the Antares didn’t let up even at that time of the night. “We have reached the position you provided us with. Now it is time to respect your side of the agreement.” Then he lifted his head and squinted as if sniffing the air. “Music?” He asked.

Johan Lindholm lifted his gaze from his laptop, closed it, suffocating the bass notes it was emitting, then pointed to the seat on the opposite side of the table, “Please, Captain Millhan.”

The commander of the Antares took an uncertain step forward. His mouth opened then closed, swallowing his protest. The doctor was strange but paid well and if he had to humour him in this small piece of stupidity, he would do it without giving it too much thought.