The wind whipped past Shukhov as he reached over the railing, willing his fingers to connect with Artie’s outstretched hand. He could see Artie’s grip on the ladder rung slipping. The freshly shaken crushed ice field beneath them showed the black Arctic ocean between tank-sized chunks of ice.

Twenty minutes earlier.

“Absolutely not! That’s impossible!” shouted Shukhov.

“What’s impossible? The fact that you lost, or that you don’t know the rules of the game?” said Artie wryly. “Because I assure you that both are — in point of fact — very possible.” Artie smiled, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back on his chair.

Shukhov muttered under his breath.

The digital voice of the Shaker began its countdown. “Resonant Frequency Pulse countdown in 10, 9, 8,….”

“Ah come on, we’ll play another game,” Artie began to set the board up again.

“…2, 1… Pulse”. The room gave a massive shudder, skittering the pieces across the board and onto the floor. “Ah! I didn’t even hear that shake coming.” exclaimed Artie.

“Me neither —” said Shukhov, “they just blend into the next.”

They both fished the last few pieces off the deck, and put them back in the designated box, bolted to the table. Shukhov stretched, and yawned massively. Artie puttered around the room, righting a few things that had been shaken loose, that weren’t attached to the tabletops. There was little, however, to pick-up. The routine of keeping things tucked away was beyond habit now. A breakfast pod had tipped on its side, though, spilling its contents on the mess table. Shuhov grabbed a spare rag, and wiped up the mess. He noticed the news was still unfurling across the holo tray “… Officials at the Murmansk Shipyards noted the indiscriminate use of force by Norway, and how the entire fleet docked in Kola Bay was functionally destroyed. Citizens have called for a response, and the President was heard saying Russian flags will soon fly from Spitsbergen…” Shukhov shut it off, and let out a sigh.

“Same old, same old?.” said Artie, who had seen Shukhov’s gaze on the news.

“Yes. Today it was Norway. Apparently…” Shukhov shook his head, and sat down.

“ALL HANDS. PRIORITY ALERT.” Artie and Shukhov gave a confused look, then Artie swiped the nearest panel, and the Alert blossomed toward the holo tray. “Priority Alert from Barents Sea Ice Station Hub.” The face of the Barents Sea Hub Commander appeared in the midst of the klaxons.

“Temporary Kara Sea Ice Station #32. At five hundred hours, a possible unknown submarine vessel may have been detected exiting the Barents Sea zone. Military command has confirmed it is not Russian. You are commanded to deliver an unscheduled resonant frequency pulse at seven hundred hours to assist in the acoustic confirmation of this unidentified vessel.” Artie had already opened his eyes wide, staring directly at Shukhov, with a silent, questioning ‘oh’.

The recorded alert went on. “Attached to this message is the required override code. Your Artificial Station Attendant will transfer the code. Thank you for your service to Rosatom, and to Russia.” The Commander disappeared.

“Wow”, said Artie. “There’s an Artificial Station Attendant here?!” Shukhov threw the rag he’d been using to clean up the breakfast box. “And to think.” continued Artie. “I’d just been calling these things Shakes. Who knew they were Resonant Frequency Pulses.”

“Ah — so we’re Temporary. Good to know.” Shukhov said.

“Indeed ” Artie kept the old joke going. “We must not grow too attached to this posting. Thirty years is, after all, an ephemeral blip on the cosmic radar.”

“A fleeting third of a century,” Shukhov said, hand over his heart, “Only a passing glance of three decades of service—”

Another alert sounded, letting them know they were nearing the shake window.

They both chuckled. Somehow the joke never grew old. Shukhov checked the diagnostics of the Station, and looked at the clock. Only 10 minutes till the unscheduled shake was due. “Let’s get moving.”

Artie and Shukhov both stood at the ready stations, and began tapping instructions into the holo screens. “Ready?” asked Shukhov. “Born ready.” said Artie, through gritted teeth. Shukhov rolled his eyes.

“Testing countdown”, said Shukhov. “Testing resonant frequency pulse in 3, 2, 1.”

Nothing. Only the constant hum of the tokamak and the faint sound of wind, whistling on the station surface. Artie went to make a joke, thought better of it, and began swiping screens and checking diagnostics. After a moment of confusion, Shukhov began to do the same thing. If there’s a nearby vessel, sometimes that can prohibit a shake from happening. The Coastal Siberian Seaway is, after all, worth nearly 100 trillion rubles. And Rosatom would do close to anything to avoid sanctions for interrupting these shipping lanes.

Hmm. Tokamak status? Active. Fusion diagnostics? Good. Resonant frequency distributors? Nominal. Hmm.

Artie chimed in, “I think I found the glitch. It looks like the station AI failed to update to the latest software patch from Hub. Probably ice crusting the receiver dish on deck…”

“We really need to get a permanent heater up there to keep this from happening…” muttered Shukhov.

“Let’s go.” said Artie.

They wound their way up the spiral staircase to the deck hatch. Closer to the surface they could hear the wind whistling across the station deck. Shukhov tossed a hat up to Artie and put one on himself. They both put on the winter parkas stored near the exit. “It actually sounds kind of dicey up there.” Artie said “Let’s try and do this quickly.” Shukhov nodded.

Artie tapped in the hatch release code, and the whisper of wind instantly became a roar. Bowing their heads to the cold they exited the hatch. As Shukhov emerged, Artie immediately clipped a safety tether to his belt, then patted his shoulder. “CAN’T BE TOO CAREFUL” yelled Artie. Shukhov could barely make out the words. They both peered up into the whipping wind, and saw icicles, formed horizontally on the receiver dish. Artie extended a two meter melt rod, and held it steady as Shukhov brushed the icicles and rime away. The dish was soon cleared, and Shukhov checked the clock, 5 minutes to go.

“LET’S GET MOVING”, yelled Shukhov. He tapped his watch, and Artie nodded in recognition. As Artie telescoped the melt rod back, the wind whipped the other direction pulling Artie off balance, snapping his tether, and folding him over the railing.

“ARTIE!” called Shukhov, and Shukhov dove after him. Nearly falling down the ten meters to the water below, Artie had grabbed the topmost ladder rung, already slick from the ice and saltwater.

The wind whipped past Shukhov as he reached over the railing, willing his fingers to connect with Artie’s outstretched hand. He could see Artie’s grip on the ladder rung slipping. The freshly shaken crushed ice field beneath them showed the black Arctic ocean between tank-sized chunks of ice.

His coverall ripped at the shoulder seam, and the outer lining of his arm tore away revealing the dull plastisteel beneath. Finally, their fingers met, and Shukhov was able to pull Artie up and over the railing. It looked like something was wrong with Artie’s shoulder. Shukhov turned, opened the hatch and helped Artie down into the station.

Catching their breath in the mess room, Shukhov said “I’ll get that update, then it’s time to shake.”

“Shake and bake” trying to joke, but only managing a wince, Artie held his shoulder gingerly. Shukhov turned to the panel, tapped in the update sequence. The software quickly updated, and they were ready for the shake sequence.

“Ready?” asked Shukhov. Artie gave a quick nod.

“Shaking in three, two, one. Shake.” The entire station gave a lurch, and then was quiet again. “Well.” said Shukhov, “I hope all of that was worth an unscheduled resonant frequency pulse.” Artie snorted, then grimaced at the pain in his shoulder. Shukhov brought the medkit over to look at Artie’s injury, and whistled. “It looks like you won’t be able to play chess for a few days.” said Shukhov. “Too bad.” Shukhov set the autostitcher on Artie’s shoulder to fix the torn ligaments, and repair any bruising.

“You wish!” said Artie, though noticeably in pain. “But seriously, thank you. I owe you one.” The autostitcher chirped its completion, and Shukhov placed it back in the medkit.

“Good. Then you owe me a few days peace before you subject me to more chess.” Shukhov smiled. Then he turned to the mess table, rolled up his sleeve, carefully sliced off the torn nanoskin, and inspected the damage to his arm. The plastisteel arm appeared unscathed, and the diagnostics were good. The nanoskin would need replacing, but mechanically everything looked fine. Shukhov dismissed the diagnostic window, discarded the shredded nanoskin, and rolled his sleeve back down.

“Do you think we’ll find out what that was?” Shukhov asked Artie.

“As two dauntless employees of Rosatom,” Artie responded with mock seriousness, “I can confidently say – No.” Shukhov smirked, then patted his friend’s good shoulder, and set about preparing the next scheduled break of the ice, 20 minutes to go and counting.