Murmansk-13

Flecks of new blood spotted the lowest portions of Katja’s jumpsuit, the waistband hung slack, the elastic deformed and tore. Her face was passive, almost serene as Dr. Smith walked her back into the cellblock. She moved stiffly, certain joints and muscles no longer acting in concert. For a moment, Tala thought it was the result of some surgery to stop the bleeding, then Katja passed into light and Tala realized she’d mistaken medicated sedation for serenity. Haunted, bloodshot eyes stared out from a face paralyzed tranquil.

“Move back,” ordered Dr. Smith, reaching for an absurd ringlet of old fashioned keys. The keypad budget only stretching as far as the cellblock antechamber.

Everybody in the cell slid to the far end, pressing against the cold gray hardened veneers that hid reinforced bulkheads on three sides as the door clattered open. Dr. Smith pushed Katja into the cell and quickly reclosed the door behind her, for a brief moment, the doctor leered into the cell before a short man, turning to fat and bald save for the tonsured locks gestured for her to return to the antechamber. “We must address the others,” the man said.

Tala had barely been aware of the interaction behind Katja, their eyes had been locked since she was led in. Tala stood up, behind her Diego and Tor shuffled against the adjoining bulkhead, trying to provide privacy in the mutual space. “Katja,” she began, unsure where she was going. Katja stared at her, unspeaking. Her mouth and jaw twitched, but no words came out. Instead she stumbled into Tala’s arms, not crying, not making a sound. Katja was a deadweight against her bones and Tala eased them down to the deck, the girl nestling against her.

Katja was the larger of the two of them, taller and slightly broader. She’d once been overweight, but was now toneless and thinning but still bigger than Tala by a degree of magnitude. Yet she always felt small when pressed into Tala’s arms. Perversely childlike in a constant state of diminishment. She was a thing to be protected, fragile and beautiful in her own inimitable way. Tala had tried to push her away in the hope she would be rendered the medical help she required. It had failed.

As long as Katja was in danger, Tala knew she would continue to fight.

“Arty is dead,” Katja said quietly, big blue eyes looking up at Tala, before nuzzling into her neck. “They didn’t help me.”

Tala didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say. She just kissed Katja on the temple and stroked her hair, only vaguely aware of the wide eyed stares from Diego and Tor. Katja had rejected her rejection and now Tala had to figure a way to save them all. She couldn’t welcome death just yet, not as long as Katja drew breath.

Chapter 19

Engine room spaces are hot and noisy affairs, regardless of the medium for thrust or drive. For Hernandez, a third of his life had been spent in the cacophonous cauldron of deep space engine rooms, first as a wiper, then as motorman or at least that was what he liked to brag. In reality much of his time was spent in the air conditioned and soundproofed environs of the engine control room, only ever venturing out to troubleshoot problems that couldn’t be resolved remotely.

In fairness, in the nebulous days of deep space travel, in the goldrush to the stars powered by retro engineered Iban concepts, using Earth analogue materials, fuels and beta-tested rockets – that was most problems. Blue collar engineers were only just learning about their new technologies as they were catapulted into deep space. Trial and error intertwined with life and death.

Subsequently, he was surprised both by the comparative quiet and cool of the various compartmentalized spaces that kept the station orbital, aligned, powered and gravitational. That, and the fact that any of the equipment still worked.

“There is no way this station hasn’t been maintained, man,” Hernandez said, staring into the relatively clean chip cluster and motherboard set of the control panel. Nilsen and Pettersson assessed the giant stabilization reactor, entombed and oscillating behind meter thick plates of tungsten. The two senior engineers appeared hypnotized by the movement of the central mass. “I mean there’s corrosion here and there, tripped fuses and the like,” Hernandez continued to himself. “But this place would have spun down by now. Or blown up.”

Hernandez closed the panel and joined the other two engineers, his mag booted footsteps clattering across the plating of the catwalk and echoing within the blue hued recesses of the chamber. Beneath his feet a mixture of water and coolant lapped, the coolant evident in little rainbow wisps rippling across the surface. In the event of a meltdown the reactor could be instantly dipped in coolant and the chamber filled with a fast hardening, near concrete foam.

“She is spinning down,” said Nilsen. “But you’re right, it’s an order of magnitude slower than it should be.”

“You reckon there’s people on this rig, boss?”