Murmansk-13

Oleg displayed little sign of life, slumped against the far bulkhead of the cell. He appeared beyond death and skeletonised. But death would allow him no rest. Tala couldn’t understand why Jamal allowed the infantryman to suffer, his demise was inevitable yet Jamal sought to preserve the last minutes of life. She wasn’t sure if it was an act of self indulgence or some deep seated theological belief. Perhaps it was guilt. Either way Jamal seemed hell bent on punishing himself for Oleg’s fate.

“He’s right,” said Tala, ultimately he would encumber their escape. “We have to move.”

“They saved us,” Katja appealed.

“Yeah, and I’m saving you now. My leg is all fucked up. I’m deadweight and you’re running out of time!”

Katja pouted, she was unaccustomed to not getting her own way. In this case Tala thought it was a mask for sorrow. She’d grown attached to the two men from District Four, they’d risked their own lives to set her free. Katja had grown up spoilt by her father, the Chief Officer trying to fill a hole his absence left with presents and gifts. But Jamal and Oleg had almost completed the work Nikolai Falmendikov had begun when he sought out Murmansk-13, the greatest gift of all.

The baton passed to Tala alone, now.

“You need a gun?” Tala offered Jamal the 9mm as Diego ushered the Captain from the cell. Shell shocked the Captain stared at the bright yellow carpet of lifeless bodies at his feet.

Jamal shook his head again. “You guys need the guns, those two won’t be the last of ’em.”

“I don’t think I trust any of the others with it,” Tala said smiling, hoping levity would dissolve the lump in her throat.

Jamal shucked his shoulders, a muffled chuckle. Then fell silent, his eyes were rheumy and alert, his expression was dolent. “Once you’re through the antechamber, there will be a door release for the entrance behind the desk. Don’t hang around, they’ll hear the hydraulics and think it’s the party coming back out. You’ve sprayed enough fucking bullets around to wipe out a decent sized posse in here,” he smiled half-heartedly. “Keep to the shadows and don’t shoot unless you have to. They may have goons posted at the airlock, but they don’t know you’re armed.”

“Jamal,” Tala paused. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. Get the hell out of here, you and Katja and your crew. That’s the best thing you can do for me now,” he gestured toward the EVA suit Hernandez had abandoned in his escape. “You’ll need that.”

Tala smiled and nodded, swallowing hard. So did Jamal.

After collecting up the EVA suit, Tala rejoined the rest of them at the antechamber entrance, the electromagnetic fob activated the door release with a mechanical whir. Katja gazed back at Jamal as if slipping back into the catharsis that blighted her first hours reawakened on the station.

“Hey Katja. Take care of yourself,” Jamal said as the secondary door began to close.

“You too,” Katja replied meekly, realizing the futility of her reply. Then the door was shut, sealing the two men away. Katja turned from the gaze of Jamal knowing, like Tala, they’d seen the last of him.

☣☭☠

Nielsen heard the staccato report of pistol fire. Four rapid shots followed soon after by a fifth. Then silence. Pettersson had not emptied the clip, perhaps he’d been overwhelmed. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind the Second Engineer was dead. Nielsen hoped the fifth had been for himself. Oscar had died to buy him time. He’d deserved to go out quick, painless.

Briefly his subconscious summoned images of the disease wracked Mihailov.

Little time passed before Nielsen heard the relentless press of infected bodies against the reactor chamber blast door – and the voracious keening that accompanied their presence. He’d been wrong, at least in part. There was no manual override for the reactor chamber door in Central Command, but they could isolate electrical power to the quadrant.

Nielsen had managed to circumvent their attempts to segregate reactor control to a remote location, but in doing so he’d been unable to prevent the power drain from the blast doors. Tired and frightened he watched the uncoordinated shamble of bodies begin to press through the heavy steel doors, sheer will and numbers overcoming their maladroit attempts to peel the plates apart.

There wasn’t much time left, but Nielsen knew he had overrode the reactor failsafes. It had been difficult work, exacerbated by tension and his incomprehension of Russian Cyrillic. But it was a drive Nielsen was familiar with, another facsimile of Iban technology, retro engineered and harnessed in humanities slipshod manner. Substituting the foreign and exotic biomechanical parts for fallible earthly synthetics.

Nielsen had always hoped he would have a chance to tinker with a true Iban engine. Knew now this was as close as he would ever get.