Murmansk-13

But one can only experience the adrenaline sharpened edge of fear for so long before the body wearies and the mind dulls. Slowly the febrile, anxious energy dissipated. Then all he could do was think.

Occasionally he would wander from the Evac Suite to the bridge, stare out across the metallic spokes of Murmansk-13 into the black chasm through which his crewmates had alighted and failed to return, or beyond to the oil slick nebulae that smeared across the local system. But mostly he thought of Addy, of the stories of survival he could regale her with, if only she would wait. Would she remember her promise to him?

Even if they did manage to repair the Riyadh and obtain assistance, nobody knew how long it could be until they returned to Earth. In a few weeks, the Saudi’s would be informing kin that communications with the ship had been lost, that they’d failed to make the leap to Talus. If they weren’t on a rescuing vessel by then their families would begin to mourn. Deep space accidents were not uncommon, there would be little hope to cling onto, although Aidan imagined those closest to the crewmen would harbour some faith.

Addy however wouldn’t find out, at least not immediately, and once she did Aidan wondered how she would react. It had been such an ephemeral thing, fifteen months ago. She would be sad, he reassured himself, confident that that much was true, but with so few memories to keep him alive the sadness would pass, and quickly. She would move on, if she hadn’t already and new memories would soon smooth the small impact Aidan had made on her life.

There was nothing he could do. Aidan kept telling himself, finding that in solitude he began to speak to himself, his own voice and spoken out loud chastisements kindling for an under stimulated mind.

Communications were down and scrubbers were near capacity, with his crew absent Addy should have been the last of his concerns and yet as the hours passed, he became increasingly unfocused; then Addy would drift to the surface of his thoughts.

Once more, love sickness overrode his fear sickened heart. Then the Riyadh jolted sharply once more, throwing Aidan back into the foam padded coffee table. Inflexibly, he picked himself up and suddenly felt the weight of the rivet gun in his hands, wincing away the barbs of pain shooting down his neck. Something unusual was happening to the station, something that brought an effortless sense of peril surging to the forefront of his mind.

Indecisive, Aidan paused for a moment as the Riyadh resettled. Chief Nielsen had kept the ships manoeuvring thrusters on standby. The mechanical hum of the small thruster plant was gently transmitted through the vessels spaceframe, seemingly filling the empty atmosphere around him. Thankfully something other than silence and…

His blood chilled as Mihailov stirred, two decks down. The Second Mate bellowed maniacally from the Medical Bay, awakened by the lurching movements. Something crashed dully against the makeshift quarantine ward viewport. Nielsen had quietly sequestered Mihailov prior to the crews departure and Aidan was hard pressed to disagree with the decision.

He’d ventured to the dim Medical Bay on day two, to assess whether Mihailov required any food or water. He would not return again.

Standing naked, pressed against the far bulkhead, his back to the viewport, Aidan knew immediately Mihailov was wrong. Lingering listlessly at the definite ambit of the sharp blue light, Mihailov had spun round slowly. At first sight, Aidan fell back, yelping an exclamation to a deity he’d never believed in.

Sniffing the air like a rat searching for scraps, Mihailov had approached, his steps rigid and unsure. As he neared the screen, Aidan could recall the muscles in his own face screwing up in abject revulsion, unable to totally comprehend or believe the image before him.

Aidan had been in the Medical Bay when Sammy and the Chief first brought Mihailov in. The Bulgarian was in a bad way then; unconscious, his skin a blue hue and his hand degloved and fast frozen. Later he heard stories of Mihailov’s ailing health from Hernandez, second hand hearsay from Sammy. With the motorman’s flair for hyperbole he’d taken little heed. He’d been wrong too.

If anything Hernandez had understated the level of deterioration in Mihailov. The shell of humanity Aidan witnessed was almost unrecognizable from the navigations officer who emerged from cryo little over a week before.

Staring with feral intent through milky cataracts, striated with veins of old blood, Mihailov had pressed himself against the viewport. Deliquescent flesh smeared the Perspex, sloughing away to reveal the exsiccated musculature beneath. Aidan had cried out as Mihailov peeled himself away, threadlike gummy sinews of organic matter bridging the void between Perpex and person. Then Mihailov bellowed, as he did now, before charging the ward door. The plastic screen had flexed dangerously.