Murmansk-13

It took all Aidan’s strength of will to avoid pissing himself as he fled the Medical Bay that day, caroming against cryobeds in his haste to flee his imprisoned colleague.

No, he would not return, Mihailov was beyond any help he, or anyone, could administer. While his physical condition was abhorrent, the abiding memory that continued to permeate Aidan’s daydreams was how dehumanized Mihailov had become. Aidan wondered if anything of Mihailov was left. There appeared scant sign of it. He rationalized that starvation would probably be a mercy knowing he’d neither the stomach nor the fortitude to kill the man himself. Aidan tried to appease his conscience, tell himself that with medical assistance the second officer could be saved, that to kill him would be murder. In truth he was rotting into the epoxy laminate of the Medical Bay and probably suffering. While he was no physician, Aidan could fathom no medicine that could rectify such a condition.

Aidan glanced at the airlock. It was empty. The sounds of Mihailov, crashing about in quarantine faded beneath groaning metal, there was a distant bang that vibrated through the Riyadh in faint shockwaves. Cradling the rivet gun, Aidan ran with as much speed as his spastic neck muscles would permit, struggling with each step as he ascended the short stairway to the bridge.

The sense of disorientation was immediate as soon as Aidan’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. Not even the faint emergency lights of the corridors illuminated the bridge, only the bright green digital readout of the chronometer and the gloomy vermillion albedo of the station warmed the interior of the conning station. Beyond, pinpricks of light wheeled around the disquieting silhouette of Murmansk-13. The effect was nauseating when paired with the ships countering artificial gravity.

Aidan staggered forward, body tilted at an unnecessary angle, he steadied himself against the ledge that ran the curve of the windscreen. His heavy breath fogged against the aluminium silicate glass separating himself from oblivion.

Slowly, relentlessly, Murmansk-13 was tumbling into space with the Riyadh attached like a tick. Aidan watched as the familiar, variegated nebula vanished behind the Central Command module, as carmine light and shadow interplayed against the gunmetal grey of the station. Moments later the nebula would reappear and the binary pulsar, lost to view a mere minute ago, would glance blinding argent light through the spokes of the outer ring. The iridescent planet below, with its atmosphere of green and cream clouds loomed up with frantic speed by virtue of proximity before twisting away, skirting the border of the windscreen like a winters sun kissing the horizon.

Helpless, Aidan tried to calm his breathing, felt his eyes dart from one stellar landmark to the next desperate to convince himself otherwise. The metallic groan was emanating from the docking clamps that clenched against the stations docking ring. The waxing momentum and inertia of the plunging station was threatening to winnow the Riyadh from Murmansk-13, with or without its clamping rig. It was simply a matter of which joint would give out first. If the whole clamping mechanism was torn from the Riyadh, it would likely gash the hull and depressurize the vessel. In theory Aidan could isolate the forecastle, but couldn’t say whether the pressure bulkheads were one of the many systems the Chief Engineer had mothballed to conserve power.

Nor could he attest to its operation.

In reality it didn’t matter. A relatively quick death via hypoxia was probably preferable to drifting alone in space with only a feral crewman, stale oxygen and dwindling supplies. If the ship parted from the station, there would be no coming back for the rest of the crew. Aidan could survive in solitude for months. He peered down without moving his neck at the rivet gun. How much damage could it do?

In the darkness of the windscreen, Aidan saw the reflection of dim corridor light scattering behind him. Heard someone trying to speak, muffled as if gagged. Paralyzed for a nanosecond but compelled to turn, Aidan did so, hardly recognizing the weight of the dense rivet gun in that moment.

Aidan felt the bullet rip through his stomach before he heard the crack of a gunshot. Saw the muzzle flare as a nauseating numbness swept through his midriff. Unthinking, he lifted the rivet gun as if to retaliate, but a wash of crippling agony depleted his strength. The rivet gun tumbled from his hand, Aidan focused on Hernandez, bound and gagged in the hands of a lithe man with long, blonde hair. Wide eyed and screaming into the gaffer tape that crossed his lips, struggling to free himself. He never felt the second bullet strike.

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