Murmansk-13

Tor recognized it immediately. “Dr. Smith, I have a crewman seriously ill aboard the Riyadh, we need your assistance,” Tor replied, but never turned to face the woman he’d shared a bed with just nights before and the gun she held to his head now. So much had changed, that moment was like a counterpoint to his hypersexual youth and everything had collapsed around it. Of course the cascade had started before that, when Nikolai Falmendikov overrode his cryo bed, or even perhaps long before. Realization took flame in his mind, the kindling there for days. “It was you who helped Falmendikov come here.”

“You will be briefed as soon as you come with us, Captain.” Days before, Rebecca Smith had spoken to Tor with passion, now her voice was flat, analytical.

“Why did you bring us here? Why did my people die?” Tor turned, the silencer was held disconcertingly still, an inch from the bridge of his nose, beyond the blurred barrel of the revolver he could see Dr. Smith, her face reverted back to stern professionalism, bereft of humanity, her features all straight lines beneath a tightly pinned bun. “Why the Riyadh? Why my ship?”

Tor heard his voice waver, felt tears moisten his eyes. Rebecca Smith just stared then beckoned the male over. “Artyom, take this man’s rifle and restrain him,” the direction of her attention shifted back to Tor. “I suggest you hand him that rifle, else I will scatter your brains across this corridor much as I did your bosun.”

For a millisecond, Tor considered wheeling around and trying to get a shot off at Dr. Smith or Artyom. Where he’d failed to kill Falmendikov or Peralta, feral and infected, he felt sure he could kill these two dead eyed people in lab coats with emotional impunity. Rabid, Falmendikov and Peralta had still been his crew. But Dr. Smith was not and never had been. He’d already reconciled that fact days ago in a dark compartment of his mind called denial, but while he knew it, he couldn’t fathom it.

Tor let the rifle fall to his side, then let it clatter to the deck. He became aware of a meaty thumping growing in intensity behind the still slumped form of Sammy and beyond the hydraulic doors to District Six. “You are killing us, you are killing my crew. Stop this!”

Dr. Smith ignored him. “Hurry Artyom, I don’t trust the doors in this place.”

“We control the doors,” replied Artyom his accent thick Russian, a messy tousle of curly hair sat above thick, circular, horn-framed glasses. He pulled black cable ties from the voluminous back pocket of his pristine white coat.

In the doorway, Sammy awoke half eaten and spasmed like a patient jolted by a defibrillator. Still moist eyes focused on the people in the corridor, then fixed on Diego. Shambling from the shadows, Sammy lurched toward Diego who tried to get up, struggling against the binds that held his hands behind his back. Diego flopped like a fish on the dust covered deck and whimpered as he saw what Tor saw. The stewards left arm had been consumed to the elbow and a little beyond. The ulna and radius protruded from the ragged stump of his upper arm, the bone gouged with teeth marks and slicked with blood. Blood dripped from the exposed bone as Sammy closed the gap to Diego.

“Do something,” pleaded Tor, tears running freely down his face, his mind unable to comprehend as Artyom finished ziplocking his hands behind his back.

“Be easier to take just one back,” said Artyom, nonchalantly.

“Agreed,” answered Dr. Smith, the elongated revolver trained on the developing scene.

Diego was crying too now, Sammy was almost upon him. Tor struggled against his binds, trying to kick backwards at Artyom, the Russian put a solid boot into the back of Tor’s knee. Tor felt something within the mechanism of the joint pop and tumbled to the deck.

“Oh God, oh God no!” Wailed Diego, unable to find his feet.

“I can shoot your precious crewman now, and save him the indignity of turning, or,” said Dr. Smith, flippantly, “I can let your Steward feast, and believe me Tor, he is very hungry.”

Words, meaningless in their construct babbled from Tor’s lips as Sammy’s jaw hyper extended, his head snapping back as he lunged forward. Tor screamed into the floor.

Chapter 18

Tala eased the withered and discoloured note from the gore smeared airlock. The cursive writing was almost illegible, blotchy against the degraded paper, but she could make out enough to understand where her little group were to rendezvous. Tala smiled as she plucked the Philippines fridge ornament from the bulkhead, moist paper clinging to its magnetic side.

“Is it from your ship?” Asked Jamal, peering over her shoulder.

“Yes, the Captain has been here,” Tala turned to look at Katja, still hunkered inside the conduit. “They came back for us.” Katja returned her smile, albeit cautiously.

“So where are they?” Jamal replied, leaning into her eye line.