Murmansk-13

Tala sensed her pupils dilate as she stumbled into the huge cylindrical atrium that formed Central Command, still supporting half of Jamal. The corridor had lead to a fixed gantry platform supported by high tensile steel cords. Beneath, banks of dead eyed computer consoles lay in orderly curved rows, housed in pine veneered cabinets. Looming over them was one gigantic low resolution video panel, a composite of several interlinked CRT’s, and several smaller screens to the side, most of which were blacked out. The rest winked what looked like telemetry readouts.

To the left, a set of smaller modular rooms followed the curve of the matte black bulkhead, disappearing behind the screen panel and then resuming around the other side. The space was easily triple that of District Four and yet most of it lay shut off and inert, the air warm and scented by old dust and worn electrics. The only light was that emitted by the screen relaying black-and-white feed images from what appeared to be security cameras. Suddenly one of the little boxes filled the whole screen. It showed an empty white corridor that Tala initially believed was the same one she had just traversed. Then the image was rewound.

“We have a problem,” said a disembodied male voice close to breaking and difficult to place amongst the lightless consoles below.

The image showed three people in bulky EVA suits with a hover dolly rapidly disappear out of shot in reverse, then return as the feed was played forward. Now occupied, Tala had a better sense of scale of the corridor, it was in fact much larger than the back passage she’d been frogmarched through.

Tala squinted at the figures in the image, their features pixellated and indistinct. They moved with the considered purpose of humans, not infected, but what exact purpose she couldn’t tell as the camera appeared fixed toward the corridor, the figures occupying little more than the bottom third of the image. Then two of the figures vanished from shot altogether leaving a single man, cut at the waist, in frame. The figure was staring into the camera, tall and rail-thin. The head narrow and meatless. It was Chief Engineer Nilsen.

A thrill of excitement and fear rushed through Tala as she watched the feed. While the Captain and Diego had been captured, the Chief Engineer was still on the station. Hope wasn’t completely lost, but it teetered on a knife edge, after all if Nilsen was onboard with two other crewmen, how many were left on the Riyadh?

“It’s the Chief Engineer,” said Dr. Smith, emotionless. Tala had been so fixated on the image, she hadn’t seen the Doctor position herself beside her, “he’ll be looking for fuel and spares.”

“They’ve broken into Central Command, circumvented our quarantine overrides,” replied the fluting, disembodied voice, Tala could now see a small figure in silhouette, not part of the video image, but moving back and forth within the fluorescence of the screen.

Dr. Smith turned to Arty who still trained his pistol on the captives. “You control the doors, huh?”

“When it comes to the infected,” replied Arty defensively. “The station is old, most of the electronics older still and cannibalized, any two-bit electrician can breach our doors.”

Jamal laughed, a low rumbling bass laugh, verging on hysteria. “So this is the Unseen Hand,” perspiration streaked his dark features and his eyes darted from side to side, fluttering, “three of you, all of this time just playing with us!”

Dr. Smith and Arty shot each other furtive glances, below the silhouetted figure traced a path between the disused computer consoles, the image behind him was now paused, the soft blue light cast an exaggerated shadow where the desks parted. “Arty, Dr. Smith, if you would be ever so kind to show our guests their accommodation, we have greater concerns,” he said gesturing to the frozen screen behind.

☣☭☠

Station security was neatly tucked behind the control screen. A colourless modular cabin with a keypad locked stainless steel door led to a small antechamber and bulletproof Plexiglas (door) braced with riveted steel. Arty assumed the lead in the tight confides of the antechamber to key-in the necessary codes. For a moment Tala considered trying to overcome him, after all he was not a robustly built man, but she doubted the outcome would be beneficial. Dr. Smith didn’t seem to have any particular affection for her Russian cohort, which would turn the chamber into a bloodbath, the victims of which would only be people Tala cared for. And they would still, ultimately, be trapped in the small space.

The secondary door parted with a stuttering hydraulic rush and Arty quickly retreated into the processing reception as if reading her thoughts, furtively glancing over his shoulder before wheeling around. The rest of the group preceded Dr. Smith and fanned out in the grey space, turning to face their captors. Oleg and Tala eased Jamal down against the Plexiglass fronted desk, the big runners head sagged to his chest.