Murmansk-13

“There are footsteps,” said Mihailov, his voice reverberated within the empty space of the service corridor. Peralta and Tor joined him as he focused a Maglite on the deck. Amid the fine patina of dust were the faint but familiar palm tree prints of the Saudi Shipping issued grip booties leading away into the flickering greyness of the station. Mihailov scanned the weak beam of his torch down the corridor. “Want to follow, Captain?”

“We’ll need to find out what happened to him for the purpose of my report,” answered Tor. In truth, while he agreed with Tala, he wanted to know why Falmendikov had brought them to this station. If he’d simply wanted to commit suicide there were far more accommodating and expeditious methods.

Mihailov nodded his acquiescence and like a seasoned tracker took point. Tala lumbered stiffly behind in her disabled suit. Tor put a hand on Peralta’s shoulder to stay him. “Could Tala use Falmendikov’s suit?”

Peralta looked at the flaccid garment and shook his head. “We keep these in hermetic wardrobes for a reason, Captain. They degrade over time when exposed to oxygen and dust.”

Tor nodded glumly and gestured for Peralta to lead on.

☣☭☠

Tor trudged behind his recon party. The service corridor was bleak and homogenous, sections only distinguished by differing levels of functioning illumination. Occasionally they would pass a doorway to a docking berth, Mihailov illuminating dead control panels and the darkness beyond. The corridor was bereft of viewports and chipped Cyrillic signage only indicated the berth number or informed the absent crew to take care when service vessels were discharging.

Murmansk-13 had been built by man, but felt as lifeless as it appeared from the bridge of the Riyadh. The only indication of human existence were faulty electrical lighting and defunct mechanical doors, safety signs that may never have required abiding and the footsteps of a man who’d passed through the same desolate passageway months before. Tor wondered what thoughts had run through Falmendikov’s head as he walked down these empty corridors, alone, his only companion the whir of aging air scrubbers and the crackle of arching electronics.

Tor took some solace in his company. Mihailov was a competent navigations officer, laconic, but composed in their present circumstances. Peralta was an old hand and dependable, a favourite tool. He’d been a calming influence amongst the Riyadh’s ratings despite the temporary postponement of his own retirement and Tala was feisty, rough to the eye, but fiercely loyal.

As he evaluated his charges, Tor couldn’t help but cast himself as the weak link. Not just on this foray, but ever since waking from cryo. As lactic acid burnt like wildfires in his calves, shoulders and neck, Tor realized how easy it was to lead when vessel operations were unexceptional. Simply appear and respect was granted by the weight of gold thread in ones epaulettes. Most Masters achieved their ticket and rode the paper trail to retirement. It didn’t really matter what the lower echelons of command and the ratings truly thought, so long as they did their jobs and exhibited a facade of respect when required.

Sleeping in late, watching movies until ships dawn. Tor had never been required to lead. Give a set of maintenance orders and chair ships meetings, perhaps, but leadership wasn’t defined by cutting a dashing figure and as he ran chilled hands through bedraggled shoulder length hair, he realised he didn’t even succeed in that.

Bringing up the rear, his pained gait more pronounced than an almost spaced Tala, Tor contemplated how soon his leadership and command would be brought to bear and more so, how he would fare. For too long he’d been benevolent and workshy, he suspected the foundations of his crewmen’s respect was built on his compliance and not his authority. Distrait, he checked his suits oxygen gauge and almost walked into Peralta.

Ahead, Mihailov had stopped, the wagging beam of fragile light was now focused against a bulkhead, a recessed doorway to its side. Peralta and Tor gathered around.

“Vot,” said Mihailov, illuminating an anodized station map, turning to bronze. “We are here.”

Beneath Mihailov’s chewed fingernail lay a stylized arrow pointed to the second outermost ring, the arrow was situated between the numbers four and three. “This is the service corridor, the next ring inboard is a monorail running the full circuit between each district.”

“You mean we could have taken the monorail?” Sighed Tala.

“Assuming it’s functional,” Mihailov turned and under lit his sturdy face. “Which it almost certainly isn’t.”

“Districts?” Asked Tor, moving in closer to the map. The station was formed in concentric rings, the outermost the docking ring, closely linked to the service corridor and monorail. Inward lay equidistantly spaced circles, numbered one to thirteen. Tor assumed these were the pill form annexes he’d seen from the Riyadh.