Murmansk-13

“Each of these districts performs a specific function. Communications, Transport, Station Systems, Offices, Mechanics and Mining Supplies,” replied Mihailov, with each explanation Tor tried to make out the rust filled pictogram that accompanied the Cyrillic. Communications was a Bakelite telephone, Mining Supplies crossed pickaxes. “This place is some crazy multipurpose facility. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Me neither,” said Tor, furrowing his brow. Space stations were typically small and specialized. They might have a bar or a whorehouse but that would typically be tacked to a mining chandlery or mechanical dock. Infirmaries and communication relays would be little more than individual rooms, integrated facets. In certain mineral rich areas, you’d occasionally find dual purpose stations, but nothing the scale and scope of Murmansk-13.

“So where exactly is here?” Asked Tala looking at the sizeable interlocked double doors.

“District Three. Medical Laboratories and Sciences,” replied Mihailov, then he fingered another of the numbered circles. Twelve. “This is simply called, Oruzhi. Weapons. This place seems to have had some pretty heavy R&D going on here, Captain.”

Mining supplies and warehousing seemed to provide a humdrum shop front for something far more significant. For a moment Tor wondered if the station may have been a top secret Soviet facility – that would explain its absence from the Riyadh’s star charts. But then why go to the bother of having standard operations districts? Artifice?

Mihailov removed a small Polaroid camera secreted within his EVA suit and handed Peralta the flashlight. Focusing his viewfinder on the station schematic, he clicked the shutter, bathing the corridor in actinic light.

As if in sympathy for the Polaroid’s flash, the strip light above the entrance to District three crackled then exploded, showering the service corridor with scurrying yellow embers. The party flinched, except Tala, who let the sparks skittle around her. “The Chiefs footprints go in there,” she said.

Mihailov pulled the developing photo from the camera and wafted it through the still air. He then placed both camera and photo in his suit before Peralta returned the Maglite. Reassuming point, Mihailov focused the light on the substantial interlocking steel doorway where Falmendikov’s trail appeared to finish.

“He must have went through,” said Mihailov, scanning the floor around the recessed entrance. “There are no returning footsteps.”

“What does that mean?” Tor pointed to a Russian word, flashing in digital liquid crystal Cyrillic above the doors control panel.

“Karantin,” replied Mihailov inspecting the panel. Pale-faced, he turned to the rest of the crew. “The station is under quarantine lockdown.”

Suddenly, ungreased hydraulic rams groaned into life and a burst of compressed air bled from a ruptured pipeline. Startled, Mihailov retreated as the interlocked doors parted, their synchronicity lost to years of mechanical neglect. A shaft of pure white light sliced into the dim of the service corridor.

“Falmendikov must have overrode the lockdown,” said Mihailov, breathlessly.

Tor felt a muscle in his shoulder pull taught, spasms stung his spinal column. He grimaced into the light and thought about Dr. Smith’s hypothesis that Falmendikov had been helped. “We should seriously consider if we wish to continue.”

“Without knowing the nature of what caused the station to be quarantined, I don’t see how we can continue,” replied Mihailov.

“With all due respect, we will not be any the wiser to the nature of the quarantine aboard the Riyadh and our life support systems will still be ailing, Captain,” Peralta pointed out, the Filipino bosun stood between Tor and Mihailov, spotlighted, a full head shorter than both.

“But we’re fumbling around here without a plan.” Tor kneaded his brow. He could feel a pressure headache building in his temples, he regretted leaving his last cigarette aboard the Riyadh.

“For all we know they may have comms online when we get back,” added Mihailov, his lust to play detective seemingly drained.

“May I remind you we have another issue, Sec.” Peralta gestured to Tala who still stood where the sparks had landed. His speech clipped, uncharacteristically brusque.

Tala’s big brown eyes appealed to Tor and Mihailov, her EVA suit had lost its ambient pressure and now wrinkled around her petit form. Tor had never seen her look so powerless.

“We could return to the Riyadh and bring her a new suit,” offered Mihailov. “Then formulate a plan with the picture of the schematics.”

“And all the while using more life support,” Tor replied firmly. “Bose is right, we don’t have the luxury of time. We need to find Tala a spare EVA suit and we need to ascertain what happened to Falmendikov.”

Mihailov’s shoulders slumped. “Understood, Captain.”

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