Murmansk-13

As far as Tala was concerned, herself and the crew of the Riyadh had done nothing wrong. Mere victims of happenstance. Still, the difficult mannerisms of the man before her put her on edge. This was Gennady’s territory, while compliance was probably her best tact, she had no idea how the arrival of herself and the Riyadh could affect the delicate politics of his miniature office kingdom. Ultimately, she was now under the protection of this man having been entrusted to Jamal by Captain Tor. She thought of Ricky Velasquez to suppress the surprising wellspring of anger that flashed across her mind.

Tala sighed. “The Chief Officer hijacked our vessel while we were in cryosleep. We woke up here.”

“And where is the Chief Officer now?”

Tala stared at Gennady. “Dead.”

Gennady’s expression was unmoved. “That is unfortunate.” He pushed his chair back and paced behind the conference table, rarely exceeding the false boundaries of his paperwork. “Is the girl, Katja, sick?”

“No,” Tala replied. “She is only recently out of cryo, she witnessed her father’s death.” She felt Falmendikov’s brittle skull crack beneath her boot. “Our Captain felt responsible for her, I think.”

Gennady paused mid stride. “Poor girl.” It sounded like an afterthought as he continued walking back and forth. Tala tracked his movement as the pernicious sound of the generator spawned a blooming ache in her head. “I assume your Captain is intending to return for you?”

“I…” Tala was brusquely cut off.

“You can consider her a guarantee,” Jamal interjected overloud, eager it seemed to quell Tala from voicing her doubt and quashing further false hope.

“You have exceeded your remit, runner,” Gennady smiled thinly. “I assume plans have been made for a rendezvous?”

Tala could feel Jamal grimace behind her. “Not exactly,” Gennady’s smile evaporated. “There were complications. We were attacked, one of their crewmen was injured.”

Ilya tut-tutted loudly, drawing Gennady’s eye. “Who is on guard duty?”

“Andrei,” Ilya answered with an acid tone.

Gennady made a show of looking down at a piece of paper, the words were in Cyrillic, but Tala assumed it was a guard rota from the grid pattern and what appeared four hour timeslots. “It says here you are on guard duty,” Gennady looked back up, impassively. “Thank you for your assistance with the girl, please relieve Andrei and send him back to his station.”

The huge man clenched his jaw as if prepared to respond insubordinately. Instead he sighed and pushed his chair back, allowing it to squeal across the wood vinyl. He left Gennady’s office without another word, leaving the door open as he padded across the length of District Four.

Unhindered, the sound of the generator gnawed at Tala’s brain. Gennady watched Ilya return to the guardroom before motioning for Jamal to close the door. The lights flickered again, casting a pall across Gennady’s face. “Did the Captain and his crewman make it back to their vessel?”

“I couldn’t say,” Jamal replied. “I was busy trying to keep myself and these two alive.” Gennady dipped his head and muttered something in Russian. “But,” Jamal continued. “Even if the Captain didn’t make it back to his ship. His crew will surely launch a rescue.”

Tala suddenly felt alone. For most of the crew she knew, alone meant being away from Earth, home and loved ones. For Tala, space and the camaraderie of her crewmates and countrymen was home. Normally that didn’t feel so far away or so intangible. She looked at the little green palm tree emblem of the Saudi Shipping Company, stamped on the forearm of her EVA suit and partially rubbed away.

She’d been fourteen when her family cast her out. She was resolute she wouldn’t fall into the same trap of prostitution and drug abuse other urchins in Vigan fell into. Instead Marcario Garcia, a retired boxer, took her in just when poverty threatened to propel Tala into the underworld. She’d boxed out of Garcia’s from twelve, the only girl. When Marcario found out what happened he’d let her sleep in the gym, even sent her back to school.

Tala had never been sure of Garcia’s intentions, he’d never tried anything with her. Only asked that she trained and boxed. Boxed hard. Tala supposed he wanted to lay claim to a champion, heaven knows his boys and men were vainglorious losers. Garcia was in truth a washed up fighter. Aged, obese and a lazy coach. Women’s boxing was still nascent and Tala, despite and perhaps because of her youth, was one of the best. At least until that night.

She’d survived though and was damn proud of her self reliance, which was why she hated feeling alone and feeling like a pawn. When had she grown so soft? So scared?

“I think Jamal, another time would be more appropriate for this conversation,” Gennady said, seeing the distress that knotted Tala’s features. “First, I suggest we find our guests suitable accommodations.