Murmansk-13

Both he and Pettersson knew the chance of survival were diminishing rapidly, but with scrubbers and cryo fluid they could drift for months. They also knew they must act now, the Captains corroded mental state was yet to truly effect the crew, but Mihailov’s deteriorating health and the surmounting deaths would. Soon the remaining men would slip into a state of shock induced apathy. Already Diego, Hernandez and Aidan had shuttered themselves away and Sammy was acting almost as strange as Tor.

Keeping his mind occupied immunized Nilsen to the atmosphere of dwindling hope. Pettersson would soon round up the crew for briefing this afternoon, the Swede oddly unperturbed by circumstance, and their plan could be put into action. Nilsen felt the lightness in his stomach gnaw at him, while he feared the crew were already slipping into an inert stupor his greatest concern was Tor. His and Pettersson’s actions were tantamount to mutiny, surreptitiously they’d excised the ships Master from the chain of command.

It was a necessity, Nilsen reminded himself as he paced in a neat square around the perimeter of the coffee table. Tor was no longer firm of mind, had not so much as delegated control of the situation, or proposed a solution. Like the rest of the crew he’d become emasculated by fear.

Nilsen already knew that feeling, before the impact. But he’d found strength in the growing adversity and as such it fell upon him to rouse the crew. But first he would have to talk to Tor, either seek his friends support, or act against. Jan Nilsen wasn’t ready to abandon his life to spare his friend; he was due to be married for a second time next month, his two girls from his previous marriage would be flower girls. This, he was determined, would only be a delay in plans.

Nilsen stopped pacing and sank into the leatherette recliner. He resisted the urge to draw himself into a ball, to shield himself from the penetrative cold of space. Instead he poured a shot of aquavit into a still-sticky glass and glared at the syrupy ring left beneath, despoiling his Perspex table top.

Just one, he thought.

Chapter 15

Tala’s eyes rolled about in their sockets, her eyelids fluttered. The room she regained conscience in was dark. Dim light filtered beneath a crack in the door and shafted across the deck. She groaned, both her head and her nose pounded, a viscous syrup of blood and mucus was spattered from her nostrils and had dried to the skin around her lips. She was forced to breathe through her mouth. Tala tried to touch her face, assess the damage, but her arms were bound behind her back. Thick plastic cables ties bit into the flesh of her wrist, her hands were numb through loss of circulation. She tried to wiggle her fingers.

Tala made an exploratory effort to move, but found her ankles had also been bound by cable ties, which in turn were linked to the ties shackling her wrists. She was on her knees and immobile. She felt the glass splinters from Gennady’s cell burrow into the thin skin covering her knee cap. The metallic tang of her own blood coated her throat.

“You awake?”

The rasping question startled Tala. In the gloom she could make out a vague figure at the opposite side of the room, bound like her, on his knees. Wayward follicles of long hair caught the fragile light. “Andrei, is that you?”

“You remember!” The excitement in Andrei’s reply was testament to his resilience. A stark comfort in their present situation.

“Where are we?” Tala’s voice crackled, her mouth dry. As she played her tongue across the back of her teeth she found a couple loose. “What happened?”

“Kirill has seized control,” Andrei answered flatly.

Beyond the door the shaft of light was occasionally broken by the movement of men. The rattle of the iron bars barricading them inside the District was louder than the endless rhythm of the generator. The muffled moans of the besieging infected was incessant.

“Where is everyone else?”

“Other rooms,” Andrei appeared to shrug. “Pavel is dead. I think Gennady and Jamal are being held in the office.”

“Where’s Katja?”

“I…” Andrei’s voice broke and then he fell silent.

Tala felt bloody bile rise in her gullet. “Where is she?”

The outline of Andrei’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t answer. In the neighbouring office Tala could hear a wet slapping sound and grunting almost indiscernible from the cadence of the District. Then she could hear the delicate, pained sobbing of Katja as the metronomic pounding increased in speed and intensity. Another grunt, Ilya.

“No,” the word barely parted her lips.

“It’s going to be OK.” Tala didn’t hear Andrei. All she could hear was Ilya and Katja.

“No!” She strained against the ties, felt the plastic carve into her flesh. “No!”

“Tala, listen to me. You have to trust me.”