“Katja.”
“Katja?” Gennady probed, eyebrow raised.
“She was the daughter of the Chief Officer aboard my vessel,” Tala said, weighing how much information to cede. “But worked aboard this station.”
“So this was a rescue mission?” Gennady leaned forward, the crow’s feet creased again.
Tala shrugged. “Of a sort.”
“Of a sort?”
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.
“Now, I assure you and your sleeping counterpart, that you are perfectly safe hear in District Four. These are, after all, reformed men. However, for some of our denizens it has been a long while since they had female company and I fear some may be,” Gennady paused, trying out different English phrases in his head. “A little over friendly.
“Subsequently I bequeath you my cell. I’m afraid it is a little sparsely appointed, but it is at least spacious and you should be able to rest comfortably there.”
“Cell?” Tala asked.
“Forgive my parlance, force of habit,” Gennady replied, narrow lips curling. “Cabin.”
“And where are you going to sleep?” Tala asked, arms crossing.
Gennady gave a dour laugh. “Fear not, I shall sleep in my office.”
Tala returned the smile hoping her damaged face made it suitably unsettling.
The girl lay on the canvas, blood dribbling from her ear. Tala hadn’t even bothered to remember her name, names gave people stories and Tala didn’t need a story. Marcario was bounding toward her, a giant smile splayed across his pudgy face. Nobody was running toward the girl on the canvas, not until the convulsions started, but Tala barely saw that.
The girl was on the canvas for over a minute, Tala’s conditioning had been good, but her breaths still came in short ragged gasps. She kept having to push people out of the way, a tombola of faces, but her feet remained anchored to where she’d delivered the knockout blow. Eventually Tala was forced to step forward, away from her oblivious celebrants, as the referee lifted the girls eyelids. One eyeball was black with blood, both were rolled back.
The warehouse was humid, she could feel the cloying air around her. So warm. The girl was still breathing. She was still breathing as another convulsion wracked her suddenly small form.
Tala gasped, the room was lightless. Outside the generator had been shutdown plunging District Four into a dark and merciful silence. Beyond the blacked out frosted glass, Tala could see figures moving around in the office space, the light from their head torches illuminated where the poster paint was thinned or chipped. Pinpricks of light lanced over the room and Katja. Tala assumed they maintained a rigorous day night cycle in the district as they did onboard merchant space vessels. She supposed it also saved on fuelling the generator and allowing it to poison them.