If anything Hernandez had understated the level of deterioration in Mihailov. The shell of humanity Aidan witnessed was almost unrecognizable from the navigations officer who emerged from cryo little over a week before.
Staring with feral intent through milky cataracts, striated with veins of old blood, Mihailov had pressed himself against the viewport. Deliquescent flesh smeared the Perspex, sloughing away to reveal the exsiccated musculature beneath. Aidan had cried out as Mihailov peeled himself away, threadlike gummy sinews of organic matter bridging the void between Perpex and person. Then Mihailov bellowed, as he did now, before charging the ward door. The plastic screen had flexed dangerously.
It took all Aidan’s strength of will to avoid pissing himself as he fled the Medical Bay that day, caroming against cryobeds in his haste to flee his imprisoned colleague.
No, he would not return, Mihailov was beyond any help he, or anyone, could administer. While his physical condition was abhorrent, the abiding memory that continued to permeate Aidan’s daydreams was how dehumanized Mihailov had become. Aidan wondered if anything of Mihailov was left. There appeared scant sign of it. He rationalized that starvation would probably be a mercy knowing he’d neither the stomach nor the fortitude to kill the man himself. Aidan tried to appease his conscience, tell himself that with medical assistance the second officer could be saved, that to kill him would be murder. In truth he was rotting into the epoxy laminate of the Medical Bay and probably suffering. While he was no physician, Aidan could fathom no medicine that could rectify such a condition.
Aidan glanced at the airlock. It was empty. The sounds of Mihailov, crashing about in quarantine faded beneath groaning metal, there was a distant bang that vibrated through the Riyadh in faint shockwaves. Cradling the rivet gun, Aidan ran with as much speed as his spastic neck muscles would permit, struggling with each step as he ascended the short stairway to the bridge.
The sense of disorientation was immediate as soon as Aidan’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. Not even the faint emergency lights of the corridors illuminated the bridge, only the bright green digital readout of the chronometer and the gloomy vermillion albedo of the station warmed the interior of the conning station. Beyond, pinpricks of light wheeled around the disquieting silhouette of Murmansk-13. The effect was nauseating when paired with the ships countering artificial gravity.
Aidan staggered forward, body tilted at an unnecessary angle, he steadied himself against the ledge that ran the curve of the windscreen. His heavy breath fogged against the aluminium silicate glass separating himself from oblivion.
Slowly, relentlessly, Murmansk-13 was tumbling into space with the Riyadh attached like a tick. Aidan watched as the familiar, variegated nebula vanished behind the Central Command module, as carmine light and shadow interplayed against the gunmetal grey of the station. Moments later the nebula would reappear and the binary pulsar, lost to view a mere minute ago, would glance blinding argent light through the spokes of the outer ring. The iridescent planet below, with its atmosphere of green and cream clouds loomed up with frantic speed by virtue of proximity before twisting away, skirting the border of the windscreen like a winters sun kissing the horizon.
Helpless, Aidan tried to calm his breathing, felt his eyes dart from one stellar landmark to the next desperate to convince himself otherwise. The metallic groan was emanating from the docking clamps that clenched against the stations docking ring. The waxing momentum and inertia of the plunging station was threatening to winnow the Riyadh from Murmansk-13, with or without its clamping rig. It was simply a matter of which joint would give out first. If the whole clamping mechanism was torn from the Riyadh, it would likely gash the hull and depressurize the vessel. In theory Aidan could isolate the forecastle, but couldn’t say whether the pressure bulkheads were one of the many systems the Chief Engineer had mothballed to conserve power.
Nor could he attest to its operation.
In reality it didn’t matter. A relatively quick death via hypoxia was probably preferable to drifting alone in space with only a feral crewman, stale oxygen and dwindling supplies. If the ship parted from the station, there would be no coming back for the rest of the crew. Aidan could survive in solitude for months. He peered down without moving his neck at the rivet gun. How much damage could it do?
In the darkness of the windscreen, Aidan saw the reflection of dim corridor light scattering behind him. Heard someone trying to speak, muffled as if gagged. Paralyzed for a nanosecond but compelled to turn, Aidan did so, hardly recognizing the weight of the dense rivet gun in that moment.
Aidan felt the bullet rip through his stomach before he heard the crack of a gunshot. Saw the muzzle flare as a nauseating numbness swept through his midriff. Unthinking, he lifted the rivet gun as if to retaliate, but a wash of crippling agony depleted his strength. The rivet gun tumbled from his hand, Aidan focused on Hernandez, bound and gagged in the hands of a lithe man with long, blonde hair. Wide eyed and screaming into the gaffer tape that crossed his lips, struggling to free himself. He never felt the second bullet strike.
Hernandez screamed as the big man shot Aidan. He felt the strong adhesive of the tape pull at the hairs of his moustache as his mouth tried to part, wrenched his arm clear of Mikhail. The cadet slumped to his knees and drowsily dabbed his torso where the rifle rounds struck. Bright oxygenated blood began leeching across the grey fabric of his jumpsuit and Aidan looked at Hernandez with sorrowful, terrified eyes.
Calmly, the big man wandered up to Aidan and picked up the rivet gun. “He was armed,” he said with a shrug.
Hernandez managed to shake himself free of Mikhail and rushed to the side of Aidan just as the cadet slumped to the deck. His chest ebbed with fast and shallow breaths, his already pale complexion blanched as blood began pooling from a wound in his chest and a second in his gut. The big man eyed the scene with apathy, keeping both the rifle and the rivet gun levelled inches from Hernandez’s head.
The motorman stared hard and imploringly at the big man, shaking his wrists still bound behind his back. Let me help him he screamed, the gaffer tape gag rendered the phrase muffled and hysterical noise. The big man rolled his eyes and gestured to Mikhail. The sharp faced patsy approached wearily.
“Take the tape and rags off. We’ll need him unbound anyway,” the big man spoke loud enough to draw Hernandez’s attention from Aidan and to the rifle that he was casually operating the bolt on, clearing the breech. The rifle had been the Chief Engineers, his pride and joy. Hernandez had allowed it to fall into the hands of the callous hijacker, let it be used against one of their own crewmen for the seizure of the Riyadh. Sickness and anger surged through him. He was complicit.
Furtively, Mikhail released the rags about his wrists and jumped back. Hernandez pulled the tape from his lips, unmoved as follicles and skin were pulled from his face. Aidan was barely conscious. Hernandez helped him on to his back and stared at the lurid bullet wounds, blood burbled through the fabric of his jumpsuit, the deck was warm and viscous with the teenagers lifeblood.
“Oh shit,” Hernandez voice cracked. “You’re going to be OK, just,” Hernandez looked frantically around for a first aid kit, anything to staunch the bleeding. “Just hang in there.”