The Station
Joseph Sale
With 1% oxygen remaining, he reached safety.
Benson pressed the emergency lockdown button and the pressurised blastdoors slid shut with a muted hiss, like the last failing breath filtered through a respirator.
The room was airtight and nigh on impregnable. It was small, about five metres by five. Against one wall was a series of complex consoles and monitors with code scrolling across it that looked primarily like radio and transmission data. A dull machine sat in the corner. There were two functional seats, with a table between them, arranged like a train-carriage compartment. Two plastic cups sat on the table, as shiny as the day they had been factory-made. The whole building looked factory-made, in fact. There were no posters, no trinkets, nothing that sugges
