Graveyard Orbit

Chapter 1

John Desmond strode to his place in line. It was near enough to the front that no one shoved. Down the line, the usual scuffles broke out. Shouts shattered the darkness. John wasn’t part of a crew, so this was as close as he could get. One day, he knew, someone he had beaten down would slink their way into one of the gangs. Then there’d be trouble. But no one bothered John today.

The massive hold of the ship had been sealed since the first day of the voyage. People were packed in like cattle. John made it to a wall after boarding, but regretted the decision when he realized it left him nowhere to go. The room was dark. Dim orange lights hummed high up on the walls, but the shadows were deep.

Initially, the crowd was restless and indignant. They’d banged on the walls, making demands. No one came. The only change came at mealtimes. Once in the morning, once at night. A door opened to reveal crates of boxed meals. This happened every day. No crew members showed themselves, no extra food was given.

The first day, most people didn’t even realize that lunch had come. That was probably just as well. There wasn’t nearly enough to go around. The mass of humanity swayed and sweated. A few ate, most didn’t.

On the third day, people were hungry. They were thirsty. Men brawled outside the mealtime doors. John stayed out of it. The first person died that day. A woman. Trampled to death. Hysteria spread with the news and the mob grew louder.

Every day after that, more bodies turned up. Trampled, starved, crushed, murdered. The worst part was the lack of room. Unable to stand, the bodies took up space on the floor. When they started to smell, the passengers started loading them into the meal doors after the boxes were gone. This grotesque exchange took place twice a day. There were plenty of corpses.

John’s supply of food ran out. His bag was empty of anything edible. He went three rotations of the meal doors after that before he made a move. Deaths had freed up some standing room, and he used the gaps to worm his way towards the door. The closer he got, the tougher it was. He was hardly the only hungry one. The pushing and yelling started well before the door opened. Then it was bedlam.

John made a lunge for the door. He could see it, but he wasn’t nearly close enough to make a grab. He felt the crowd surge forward and fall back. He knocked someone down who tried to climb his shoulders. John went low but got an elbow in his face. Blood streamed down his shirt. He backed off.

The pain was intense, but he couldn’t wait. His stomach was gnawing at him. He was getting lightheaded. The doors opened again hours later, and again he fought his way forward. Again he was turned away with nothing. The crowd began to disperse, but John pushed towards the door. He would sleep at the threshold if he had to. But even this early, he was behind nearly a hundred people. His belly hurt. His mouth was dry.

A third time John Desmond pushed and pulled and punched to get close to the meal doors. But now he was too weak to make a good effort against the tide. He got nothing.

There would be no other chances. He would only get weaker from now on. The only way he’d get into that doorway would be as a corpse. He scanned the crowd. Behind the rows of people, a man was trying to hide as he devoured the food from his boxed meal. John pushed through. People made way for him. He was going the wrong way. He stood over the man as he ate.

John swung his fist like a hammer. It thudded against the side of the man’s head. He exclaimed and fell to the ground. John was on top of him, the heels of his hands pummeling the man’s face. Blood spurted up into the air. He felt a tooth give way. John turned around and looked for the box of food. A teenage boy was picking it up. John threw himself into him and slammed him into the wall. He grabbed the boy’s head and rammed it into the hard metal once, twice.

The food was on the ground. John grabbed it. Two others were coming. He turned and ran, but there was nowhere to go. A hand grabbed his shoulder. He twisted hard and kicked out. He connected between the man’s legs. The man crumpled to the ground, coughing and vomiting. The other was close.

John struck out with his right hand, the other clutching the box. He felt his fingernails catch the skin. He kicked him in the groin. He stomped on the man’s head, kicked his ribs, ground his heel onto his neck. He did the same to the other man who had fallen. Then it was still.  

John stood tall, eyes to the crowd. They gave him space. He ate what was left of the food. The water bottle had been crushed and was only half full. But it was enough, for now.

The next time the door opened, John pulled hair and ears, scratched eyes and faces and threw elbows until he was at the door. He grabbed two boxes and went back to his spot. He sat on his bag and ate them both.

For a long time, it had been that way twice a day. Fighting, clawing his way to his next meal. Some people had tried to be his friend, or to ask for his help. But he had no time or energy for other people.

Over months, the crowd thinned out. Anyone old, very young, tender or impotent was gone. The piles of bodies grew smaller and smaller every mealtime. Now there was food enough for everyone. And still the dark room with its orange glow remained the same.

The gangs ran the show now. The toughest was run by a man named Emilio. His crew dominated, but there was always a battle for second place. Emilio’s people ate first, then it was a scrap to see who went next. If you didn’t have a crew, you didn’t eat early.

John refused to join a gang, so he relied on a different strategy. He absolutely wrecked anyone who gave him trouble. He had no training as a fighter, but he had no reservations anymore. That made him strong. He’d bite, he’d fishhook cheeks, he’d break fingers. People were afraid of him. No individual challenged him anymore. And several gangs tried to keep on his good side, in case he ever changed his mind.

That’s why John Desmond was the first civilian in line.

Now it was his turn. Emilio’s man gave him his box. He walked back to his place on the wall. No one sat close to him. He drank the water and finished the synthetic food.

Every day was the same. Dim light no matter what. He’d wake up and get in line. There’d be fights before and behind him. Sometimes this delayed the meal. Then he’d sit and wait for the next opening. Darkness, food and silence.

His transformation happened quickly. John had never physically fought for anything in his life that he could remember. But the cold, silent cargo hold had called forth something monstrous. Every day he discovered new things he was capable of. He’d never been a violent man. Or maybe he’d just never had the opportunity.

All the time, he thought. He thought of his failures. He thought of everything he could have done to prevent this. He relived his life every day. What a disaster he had turned out to be. A refugee fleeing to a space station, apparently forgotten by the owners of this transport. When would they arrive? There was no way of knowing. Three and a half years from how long ago?

John set the box aside. He brushed long hair out of his face. He needed to sleep.