GRAVEYARD ORBIT

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

I didn’t need to hear it. I felt it. The strained vibrating of my vocal cords up through my mouth and ears.

The ventilation in my visor assembly whirred, trying to keep up with the resultant change in pressure. It had taken me a few moments to recognize the distorted reflection of the ship's flares before I turned to look. As I turned around, I screamed. I didn’t mean to– it was a visceral response to the sudden realization that something was so wrong. In my panic I let go of the pistol-grip tool I was using to disassemble the amp-meter.

“Jesus Christ! Vix?! What’s going on over there?” Ato yelled back at me through our comms system. Luckily, this suit I’m in puts a few layers of material between me and the vacuum of space. It houses our communication system, and thus both of them did, in fact hear me scream.

“What the hell was that?” Mag called out.

“I – “ I hesitated. I had to find the words, my eyes searching the expanse. I had to be sure of what I had seen. I lifted my left forearm so I could check if my Primary Link connection latency could approximate distance. The red flashing icon at the top of the display signified no connection to the Primary. If it were anywhere in proximity to this galaxy, it would hold a connection. “It’s gone! The ship.” I said, finally.

“What do you mean?” Mag sounds concerned. Appropriate.

“I’m coming around. I don’t want you doing anything if you’ve gone disoriented already. Are you still on the right wing?” Ato sounds annoyed. Of course.

“Yes! I saw the reflection of the flares in the propulsion panel! When I turned to see it directly, it was gone. Something is really wrong, Ato, my Primary Link has no connection at all.” I explain.

“Are you looking at the right voxel?” Mag, again. We both respond the coordinates in synchronicity: “36RA.0.28D”

“Of course I am, we’ve barely even completed attachment to this unit. We just departed from the damn thing! There’s no reason for it to have moved, at least for the next six hours, let alone without O-channeling any of us.” I turned back to the panel and closed it. I grabbed my P.G.T. and holstered it since I’m no longer worried about the mechanics of this satellite. Retro space junk.

“Did you see it, Ato? The Primary Link is down! Shit!” Mag exclaims. I see the troubleshooting on my screen as he tries to reset our connections.

“I didn’t see the flares. Anything worth seeing in space is light so it really could have been anything you saw reflecting, Vix. I’m almost there.” Ato quells us.

I move my tether around myself so I can move towards the antennae array tower and the others. Ato skimms around the corner of the tower using his thrusters, tether flowing in tow. I stop. I raise my arms up at Ato and then towards the direction of where the ship was supposed to be awaiting our return. Ato’s thrusters stopped.

“Mag...” Ato said with caution. Ato floated motionlessly, following the predetermined trajectory his now extinguished thrusters. I could tell he was searching as fast as eyes could move, just as I had. “Get up here, now.” Ato found footing on the right wing panels near me and tethered down.

It was so clear. The large familiar metallic oblong structure of our home, our vocation for the last 3 years, was not there. There are thousands of people aboard that ship. The sheer size of it is not an easy visual to miss. And yet, it is neither here, nor there. We looked in as many degrees, directions and frames as we possibly could for the next few silent moments. Mag joined us on the right wing and stood between us.

“O-channel: A.M.V. here, do you copy, Commander?” I hear Ato’s voice through the comms followed by painful, ringing silence. We’re all too uneasy to look at each other. We stand linear, looking outwardly.

“O-channel: Ato, Mag, Vix here, do you copy, Pilot?” Ato tries another.

…

“O-cha–”

“Fuck the O–channel formalities. Commander! Sim! What the fuck is going on? Do you copy that?” Mag interjects over Ato furiously.

Silence.

“The next group isn’t supposed to go out to repair the next site for at least six hours.” I said quietly. The three of us still standing together, tethered on the right wing. “The sites are so close together. We’d still see the ship even if they had gone ahead, along the Graveyard Orbit. Maybe… 120 kilometers or so to the next one?” I stare outward into the seemingly endless ring of devoid satellite debris. I hear Mag next to me smack his forearm unit.

“I’m more concerned about the Primary Link connection. Nothing good and natural could bring down the connection like this. Bare minimum basic training is that we can always depend on P.L. connection, even if all else is lost.” Mag replies. He’s right.

“We’re all overreacting.” Ato scoffs. “They’ll be back. I don’t know if there was an emergency or a miscommunication, but they’ll be back for us. We need to get this satellite repaired. It’s our duty. I’m going back up the tower to assess the deployable antenna. You should continue looking for the propulsion tank batteries, Vix.” He took in a heavy breath. “Mag, did you diagnose the avionics?”

"Ato –” I interject. “We really need to evaluate our supplies. We don’t know how long we will be left out here and we should be realistic about our situation. You know we have a very sensitive time-limit.” I refer again to my suits vitalmeter display on my forearm. I review the following:

Current local coordinates.

Current personal vitals.

No connection to Primary.

Strong connection to two Extravehicular Mobility Units. (Ato and Mag.)

O2 capacity: 92%

Solar battery capacity: 100%

Consumable water volume: 28oz

Pressurized gas capacity: 90%

Internal suit circulating temperature: 286K

External temperature: >370K

I suddenly become aware of my breathing. I try to concentrate on slow, low breaths. I look up to see them both checking their readings, too. With difficulty, I dry-swallow. My throat feels stiff and rasp with anxiety –

“I have seven hours.” They look up at me.

Mag nods. “I’ve got less.”