The crushing press inside Hera’s Delight was unbearable. Hundreds of people crammed together in a tin can, hurtling away from destruction on a column of fire. The groan of over-stressed air compressors could be heard behind whimpers and hushed conversation. A haze of humidity filled the compartment, almost thick enough to cut with a knife, certainly moist enough to coat every single occupant in a sheen of sweat.
Inspector Peter Danniverk slouched in one corner. Dark bags lay below haunted eyes. Enough stubble covered his sunken cheeks to form a beard, though not one that could be called respectable. A tattered coat hung from his bony shoulders, barely covering his once white shirt and tattered trousers. Scuffed shoes braced against the floor, pressing his spine against the rattling bulkhead.
Shaking hands fidgeted with a revolver, one of those big scary looking ones sold at antique fairs. Normally there was no way he would be allowed to take it through security, let alone onto an overcrowded spaceship. But these were not normal times. The security guards had been more concerned with keeping people off the ship than monitoring what they brought on – unless it was big and bulky, of course, since lives were more valuable than possessions. Besides, he was an Inspector, and that came with certain privileges. At least, it used to.
The dozen closest faces stared at him nervously. Peter glared back, daring them to encroach on his precious bubble of sanity. Eyes flickered from his face down to his hands, then back again. Fear reflected back at him, more visceral and grounded than the terror radiating from everyone. It took him a moment to register the difference.
Sheepishly Peter tucked the gun back into the holster at his waist and held out his empty hands. “Is okay,” he mumbled. “I ain’t dumb enough to shoot no one. Ain’t nothing to be gained by such foolishness.”
He lowered his gaze and focused on his scarred knuckles. Inspector. The title mocked him. Up here, it meant less than nothing. The only thing to inspect in this room was misery and despair. The life they had known was gone, vanished in an instant of insanity. He clenched his fists as memories of the past few weeks flooded through him.
Rocks falling from the sky. Civilisation crumbling under the unexpected barrage. Frantic news reports laying the blame on everything from discontent miners to vengeful gods, none of them daring to criticize the corporations who had pushed overstressed workers to the brink of desperation. Tumultuous weather sweeping around the globe, evidence of ecosystems pushed out of whack. Riots, demanding something be done by those in power. The sudden unexpected announcement of evacuation.
Peter ran a hand across his face, feeling the scrape of stubble, grimacing at the sweat soon coating it. He shuddered at the thought of where that liquid came from. Some of it was his, maybe even most of it, but certainly not all of it. This many bodies filled the air with moisture, some evaporated, most exhaled. It was unpleasant now, it would be worse in a day.
Lethargy dragged his battered form down. Ennui kept him locked in place. Why cling stubbornly to hope when starvation and suffocation loomed in the near future? Would it have been better to stay behind and face death with defiance?
He shook his head, brushing away tears. No. Where there was life, there was hope, no matter how slim. He might carry the title of Inspector, but deep down he was a survivor.
Resolve allowed Peter to straighten his shoulders. He looked out at the frightened faces and gave them an uncertain smile. “We gonna make it,” he said. “Captain’s gotta plan.” He didn’t really believe the words, but it didn’t matter. In the darkest hour, people needed something to cling to. He might not be able to do much, but he could give them that.