S.C. NOSTRADAMUS
CRUISER CLASS
3244 SOULS ABOARD
JOURNAL 236
In space, the dead float forever. They have no objective. They’re not even given the dignity to decay, to create a stench, to contribute to the ground. Their last moment frozen on their faces, or more horrifyingly, in their eyes. I have captained this limping vessel for 3 years now and I have seen more than my fair share of the dead, possibly more than any other captain in the Ulltrian space command. Unable to spare the fuel for cremation, we do not spare the harmony of the soul through invocation. As captain of the ship, it is my duty to bless each of the fallen with the Infinity Prayer before opening the airlock and damning my brothers and sisters to their perpetual float, each of them stuck in their own horror forever. That is my duty. That is what I have inherited,
Some days, the bad ones, there are so many that require the prayer that selfish thoughts cloud my mind. I can feel the exhaustion creeping up my legs and through my back, sometimes up for 100 hours making the decisions that cost my brothers and sisters their lives. I want to return to my quarters and sleep for a millennium, unable to look, even for a second at another frozen face, another one of my failures, another son, another daughter.
