With his hands clasped behind him, Miguel Galluzzi stood in the observation dome and watched the Supervisor’s A-7 shuttle as it lifted from the bay. Capella’s harsh light gleamed on the sialon hull, the craft’s aerodynamic delta shining against the dark interstellar background. The sleek vessel turned gracefully, like a thing alive, and began to accelerate.
Within moments it had passed out of sight, leaving only the empty majesty of the galaxy as it glowed in righteous splendor against the black.
Righteous?
Galluzzi snorted to himself, curious about the sudden emptiness that hollowed his core. Surprised at the intensity, he staggered to the side, tears welling in his eyes. His heart began to pound against his breast.
He blinked, jaw quivering.
They are gone.
The notion left him dazed, reeling.
What the hell was this? He’d never experienced the like. This sucking emptiness of body and soul. A vertigo of self—all whirling and disoriented. He swallowed against the sudden nausea, put a hand to his mouth.
For long moments he sat half crouched against the side of the dome. Seemed he could barely get enough to breathe. That everything that he had been was looted away.
They are gone.
From the moment he’d learned of Ashanti’s arrival so far off course from Capella, in the wake of his decision to seal Deck Three, he’d lived in guilt, terror, and desperation. Every breath. Every beat of his heart. Each pulse of blood in his veins had been with the knowledge of the horror he’d unleashed upon his transportees.
Now that living shame was gone.
Deck Three was quiet, dark, empty. Halls, decking, and rooms that had shivered in time to the screams of murdered and butchered human beings now lay thick with ominous silence.
Years of desperate yearning to deliver the Unreconciled to their destination—once an almost impossible dream—was now a fact. That terrible weight was lifted. It no longer lurked like a beast on his shoulder, exhaling its fetid stench into his waking thoughts, his nightmares, or deepest fears.
They are gone.
The reality should have left him ebullient. Filled with life and hope. It should have been freedom.
Instead, Galluzzi just huddled against the transparency, his arms tucked tightly against his aching gut.
I just wish I was dead.
Out in the black, the endless patterns of stars mocked him in silence.