Emil watched his reflection in the mirror. The bathroom lights flickered again, making his sullen face look like an otherworldly apparition straight from an old horror stream. As he gazed into his eyes, a single thought repeatedly crossed his mind: “I am a good man.” It had been the same for the last 120 sols; every day would start like this.

Through the flickering light, he could still see the dread in the mob’s eyes. There was also disbelief, rage, and despair—a true palette of human emotions bearing down on him, first through the hatch’s porthole and later through the CCTV feeds. “I am a good man,” he repeated to himself again.

Mercifully, no sound could be heard. This spared him the noise of initial rage and anger, followed inevitably by screams of utmost despair when the full scope of reality became apparent. He could still remember the grotesque expressions of muted, screaming faces and the eyes, so much anger in the eyes. “I am a good man,” he repeated to himself.

As he stared at the man in the mirror, a stranger gazed back. Emil couldn’t recognize himself. In his mind’s eye, it was the reflection of some random, ghoulish, pale man. He remembered Sofia and little Karl. It felt like a million years since he last held them in his arms, and he did not know if he ever would again. “I am a good man,” he repeated to himself, as visions of muted, terrified children clinging to their parents came to him.

It had to be done; it was the law. The story was as old as mankind: supplies were low across the fleet, and a culling was needed. The sacrifice of the few for the survival of the whole. The system was cruel but fair—too fair sometimes. Numbers per ship were determined by the fleet’s best quartermasters, but it fell to each captain to decide how to remove them. Tears streaked the face of the man in the mirror. “I am a good man.”

His ship, the cruise liner Starbeam Delight, was particularly affected. It had solid life-support infrastructure, but also an immense number of crew and passengers. The Council of Captains decided the fleet would benefit long-term if the Delight could produce oxygen and water surplus. They also decided this surplus would be facilitated by a fleet-wide culling. “I am a good man,” he repeated to himself.

Emil gripped the sink as hyperventilation set in. The anguish inside him felt powerful enough to tear through his chest, breaching bone and muscle alike. He vividly remembered the split-second after the airlock’s external hatch fully opened—the final moments of those inside, their faces showing the realization that oxygen was gone, as they were sucked into the cold void. “I am a good man,” he repeated to himself.

On the Delight, a lottery was held to choose people. Fleet-wide policy stated, as an act of mercy, families should die together, sparing survivors the immense grief of losing loved ones. Emil knew the reality behind this—it prevented inevitable retribution from grieving parents or orphaned children later on. All for the common good, for the survival of the species. Remembering this hollow phrase, an ironic, sad smile crossed his face. “I am a good man,” he whispered defeatedly.

It had fallen to him to execute the culling. He hadn’t asked for this duty and didn’t want it, but he had no choice. He ran the lottery. He visited the unfortunate winners to deliver the news. He shepherded them into three large cargo airlocks—neither a quiet nor bloodless process. He administered empty words of comfort over the P.A. system to victims, surviving passengers, and crew—words intended more to prepare survivors for the atrocity rather than comfort those being sacrificed. Finally, he pressed the button and carried out the sentence. “I am a good man,” he repeated to himself as he punched the face in the mirror. Luckily, the plastic-silica mirror was unbreakable, depriving Emil of the dramatic effect of a shattered reflection and bloodied hand.

He punched the mirror a few more times, repeating with each blow: “I am a good man.” He continued until the fight, anger, and all emotion drained from him. His hand would ache for the rest of the day.

Eventually, he dressed in his perfectly pressed uniform, straightened himself out, and looked into the mirror one last time. “I am a good man.” As the door of his cabin opened, a soldier detached from the battle cruiser Furious Anger, standing guard outside, snapped into a crisp military salute. “Good morning, Captain.”

Emil saluted back silently with an empty gaze. One breath at a time, one day at a time, he thought as he made his way to the bridge once more.

END