Mustering what dispersed courage I could muster, and ignoring the profound emptiness in my stomach, I raise my head to look at the younger Buttermilch. He beams full of life, grinning from ear to ear with aspirations for something greater. “I hope I’m not late for my first assignment—“ a pause, as Buttermilch scans the room, “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting, it seems you were in the middle of something?”

“Buttermilch…!” I whimper, frozen, unable to say anymore. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My vision becomes blurred from emotions I can no longer contain.

From behind me, a surprised chuckle turns into a laugh halfway through. I hear the pushing up of sunglasses and her Commander cape fluttering around as she walks towards the young Buttermilch. And for a moment, here on the sidelines, I watch as MacKenzie tidies up a bemused Buttermilch piece by piece. From the front, it may seem like MacKenzie is beaming back, but those sunglasses mask a sad smile more than anything else.

“Waiting? No, no. It’s quite the contrary,” she replies “I was passing the time until you came—“ a wince “I wasn’t doing anything particularly of importance aside from some mundane matters.

“But that aside—Lieutenant, you’re lucky I’m in a better mood than usual,” MacKenzie lies, working her way up and fixing his abhorrent collars. “It’s—what, your first day on my Yilan and you’re already looking wet behind the ears. Why,” MacKenzie adjusts his cap and aligns his saluting hand, “I ought to ship you off to sender.” All the while, Buttermilch looks worse off than a poor young elk in the headlights.

“Sorry, Mac!” Buttermilch says with the smoothest recovery of confidence I can only admire. “I woke up late and scrambled getting here… you wouldn’t believe that my pants were halfway on before I even reached the hallway—“ MacKenzie rolls her eyes, but poor Buttermilch would’ve never known. I almost want to feel sorry for the guy, but after everything he has made us endure…

My heart sinks at the thought. I clutch my chest, brushing away the train of thought.

MacKenzie takes a step back, folding her arms under her breasts. “Are you trying to get on my XO’s bad side already?” she asks, an adjustment of her sunglasses. Buttermilch lets out a nervous chuckle and shrugs. “Boy, what kind of drongos are they sending me? I’m not one to play favorites, you know. If I get a report from him I’m not even throwing you in the brig—“ MacKenzie smirks, a head tilt as her shades slip down her nose, “you’re getting chained in the engine room.”

I can’t help but wince, Buttermilch felt the same. No sense of mercy, huh? “So condescending yet not friendly, mate… not even an inch of mercy, miss Mac?” Buttermilch asks, his grin hardly faltering. “Is that how you treat your new adjutant right off the bat?”

MacKenzie takes a step back and cups her hands behind her back. She does an about-face to glance at me—or rather, through me—at the recorder device. She tries to maintain that carefully crafted facade of hers, but the glimmering of her shades exposes the graveness in her eyes. A glimpse into her mood comes to pass when she faces Buttermilch again.

“You don’t have the right to be all chummy with me, mate,” she says, almost sneer-like. MacKenzie pokes his chest and seems to have realized she didn’t fix his tie. “And stop acting like we’re anything but acquainted, Lieutenant. The XO gets antsy when anyone gets too… uh—“

“Close for comfort, Mac?” Buttermilch finishes for her. The absolute nerve of this guy. My heart sinks further than I thought possible. I clench my chest, just what went wrong for him to be so hard boiled…? I hear a grunt, and look up to see that Mackenzie has stiffened his tie a little too excessively.

“Lieutenant Buttermilch,” MacKenzie starts, huffing a heavy sigh, “I am your superior officer and you will address me as such. From now on I want you to respect that as such—“

“So you’re saying I don’t have that right just right?” Buttermilch says nearly with that beaming grin of his. It’s hard to tell from this angle, but I can only imagine the Commander is giving him the death glare right about now from beneath those shades.

Death glare…

“Yes,” Mackenzie answers, “you could say that.” Mackenzie backs off and does an about-face towards her desk. Hands on hips, gaze to the side. “So… now that I have received you, what is it you have to report exactly, Lieutenant? What was such a fuss that you had to make a drongo out of yourself?” She scoffs “Lieutenant… I may just call you lieutenant Drongo from now on.”

Glancing at Buttermilch, he remains in his saluting stance. The young lieutenant glances off to his side—at me—and I look away. Even now, I just can’t bring myself to make contact with him. It’s unsettling. It’s too morbid. I don’t deserve the recognition.

“Why,” Buttermilch begins, “I just wanted to see one of the best—“ Mackenize’s eyes twitch “most inspiring—“ her fists clutch tight “heroes of the navy has to offer—“ Mackenzie bites down on her lip, her eyes shut tight. Do not say another word, is what I can imagine her wanting to say now. “To finally meet one of the influential people in my life—to be able to serve as the personal aide to the one who saved several squadrons from destruction… to busting a major criminal network at Gurvantes!” Buttermilch raises his arms, his eyes so full of happiness. “And it all started with a humble NOSP officer who oversaw the miracle at Al-Bawa Qu.”

Al-Bawa Qu? We were taught about it at the Academy a few times. Near the end of what the conflict now called ‘Bloody Perdenes’, two and a half Frankish legions numbering some twenty thousand combat personnel were inserted deep into rebel-controlled territory, digging in and fortifying. The plan had two objectives: to secure the isthmus of Bahat and sever supply between partisan cells; this was part of a bigger strategic plan for dividing and conquering through hedgehog defenses.

The second, true purpose of the operation was to draw the enemy into a decisive engagement and cripple their combat capacity on both sides of the isthmus. Essentially, the Frankish legions would dig in and let the enemy encircle them for a drawn-out battle of attrition. All the while being supplied by air until the main armor would reinforce them and force the enemy into a double siege.

And it worked at first—but it was an operation that fell apart. The armored column, huge in its capacity and stretching endlessly for kilometers, was bogged down by atrocious muddy roads, frequent skirmishes, and a confusing chain of command. The armor relief never made it, and the Legionnaires suffered as a result…

“I had a few uncles who saw action there…” Buttermilch clasps his hands together “and they got out safely thanks to your hard work to evacuate the army. It was like a blind slighting revelation—a desire to do something similar.” Buttermilch says. MacKenzie rests her head on one hand and smiles—but even I know that is a forced smile of all things.

“To make a difference and save lives,” the eager Lieutenant continues, “of course, by the time I enlisted NOSP itself ceased to exist… but I hoped I could still accomplish my dreams in the Navy. Even being a non-Terran citizen, the process of joining as an officer was difficult,” Buttermilch smiles, in contrast to the pained expression of MacKenzie.

The man continues. “But the effort paid off—I never gave up on my dreams. And you know why, Mac?” That meek smile remains stiff across his face, “could you imagine the surprise—imagine the excitement when I get assigned as your adjustment?” A deep breath as the young Lieutenant squeezes his hands. “Miss Mac, I simply couldn’t be any more delighted! I want to learn from the best—to make history alongside you. I want to make the galaxy a better place for spacenoids and earthnoids alike… to serve and to protect, that is the greatest duty a soldier could do. That is the ultimate sacrifice a person—regardless of their ethnicity… regardless of their nationality, could do for their country. For their Federation.

“That was something you said once, right?” Buttermilch asks. MacKenzie gets up from her desk and walks away from the Lieutenant. I stumble away a bit given she walks in my path, but stops short of phasing through me. She glances between me and the ship’s log device without saying a word. “Commander?” Buttermilch calls out to her. She blinks a couple of times, her Adam’s apple bobbing. Briefly, her eyes are trained on the recorder’s device. She takes a step forward, hesitant, but backs off towards the Lieutenant. The reflection on the sunglasses shows excruciating pain, slowly eased into the sake of comfortableness—if only for Buttermilch’s sake.

“Well, lieutenant Drongo,” MacKenzie begins “first of all, I do not recall ever telling you to be at ease,” she answers. Buttermilch can’t do it without cracking a chuckle, but his smile fades and he returns to attention upon the realization that she’s serious. “Second of all,” a sigh follows suit, “I do not wish to continue reminding you, Lieutenant, but refrain from addressing me casually.” Buttermilch winces, and I cannot help but feel sympathetic for him. “Lastly, mostly…” she pats him on the shoulder with a heartfelt rub. “It always did feel like the last couple aides I’ve had over my career were lousy good-for-nothings who asked for transfers when they couldn’t handle the heat.

“I suspect it may be because most of ‘em never had the synergy—had what it takes to keep up with me. But even so,” a gentle smile “I’m sure one day I’ll warm up to ya, er…” she chuckles, to Buttermilch’s puzzlement, “you’re on track, but don’t let that get to that drongo noggin of yours, alright mate?” Buttermilch clears his throat and gives a silent nod. “Good on ya, now, you may now be at ease—heck, you can lodge around for a bit if you want, ah—“ she glances at the recording device, maybe the Commander realized just how long it’s been running for now?

“No, I’ll be fine, miss—“ Buttermilch bites his lip, “Commander Cadenza. My legs are dying but I’ll spare your gesture of hospitality since it’ll mean giving you a headache, and I’m sure you have lots more important matters to attend to.” For a moment, Mackenize’s smile fades and her eyes are sorrowful. Sadly for Buttermilch, he won’t be able to pick up on that.

“I see,” she muses, “you’d best be getting used to that anyway, I will be willing to sweep under the rug this very slight and misgiving demeanor for now.” Given how harsh this woman is to Buttermilch, I can only ponder how he looks up to her so much. They always say never to meet your heroes. Regardless, Buttermilch doesn’t seem like it bothers him in the slightest.

Mackenzie picks up a floppy disk from her desk and presents it to Buttermilch. “You are correct on the assumption that I would like to get back to work… well, I was starting on it anyway before you barged in,” the adjutant apologizes, but she waves it off. “Don’t fret about it too much. If you’re not going to stick around then please present this after-action report of the day to the XO. It’s mostly just technical details and a dossier of the Yilan from the twentieth to the end of yesterday.

“And if he happens to reprimand you for your actions either, well…” she slides the floppy disk into his breast pocket and turns him around. A little awkward at first, since Buttermilch instinctively does an about-face. “Just let him know this will be the first and last time I will let you off the hook lightly—I’ll let him know myself that instead of throwing you in the engine room, your rations will be reduced by one ticket.”

“That’s a rather light sentence,” Buttermilch muses in surprise. The Commander rests her hands on his shoulders and squeezes him.

“Consider it a welcoming gift on part of my new adjutant. I look forward to your assistance for the upcoming campaign, lieutenant,” Buttermilch gives a nod and proceeds through the dark mist for the door. Before he disappears, however, MacKenzie clears her throat. “Buttermilch—wait, before you go,” Buttermilch turns halfway out of curiosity.

“Ma’am?” Buttermilch asks. Seemingly unsure if he should turn to address her fully. With a deep sigh, MacKenzie gives off a cool smile. She rests one hand on her hip and brushes her hair with the other.

“What you said about me—your aspirations and the trials and errors you undertook to join the navy… I was moved,” she pauses, her gaze to the floor, “flattered that you think of me in such a way. Normally, I would say that would get you nowhere, but…”

“But?” Buttermilch interrupts, trying to stem his excitement of being recognized, I suppose. To both our surprise, MacKenzie extends a hand out to the young officer. Taken back, Buttermilch looks at her proposal, towards me—my heart skips a beat, and I divert my gaze—before locking eyes with his superior officer. “Commander…?”

“Welcome aboard the Yilan, Buttermilch,” Mackenzie answers. “I sincerely hope your knowledge and commitment to our little dinky ship will come in handy in even the roughest of times.”

Buttermilch’s eyes sparkle and his lips tremble as he tries to keep his composure in front of his one and only hero. He is more than happy to step forward and clasp her hand for a fond shake. “Thank you, ma’am,” Buttermilch says, “I cannot even begin to express how much that means to me, well then,” Buttermilch takes a step back—halfway into the holographic mist, and salutes her one last time. “I, lieutenant Kenneth Buttermilch, will now be on my way to dutifully carry out my mission for the Yilan commander Mackenzie Cadenza!” And with that, Buttermilch about-faces and non-nonchalantly disappears from my life once more into the blue abyss.

“Dismissed, Lieutenant,” the Commander answers. A swift salute as the two of us sees him off.

I almost want to lurch forward and cry out for him. My heart pounds with such effect that it almost makes me tear up. To see my idol come and go seemingly back from the beyond is one thing—to see him go without a goodbye is a stinger. But yet, no words come out, no tears are shed. The only thing I can do is watch.

I wipe my face. Taking several deep breaths in the process to calm myself. Calm. Heh. Just the thought is enough to make me choke and let out a gasping chuckle. I came here to heal, but all it does is magnify the trauma of losing someone who didn’t need to die. Buttermilch didn’t deserve this fate. He didn’t deserve to end up this way in life. He reached his lifetime dream of enlisting in the Metropolitan Navy and meeting his hero…

But no matter how far I progressed in ranks, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter one damn bit. I figured by the time I reached the rank of Commander, I thought I could make a difference, but even now that made very little difference… I look up into the unforgiving abyss that took my Commander. Why did it have to be this way, Buttermilch?

Recomposing myself, I first sit up, wiping some runaway snot with my inner sleeve and turning my attention back to MacKenzie. For a moment of the facade, she’s happy—but I Know better than to believe she feels that way. I wonder if Buttermilch has ever looked at these past recordings the same way I have. Would he still feel the same way about her even now?

“There’s no need to make such an exaggeration in formality, you know?” Mackenzie says wryly. I can’t help but crack a smile, clearing my throat and getting to my feet. I pace around when she turns her back to me—taking me by surprise when she slumps over her desk. Helpless, I can only look on as she sniffles a little, her shoulders shaking as she extends deep breaths.

“Such naiveté,” MacKenzie whispers, relaxing her body and bumping her head on the table a few times. She shakes her head and gets back to her feet, still leaning on the table with her upper body. The glasses slide down her face slightly, but she makes no effort to push them back up. “I’m no hero, Lieutenant,” she continues, struggling to clear her throat. “My accomplishments… one day, you’ll understand, Buttermilch. They were all shams… I was merely…” she stops, biting down on her lip. She looks past me at the officer’s log computing device. She opens her mouth to say something but closes it, and glances towards the door—worry that Buttermilch might overhear, maybe?

Mackenzie shifts to sit on the table, back straight but slowly hunching over. “Everything I’ve done… was because of someone else’s fault,” she shakes her head, biting down on her lip every so often. Eyes blinking rapidly. “Saving a few ship squads from destruction, busting that crime ring over in Gurvantes, Al-Bawa Qu…” MacKenzie stops to slip off the sunglasses, folding them in her lap.

The Commander continues. “They were all coincidences… I happen to be the wrong person at the right time or something like that.” She looks up at me with that anguish expression of hers. The crow’s feet under her eyes were all the more apparent. She looks seemingly a lot older, like the recording transcended through time. “History takes quite the turn when certain actors are on the stage, Buttermilch.” I find myself paralyzed, I clear my throat, my head spinning. “But I was no great person of history—I was merely a backstage helper who nudged the story in a different direction,” she blinks, twirling her sunglasses in one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other.

“You focus too much on the few accomplishments I’ve done and never the bigger picture—not the mound of regrets I’ve failed to set out to do. Not the disasters I couldn’t divert… not the saves I could’ve saved but didn’t. Not the families I was forced to separate or the children I had to take from their parents—“ she squeezes the sunglasses, gritting her teeth with a heavy sigh.

The Near Orbital Semi-Militarized Police agency. It’s hardly been some twenty years and contemporary historians already paint it in a heinous light. Are they wrong? Are they justified? Our school instructors—some of them former NOSP personnel themselves—were just as… hard so to say, showing us footage and documentaries that painted their actions in a darker light. It all felt like it was presented exaggeratedly. But now, I’m not so sure. After all of MacKenzie’s revelations, I’m not so sure what’s shrouded in lies any more.

MacKenzie continues, taking longer and deeper breaths as she continues. “I wanted to contribute to society as much as I was taking away from it. At some point, I felt I was fighting an uphill battle with myself. Am I doing this all for fame? Am I doing this all—the good and ugly—for my country?” MacKenzie flips the sunglasses’ arms up and down.

A heavy sigh from the dreary Commander. “Al-Bawa Qu was hailed as a milestone—a watershed moment in an otherwise dark chapter for the Federation… even if it was for all the wrong reasons.” For the wrong reasons…? “A band-aid of sorts for a blemished part of our galactic history, and yet…” Mackenzie pauses, and the flicking stops. “And yet for me—it was a career disaster.” What? “The Franks wanted to be evacuated, but NOSP’s divisional Perdenes command didn’t want to budge. Our chaps in the army were invested in this campaign—they wanted to go all-in even if the rolls were dicey…

“Even if it meant losing twenty thousand men. No,” the woman caresses her nose, rubbing her eyes before continuing. “They expected to simply let several thousand men die for temporary strategic gains. Those brass drongos demanded their soldiers to fight to the last bullet—the last grenade and bayonet.

“If the boots on the ground were pulled out, it’d only serve to strain homeland relations with the locals. Those top drongos feared the media would paint it as the Federation turning its back on the people it purported to protect. All the while, we blokes in NOSP were just as tarnished as the Legionnaires we cooperated with. The army was obsessed with wanting to take down as many guerrilla fighters as possible—by any means necessary. Even the unthinkable options.”

Unthinkable options?

A pause follows after MacKenzie takes an extended smoke from her pipe. The holographic display is obscured by the excess of smoke creeping through her lips. “I felt I did what was only right… NOSP was reined in for anything short of an evacuation, and its top leadership was willing to sit on the sidelines and ignore any pleas for evacuation.” MacKenzie rests the sunglasses on her lips and glances to the side.

“I… disobeyed direct orders from Perdenes command and those tits in the army,” she says rather dryly. Shaking her head a couple more times, tapping the sunglasses against her lips some more. “I faced serious charges of disciplinary action—threats of a court-martial, military discharge, and so on. I dropped into orbit and rallied like-minded individuals, knowing full well that after everything is said and done, my career in NOSP would be over.

“It was to save lives.” MacKenzie slowly places the pipe to her mouth, resting it on her lip and staring into its rim. “Self-sacrifice for the sake of others. It sounds noble now, of course… but I couldn’t save them all. There were so many Perdenese contingents that stayed behind to cover our shrinking evacuation zone. And even after most of the foreign elements were extracted, I was simply powerless—“ she glances off to the side. “I was utterly hopeless in preventing…” to my surprise, the holographic feed fizzles out. I panicky lean over to the captain’s log device thinking it malfunctions—hearing MacKenzie speaking again, though, I reel around.

MacKenzie rubs her temples and leans back with a heavy sigh following suit. A brief ruffle of her hair before standing up. “What am I doing?” she mutters “I should omit more than that segment—hell I ought to bloody just delete the whole thing, but…” so she censored certain detail about the extraction… huh? “If I ever let that through, I’d reckon they would flat-out just kill me.” Clearing my throat, I can only wonder what’s so serious about the topic that she would get killed over it… but what gives me slight shivers is who they imply. “But what’s one more skelly for the closet, right?” the commander takes a long inhale, “if the Navy weren’t such a desperate bloody bunch, they wouldn’t go out of their way to forgive such a lousy ass bum like me.

“I better clean myself up and prepare a real report…” another deep sigh, she sets down the pipe and adjusts her garrison cap. She stares at her recorder and taps the table. One tap, two taps, a long secession of taps. “Buttermilch deserves better,” MacKenzie murmurs, “the Yilan deserves better…

“Better than someone chasing after an impostor of her own crimes. I won’t even delete this recording—let it be damned if someone comes across this long after I’m done with the navy. They can lock me for all I care—let me rot in some asteroid prison in some unforgettable shit-can region for all I care.” Mackenzie reaches over for a cup and downs it in one ago. The officer slams it with such intensity it makes me jump—I’m impressed such a seemingly old recording can capture the moment so well. It’s as if I’m standing there present at that moment in time. MacKenzie jerks from the seemingly awful taste of whatever she just chugged. Alcohol? Coffee? Could be anyone’s guess—could be either.

Mackenzie muses, “And yet, I’m stuck with her and the old girl is stuck with me. There’s no changing that now. There’s no changing that ever,” a tilt of the head, resting it on the table and her shoulder, “probably.” Mackenzie remains like this for a long time, she locks eyes with me until gazing away and standing up straight with a screech of the chair. She repositions her cap, a casual adjustment of her sunglasses. “There’s no use dwelling on the past now, though,” she says walking over to where her video recorder is, “what’s done is done—I got work to do.

“I still have time left to redeem myself, I believe. I can’t let down little Buttermilch now. For his sake—for mine alone.”

And with that, the video feed fizzles for a little while—it’s frozen; the recording is over. The holographic mist dissipates and the room lights up, forcing me to cover my eyes to adjust.

Paralyzed by awe, I snap out of it and lean over the black box (or I guess, roomba in this case?) and stare at what its dataset now portrays.

The first entry—the one I unwittingly watch unfold—is the only entry to have been at least an hour long. Carefully scrolling through the entries, the rest are typically voice sessions by MacKenzie. There is the odd entry titled AAR here and there—combat operations that have recently ended or perhaps ongoing, but those are usually a minute long and such. I scroll through the rest of the entries for the year without anything of note catching my eye.

I take a moment to make sure nobody disturbs the room before scrolling through the beginning of the twenty-sixteen section. The first couple of months has nothing which stands out to me as it’s more of the usual—until I reach the April entries. Most curiously I believe this is around the time that the Metropolitan navy began its first large-scale pirate expeditions into various Federation territories.

And my heart skips a beat the moment when one of them comes off as more notable than the others.

I clear my throat. Glancing at the door occasionally, my heart beats at such a rhythm that I expect someone to peek at any given moment. Abassi… I had not the slightest clue that the Yilan and Buttermilch participated there. He never told me… or perhaps, he just didn’t have the time. There’s so much more I wanted to know about him… about his life, about his dreams.

Overpowering my hesitation, I firmly tap the button to replay the digital memory. Once again, the sequence of the holographic mist encapsulates the room giving me yet another change in layout; it seems like Mackenzie must’ve rearranged the room at some point—it is, however, a shame she didn’t change the color scheme.