To my bewilderment, MacKenzie kneels over her desk, head resting on the surface as she rubs her unkempt hair repeatedly. “No,” she mutters, looking up at a small flat appliance projecting a three-dimensional holographic display of a space zone. Presumingly… I can only take this as an actual optical display of the current battlefield. Leaning in behind her, I make out several dozens of red triangles blinking and beelining for the edges of the globe.

Facing them is a disarray of t-blocks in a battle formation closest to what I can describe as a loose crescent shape. The Yilan, I believe, is one of the furthest units closest to the enemy. But as the seconds pass, the enemy units continue to distance themselves. No chase is given.

The aftermath of Abassi… I wonder? Recalling what Alexandra once said to me at the Academy years ago, she objected to the factoid that the pirates suffered heavy losses. I didn’t know what to believe then and I’m just as baffled now. If I am to assume each OPFOR unit here represents anywhere from twenty to a hundred ships…

I clench my fists. Clearing the mound of doubt formulating in my throat. Shaking my head, no, there must be more to this. A deep breath of air as I focus my attention back on MacKenzie.

I jump at the sound of banging at the door. My heart beats rapidly, again, nearly diving for the logging device. I’ve been found out, haven’t I? My hands fumble as I tap in a panic to the continued beatings of the door, seemingly pressing everything but the analog buttons.

There’s the swoosh of the door opening—confused yelling fills my ears in tandem with my ears ringing. Turning back at the door, my mouth seemingly goes dry—and my heart frantically stops.

Buttermilch spearheads his way out of the abyss pursued by eerie hands reaching out for him, like an otherworldly presence escaping its fate. He ignores his would-be captors—ship security, I tremble as the realization sets in that I miraculously haven’t been discovered trespassing so far. Thank the bloody stars.

Buttermilch continuing full-stop whips me back to my senses, and I back up as the seething individual phases through me without so much as a second thought. It leaves me in a state of shock as I whip around to see him forcibly pull the Commander around revealing such a woman in a disheveled state. To my continuing shock, Buttermilch yanks MacKenzie by the collar and pulls her close to him.

Buttermilch begins, “what the hell is the meaning of this?!” I can hear the tightening of her leather jacket as the security element tries to step in. Astonishingly, after a brief silence, MacKenzie gestures for them to stand down, and the two fade back into the holographic, bottomless gulf.

“Why are we letting the enemy escape?!” The anger in Buttermilch’s voice is unfathomable. It sends genuine chills hearing the raw fury in his strained voice. My fingers curl; my boots feel stiff and heavy from my feet flinching at his insubordination. “Answer me, goddammit!” MacKenzie is practically in a catatonic state.

Despite the low-quality playback of the hologram projection, it’s easy to tell the last few years of combat operations have played a toll on her health. Just by this alone, it’s as though Mackenize’s hopes of seeking self-redemption fell through the floor. Buttermilch unwittingly shakes her violently, asking her again to answer. All the while, the pirate fleet disperses—but one element stays behind as a rearguard. One by one, the blips disappear. One by one, the Federation’s formation regroups but never bothers with giving chase.

Her lifeless eyes wander the room, but never makes contact with Buttermilch. She opens her mouth and closes it without a second thought. She clears her throat without uttering a single word.

“We could’ve nipped it in the bud—right then, right there! We had the Madame Scarface in our grasps, MacKenzie!” Buttermilch says tightening his grip on her collar. “Why!? Why won’t you disobey command and give chase?! We can single-handedly eliminate piracy throughout the galaxy with a quick pursuit! We could avenge the Jaguar! Do you really want to live the rest of your life knowing you failed them?!”

Those eyes of MacKenzie drift around the room as he rants. Once Buttermilch finishes, she stares at me for what seems like forever, then she reanimates—and profoundly smacks Buttermilch, sending him crashing to the floor next to me. The retaliation leaves me dumbfounded—as if the sound of the smack rings violently in my ears. Buttermilch grunts, rubbing the spot she hit him. His eyes widen, mouth gaping. He blinks rapidly as if still registering what the bloody hell just happened.

MacKenzie runs a hand through her disheveled hair as if caught off-guard by her actions. She clears her throat, rubbing her nose ridge all the while. Behind her, the majority of the pirate fleet has exited the battlefield. Elements of the rearguard begin movement one after another. Not so much as a single Federation ship gives pursuit. In fact, one after the other the fleet begins to pull back.

“What do you know about revenge?” MacKenzie asks rather coldly. “What do you know about exacting revenge in the hopes that it makes a difference?”

“Commander?” Buttermilch asks bafflingly. MacKenzie ignores him and continues.

“I’ve lived my life with regrets about the actions I took, and those I could’ve,” she clears her throat, and turns her back to the two of us. She rests her hands on the table, head high. “I’ve made mistakes before. I’ve let people die. I’ve been in spots much like this where I could’ve made a difference. I was in charge of protecting people and ordering them to kill people to guarantee my men would go home alive.

“What is right? What is wrong? At NOSP academy back in the day, and again for a while before this campaign, I have received instructions from other many great officers in military affairs—distinguished officers, people who knew what they’ve done, people with years upon years of experience in the field. And yet, I’m sure all of them would lament this very same state of affairs.

“We live in a democratic free society—we serve a democratic free society. I’ve often heard the following from seasoned officers; ’A person should do as much as they can for their country as much as the country should do the same for its people.’ Indeed… if they knew what happened today, would they consider my actions as underachieving, or have I achieved all that I could for my country, for my democratic principles?

“Democracy… we, as soldiers, are obliged to serve and protect. We follow what we are ordered to do simply because if we, as the military extension of the democratic entity, refuse and go about our way, are we still serving democracy? Are we still adhering to civilian authority? If not, we are no more than an autonomous functioning organ that may as well oppose the government—the people that we protect. If we take matters into our own hands, we could very well simply be an autocratic entity—a self-governing body that could be mistrusted—that could be seen as pursuing goals of its own, agendas that could put this fragile peace and stability at stake.

“In due time, Buttermilch,” MacKenzie continues, turning and leaning on the table to face Buttermilch. “In due time, you will learn what I’ve done up to this point. I’ve been forced to make many, many difficult decisions throughout my time as an officer. Decisions are not often ethical, decisions imposed by me by a higher-ranking individual. And, unfortunately, these situations presented to you may be dubious; they may not always be so obvious if they are the correct choice are not.

“In the spur of the moment, what I or you may have done may seem like the right thing to do,” she continues, squeezing her hands, “but after the fact it may be evident—and even then our actions now may be perceived differently in years—decades, centuries from now—forever dissecting the decisions that we make, the directions in which it takes us—and it begs the question: if I have done this, would this have happened?”

MacKenzie takes a moment to breathe. Buttermilch is merely speechless. “In moments like these, it’s important…” MacKenzie scoffs, a weary smile, “—it’s important to take a moment to consider what your original motivation was. What was your purpose in these affairs? Sometimes, you have to dirty your hands, even if it means disobeying your superiors—even if it means going rogue, so to speak, and fundamentally betraying the civic rules we have in place.

“As a commander—regardless of your rank, as a mere platoon leader, a Major, a mere squadron Commander, the Admiral, or even our civilian command… we have decisions to make, and we should never flinch in the face of such responsibility.” MacKenzie pauses, looking longingly at the space map behind her.

MacKenzie continues, “in time, Buttermilch, I can see you achieving admirable authority of your own. You have a great head on your shoulders, chap, however…”

“However…?” Buttermilch and I utter. Buttermilch gets up to sit on his knees.

MacKenzie closes her eyes, placing a hand on her chest before continuing. “However, you should not be blinded by revenge—to seek to chase after a phantom of your past. Whatever has happened in the past—languish all you want, but it’s passed and there’s nothing you can do about it. No great deeds you achieve after will change that. The people you’ve led, the things you’ve had them do—it’s all set in stone. The only variable in this affair is that society will change and perceive what you’ve done—and what you haven’t done, long after you and I are dead.

“And that is something that will fascinate some. The excitement stems from how you and I have done things and how that would have affected future events to come, and how we shape our world for many years to come. Buttermilch, I’m getting off track,” MacKenzie lets out a heartfelt chuckle before continuing, “my one advice to you is not to chase after over silly little revenge plots—what good would it bring?

“After you achieve your grudge—so to speak, what then? What good does it do? The people you failed to protect, the sons and daughters you promised to bring home are dead. Their families will grieve all the same.

“The people they had back home aren’t going to come to space, knock on some pirate’s door and kill him. They grieve. They move on. They heal. They reflect every so often and forever ponder what could’ve been. They won’t hate you—again, what good does it do? It merely leaves you empty. Nothing more”

“No, Buttermilch, what you should do is seek to improve yourself. To reflect on what you’ve done… and learn from them. When the next pressing affair comes, learn from your mistake so that you make better decisions. Decisions that you won’t regret… ones that result in the least amount of deaths and mourning. Such actions will not change the past, but they can certainly change the future for the better.”

Buttermilch speaks up, his eyes drawn to the now-mostly empty battle map. “So pursuing the pirates, disobeying orders…?”

“There’s no telling what could happen,” Mackenzie responds, “if I ordered our pitiful squadron to give pursuit, we could take out a few of them—even nip the fleet in the bud right then and there, eliminate piracy once and for all. However… the opposite could happen. We could venture too far outside the fleet and get cut off,” MacKenzie reaches out with an open hand that slowly curls into a fist. “We could get encircled, crushed, and lose hundreds of thousands of servicemen. Missiles and ammunition don’t last forever.

“We only have so many supplies before they run out. So many able-bodied marines and small arms on hand before we’re overwhelmed. Hell, the Madame Scarface offers no quarters; what’s to say they simply won’t just annihilate the whole bloody squadron? Would it have been wise for me to disobey orders, thinking it’s for the better when it could be a disaster for the ages?”

“We sent them reeling. We bloodied and bruised them quite a whopping bit. There’ll be a day when we will confront them again. I’ve made the weighted decision to obey the order because the Admiral made a conscious decision to do the same. Our hard decision-making trickles down and it’s up to each member of the chain of command to do the same.”

MacKenzie reaches out for Buttermilch. The young officer reaches out slowly, their hands firmly squeezing as MacKenzie lits him to his feet again. “Mac…” Buttermilch starts. The woman stops him by placing a finger on his mouth. After a brief moment of silence, MacKenzie smiles bleakly and has her say.

“I’m sorry about that, Lieutenant,” she answers softly. Her sad eyes wander the room before continuing. “I went off on a tangent there. I hope you can forgive me for it.” Buttermilch only shakes his head, scoffing.

“I suppose in some way, that was karma,” Buttermilch says. I can’t help but shiver at those words. “I should be the one to apologize, Mac. I got ahead of myself, I—“

Buttermilch stops when MacKenzie rests her hands on his shoulders, gripping him seemingly tightly. She looks him up and down before turning him around. A pat on his left shoulder.

“At the end of it all, we all have to make hard decisions. And those decisions are not easy. We can regret them all we want, but only future generations can truly dissect what we have or could have done. Simply put, if I was in your shoes, I would’ve done the same bloody thing.”

Buttermilch lowers his head. MacKenzie lets go of the young officer to allow him to step back. Buttermilch clears his throat, adjusting his garrison cap and giving his superior officer one long salute. “I’ll…” he begins, “I’m truly sorry for the intrusion, with your permission, I will now take my leave.”

MacKenzie crosses her arms under her breasts, a smirk. “I feel that we have this backward and I should’ve demanded you leave earlier, but—“ a swift and sharp salute. “As much as I dislike playing favorites, I’ll sweep it under the rug, just this once.”

Buttermilch retorts. “Are you simply saying that because of the assault on a fellow officer?” He asks, rather smugly. Maybe it’s my imagination or the hologram distorts at that particular moment, but it almost seems like the Commander is grimacing.

Maintaining the aura of coolness, MacKenzie refutes. “I don’t want to admit it, but I can’t exactly coerce you with disciplinary action over the casual addressing. However, if it ever came to a hearing, intrusion into an officer’s quarters during wartime activities would be sure to make a sound defense.”

Buttermilch merely laughs it off lightly. MacKenzie’s smile brightens as Buttermilch does an about-face—taking me aback as the young idealistic man stands before me with a warm smile. I look away—feeling deep down a sense of guilt, shame of seeing him so happy like this. I don’t deserve to look at this. I don’t deserve to witness any of this.

My heart skips a beat as the holographic ghost sweeps through me and is once consumed by the unearthly abyss. I stand there, paralyzed, unable, unwilling to call out to him, much less lunge out to save him from his untimely fate.

“Were it so easy,” the soft, broken voice of MacKenzie makes me attentive. She leans onto the table, covering her face and letting out a deep sigh. All the enemy combatants are gone. The Madame Scarface has made her escape—Li Chou’s notoriety as a galactic villain cemented.

As I stare into the holographic spherical frame, going over what has happened as their conversation was unfolding. Though the Federation claimed this as a win… it wasn’t necessarily a loss. They saved most of the galaxy from the clutches of a powerful pirate fleet, leaving them out in the sun with practically nowhere to run… the power vacuum that may have resulted as they pulled out of southern Ruthenia notwithstanding. Although the Year 217 Mafia would form a year later, it could be described as a shell of its former glory living like a parasite in what could be the second-worst improvised star region. One might even say they never truly recovered from Abassi. Similarly—and who knows—maybe they never recovered from the Toscana incursion?

What could’ve been. What might’ve been. If MacKenzie indeed acted differently, perhaps the Mafia would’ve died then and there. Perhaps hot pursuit would have performed poorly keeping in mind the Navy’s missile doctrine. There’s no telling just how many were depleted during the battle, and it’s very likely there would be any refueling stations nearby—much less any that have military-grade missiles for spaceships.

Unlike the regular W14 line of missiles the Metropolitan uses in its ships, civilian cluster defense systems are composed of the W14 Lance missile family. I remember that old man in the missile loading stations mentioned the Yilan wasn’t modernized for the newer mechanized system ships have nowadays, so loading bigger Lances would be impractical by all ends even back then.

If MacKenzie did succeed, there’d be no Mafia. Toscana would’ve likely never become the haven of pirates that it is today. The only threat we would have to worry about at most is straggler pirate outposts and the League Militaire.

The looming, domineering face of Jonathon leaves me with shivers.

MacKenzie sighs, turning to face me. Her gaze to the flow as she idly twiddles her thumbs. The Commander looks up at me, her smirk unmasked. The Commander takes off her cap and slowly caresses the hat in her hands. Biting down on her lip, and taking one long glance at the holographic map. Another heavy exhale as she returns my gaze.

“Sometimes, Buttermilch,” she muses, “sometimes it’s difficult to let go of the past,” she shakes her head, followed closely by another brief sigh. “These decisions of doing what is right or wrong… of believing you learn let the dead rest in peace by learning from their deaths… it’s haunting.” MacKenzie wipes her eyes, biting down her trembling lips. “I can only hope… that one day you will become a far more suitable officer than I could ever hope to be. I pray that one day, someone will idolize you as a better human than I could ever hope to be.”

Following a long air of holographic fizzle, MacKenzie clears her throat, first glancing back at a bottle behind her and then reaching over to her black box. The video cuts abruptly, and Buttermilch’s office reverts to its original state.

MacKenzie… to let go of the past and focus on the present. I clench my chest, knowing too well that I relate to her troubles. I want to know more… I want to know more about her insights. Of her relationship with Buttermilch.

Drawing out one long deep breath as I recollect myself. I wonder whether or not to continue deep-diving into the past of these two. Come to think of it, Buttermilch never made a mention of her once to me. It leaves me to wonder whatever became of her. Did she get silenced, like she once predicted? Should I push my luck with this curious stroke of investigation, or should I turn back now before people start getting suspicious?

Without a second thought, I pour over the captian’s log device. When I skim through the rest of two hundred sixteen’s dataset, though, there is nothing of note. I take a moment to stand back, leaning on the desk as I do so. Remembering that even the September entries I first encountered had nothing of note, it’s possible that MacKenzie simply stopped having these recordings whenever Buttermilch dropped by.

It could be that my treasure hunt is at an end. But just to be safe, I scan through the rest of the year to no avail. Passing through most of the following year is more of the usual entries; minutes-long voice-overs. Some are brief after-action reports but on the surface nothing too substantial.

Passing through the fifties’ entries I originally stumbled on, however. One entry catches my attention.

Fifty-nine is the last entry of Mac before there’s a two-week gap. After which, I reckon that the XO mentioned before, EDGAR, takes over as acting CO of the Yilan as far as I can observe.

My hand hovers over the PLAY button. A moment of hesitance. Why is this one voice-only, I wonder? What happened to Mac after this entry? Racking my brain from the news while at the Academy, I don’t recall any substantial developments occurring at this point. But most importantly… why is there a two-week gap between entry fifty-nine and sixty?

No amount of thinking or speculation is going to answer any questions. Clenching my fist firmly, I release a sigh held hostage and tap the analog button. For the most part, the room isn’t absorbed in the familiar holographic cloud. There is merely a one-dimensional heads-up display with a flat-line audio-visual.

Finding myself oddly drawn into it, I find a chair and sit down on it slowly. Suddenly, the audio-visual picks up the noise. It’s the ruffling of something light, like loose paper. Could MacKenzie be hiding the captain’s log device? “What is it, Buttermilch?” The voice is rather quiet; low-energy even. I can only barely recognize it as MacKenzie.

A faint clearing of a voice. “I want you to reconsider this,” Buttermilch answers. With the shuffling of feet; something creaks. Someone is either getting up or sitting on a chair. “You don’t have to do this.” No answer from MacKenzie. The audio visualizer flatness. “Why are you doing this? Commander…” The visualizer picks up a nearby thump on a hard surface—the desk, maybe?

Buttermilch continues. “Why won’t you answer me?” The frustration in his voice is noticeable. Yet… it’s calm but slightly aggressive.

The visualizer has a slight climb as, I’m guessing, MacKenzie draws out a sigh. There’s a long creak—the sound of someone rising to their feet, followed by Buttermilch speaking. “What went through your mind, Mac? There’s no reason for—“

Faint footsteps cuts off Buttermilch, as MacKenzie seemingly circles the desk to approach her subordinate. MacKenzie doesn’t say a thing, leaving Buttermilch to continue where he left off. “Edger is furious, you know. After you left the meeting he tried to change the Admiral’s mind. This isn’t right—everyone’s shocked… but they respect your decision…!” a slight flat line, “but it’s not the right decision…!”

A sharp rise in the visualizer, like the sound of someone’s shoulders getting clasped. “There’s still time to reconsider, Mac.”

MackKenzie’s soft, mellowed-out voice takes over the visualizer. “The alternative…” she begins “the lengths command plans to go through… it’s inhumane. What I wish to do, and what I want to avoid that outcome is my duty. I don’t want to have to go through that again. I don’t want to let innocent people die from what command concludes is a hopeless cause.”

Buttermilch is quick to rebuff, the simmering anger in his voice. “What was it you told me once? Do you remember? To not dwell on the past? That every officer weighs difficult decisions?!

“How is your volunteering for a suicidal venture any different from theirs?! It won’t change a thing…!”

The visualizer trails off into a flat line for several seconds. The shuffling of feet follows after—then more silence before the Commander speaks. “I cannot simply stand on the sidelines and watch as they die meaningless deaths.”

“That won’t happen!” Buttermilch’s voice is raised. Making me recoil in surprise. “I doubt admiral DeRyck would go to insane lengths to let men under his command die…!”

“One day,” MacKenzie begins, “one day, you will understand the madness of men. One day you will grasp the gist of what I want to do. What you failed to accomplish, what you could’ve done… even if that means sacrifice. One’s sacrifice may be tragic over the lives of thousands, but…”

“You’re selfish,” Buttermilch says coldly. “This is borderline suicide.” What happens next I can’t make out. There’s a swift moment of feet, then nothing. One of them sighs—possibly MacKenzie. Whatever it is, it must’ve been tense. “You’re holding back?”

“No, you’re right,” she answers. “There reaches a point where my regrets have surpassed logic. This crisis simply had it all crashing down. If I simply stand back… I don’t want to go through that nightmare again.”

Buttermilch clears his throat. “Whatever happened to learning from the past…” he begins, “not letting your past get the best of you? To learn from mistakes and accept that the past was set in stone…”

MacKenzie cuts him off. “The world is a bloody complicated mess, Kenneth. What we do in our field of business is nothing short of irrational decisions one after another. Sometimes, good people make bad decisions. Sometimes, even that extends to our civvie leadership with their out-of-touch directives,” a brief pause as she sighs. “Desperate times instigate desperate measures. When they pass down orders to figures such as DeRyck, no matter how delusional and warped the orders are, the responsibility trickles down to the boots on the ground.

“And sometimes, people like me have to do what we can to rightfully set what we perceive as wrong,” she finishes. The visualizer trails off but picks up as Buttermilch begins to speak.

“Mac…” he starts with a sigh, “even so, that responsibility lies with our ground counterparts…”

“Why won’t you get it, Buttermilch?!” MacKenzie angrily retorts. The shuffling of footsteps makes the visualizer go haywire. “It’s bloody damn hypocritical… but I’d rather die standing for what I firmly believe in than let it slide and be haunted by my nightmares for the rest of my bloody life. There are cases like this in our careers where we must not be passive and take a stand… to learn from our past and not make the same bloody mistakes—repeatedly!”

Buttermilch offers no resistance this time, only sighing in defeat. I lean onto the table, intrigued by this heated conversation over what’s right or wrong. MacKenzie sighs in response. “Was that all, Buttermilch?” A moment of silence as Buttermilch seemingly ponders the question.

He answers, “I suppose it is, ma’am.” The sound of fabric as Buttermilch lifts an arm to salute. Another extended sigh through his nostrils. “If you are hellbent on this decision, and if the Admiral permits it, I will let you do as you insist… I wish you earnest luck, Mac.”

The audio visualizer goes quiet as Buttermilch moves away. But it’s broken as MacKenzie calls out to him. “Kenneth… wait,” she says. After a bit of shuffling, then I can make out something being brandished.

Buttermilch begins. “What is this…?” he asks. A small surprised scoff. “You don’t mean to…?”

“I’ve held onto this for a long time,” MacKenzie says despondently. “I want you to have it. That’s an order.”

Buttermilch clears his throat. “That isn’t… this isn’t fair, you can’t just…” both of them sigh. The clenching of something… metallic—or plastic, something fragile like glasses frames. It’s hard to distinguish the sound exactly. “This is you, Mac. I can’t just accept a part of you like this…” his voice trembles, a slight spike as he clears his throat. “This is making it sound like a goodbye.”

MacKenzie replies in her frail voice, “More or less,” the visualizer picks up on Buttermilch slightly scoffing. “I can’t think of anyone else who would be better suited to have it than you. I don’t think highly of Edgar enough to give it to him. It’s just a pair of sunglasses at the end of the day.”

Sunglasses… I don’t ever recall Buttermilch ever wearing them on his person. Glancing around the room wondering where it could be as Buttermilch continues. “I don’t… deserve this, but…” Buttermilch clears his throat with some difficulty, “I have to follow an order, so I’ll hold onto it—for you, Commander.”

A morbid thought crosses through my mind: It couldn’t still be on his person, could it? The sudden fascination with this mystical yet ordinary pair of sunglasses stops me in my tracks. Even if I did find it, what would I do with it…?

“You’ll be waiting a long time for that,” is her response. There’s no sound of Buttermilch relenting. I grit my teeth, clenching my fist tightly so hard the nails dig into my palm.

The air of silence that follows is long. Any moment now I expect either of them to say something—but there is nothing but the eerily silence and the ambiance of the Yilan humming. It feels like minutes pass before the visualizer picks up the hiss of the door opening and closing. No parting words from either, nothing. And even if there were, it must’ve been too low for the captain’s log device to pick up.

Footsteps, then the visualizer freaks out—covering my ears, it’s too abrupt and loud—as MacKenzie presumably picks up the recorder. If there’s any danger of someone getting curious and peeking in, this would be pretty dangerous but fumbling for the volume control would be too late now.

“If this wounds up being my final recording,” MacKenzie muses, “it’ll be interesting evidence for Edgar, or even Buttermilch to reflect on.” More of that confusing muffled sound—then the recording ends.

I stand there in awe. Dumbfounded about what to make of any of this. Indeed, peeking at the rest of the entries—but hesitation makes me press the dial to show the previous list of entries—I manage to glimpse a two week-gap indicated by the four entries of Edgar that cuts off in early twenty-eighteen. There is not a single entry that is lengthy to the extent of MacKenzie’s. Just about all of Edgar’s are concise, hardly more than a minute, and only voice recordings.

This might be indicating, perhaps, it’s right around where the Yilan awaited being mothballed or further upgrades. But what happened to Mackenzie? Did she recover? Did she come back?

The desire to scroll down once, hoping to see any mention of MacKenzie—hoping for closure. Reluctant to scroll again, I stop. What if she does show up again? What if it’s Buttermilch’s name that pops up next? Brushing aside the resistance, I draw up the courage to press the dial one more time—the last-ditch grasp to stop myself pushed aside. I tap not once, but twice. Once to show Edgar’s four entries, and once to show only the immediate next entry. It’s not either MacKenzie or Edgar, but a unique one.

I freeze and press back on the dial.

I lean against the table, tapping its surface. Could there be a deleted record after entry fifty-nine, I wonder? It’s possible…

My mind switches gears: thoughts other than MacKenzie or data entries. The sunglasses. I take one step away to freely wander around the table, eyes darting around in search of any glasses. Carefully brushing aside books and setting more on the table, I conclude that it’s unlikely he would have set them down before he came to the bridge that fateful day.

Unless…?

My eyes are drawn to the desk drawers. Reluctant at first, I push back against the anxiety and wrap my hand around the knob, opening it slowly, discreetly. Holding my breath in anticipation of finding an eyewear case or the glasses themselves, my expectations are instead averted with several stacks of faded envelopes with unintelligible text. A sigh for air at the silly situation I put myself in. A slight chuckle.

I take one out after another, placing them neatly on the dusty table. My heart races when I find what I’m looking for: a slim, light tan case tucked between two pieces of paper.

Slowly, I reach for it. It’s leather, and I caress its surprisingly rough texture. Its soothing surface tickles my fingertips. My heart pounds with reserved excitement as I delicately open its side strap, this mere mundane task rewarding me with a small click. So mundane, but it’s a musical note to my ears.

I tilt the case delicately, and the object of my curiosity slides onto my palm. Its ash-white metal frames glisten imaginatively in the lit room. Thin in my hands, but still sturdy. Its large, oddly-shaped jet-black glasses have a certain tint to them, reflecting a perplexed young woman almost perfectly. Her mouth moves slowly and in awe, and reading her lips she seems to say, “he kept it after all this time.”

Buttermilch kept it all this time. Does that mean… I immediately try to suppress the thought, but it persists and slips through the cracks… could that entail MacKenzie never made it back? My lips tremble, and I do my best to suppress the awful thought by biting down on them.

I clench the sunglasses—slowly. Just tight enough so I don’t crush them by accident.

Could… could he have left them here for me to find? Finding myself getting worked up, I take several deep breaths. Unsure of what to think of this. Unsure of what to do next. Aimless, directionless. It’s almost… it almost feels like he wanted this to happen. He wanted to pass this on to me.

No. Stop out of it, Victoria.

I slip the sunglasses back into their case, slowly, as if time tried to stall the inevitable. I set the case down—briefly. Staring at it, intently, for a lapsing moment. I pick it up and gently put it in the drawer, sliding it inch by inch.

I turn for the door. If I spent any longer running through the gauntlet, it’ll only tear my heart apart. I don’t think Buttermilch would want me to do this to myself. He didn’t sacrifice himself for me to dwell on the past. He didn’t push me so I could wonder why it wasn’t me.

Sometimes, it is best to let the past be the past. Some things are not meant to open up painful wounds.

But an invisible force tugs at me. An incomprehensible thought stops me in my tracks. It’s as if this natural entity tells me there’s more to uncover here. There’s more sorrow to put myself through so I can truly get it all off my chest. So I can live life without regret, without worry. It’s those kinds of thoughts that could never possibly go away unless I confront them head-on.

A perfect about-face, one that only drill instructor Putsch shed manly a single manly tear over. Heh, a scoff escapes my lips only briefly. I wonder where he is now? I never did see Putsch after we were shipped off to the Yilan. The thought of the hardass mate being a Major Pukeface is only as humorous as ever.

Picking up the captain’s log device, it weighs like nothing, unless my earthly regrets. With this simple but practical device, I tap to show entries past fifty-nine.

Past what I may describe as the point of no-return, the entry name EDGER disappears almost entirely after entry sixty-four after tapping the dial twice. From that point onwards, there is only one name that stands out from others. A name practically imprinted into me. A name that once meant an eye roll and getting chewed out for a collar being wrinkly or my shirt being untucked. It’s the name of someone who deducted me points whenever I did not succeed in a ranked wargame. A name after a scribble of notes criticizing me on such assignments but outlining his positive thoughts about unorthodox tactics, out-of-textbook examples we’re meant to study and apply, but I resisted simply because of the implication of being predictable and easy to counter.

It’s a name that I’ve come to respect. A name whose voice I will no longer hear and help guide me in life, despite what little tutorage he could offer during his minimal spare time. But it’s those glimpses of his insight that I’ve come to drown myself in.

BUTTERMILCH.

I try to stifle the emotional impact. A long-imprisoned renegade tear escapes imprisonment and makes landfall on the device’s screen. For a moment, the letters I and l are muddled by the escaped convict.

Forcing myself to read the rest of the screen, entries sixty-five to seventy-one, his entries from the day of the Yilan’s departure to his last. I read down and savor every bit of context of columns and rows that they offer. The drip of context that they supply me with.

All the determination I had, the desire and human will to march on simply crumples. It’s washed away by a sense of disbelief. I stand there, somehow satisfied that I overcame my fears but succumb to the realization that he truly is gone.

He’s gone. And that… perhaps, unwillingly, unintentionally, is his final testament. His final words to this world. An encapsulation of a man who knew not that perhaps mere hours or mere minutes, his last utterance to anyone, resides in this recording. A recording tucked away and perhaps never meant to be opened. The voice of someone who should still be alive and standing here, but instead read by the very person he protected. It’s an acknowledgment that he once lived, and he’ll exist as more than just simply a tombstone inscribed with a simple name, his date of birth, and his date of death.

Ignoring all the others, I press down on the dial to activate the recording. And a few several steps back: back still to the recording.

In an instant, the shrouds of blue pixelation mist consume the eccentric-maple red room in the past of yesterday. August fourteen, year two-twenty. Sometime before 14:00 hours. A clack of my boots, one foot cocked. Another soft thud as my boot hits the floor. Vision blurs briefly. I turn around, back to that moment—back to that oblivious moment. Back when I lived in a nightmare no one was prepared for. That innocence I still held and never knew I missed. The naive young woman who was dead-set determined to meet Buttermilch, and left his presence, for what may have been the last time, at ease, clueless of what was to immediately unfold right before our eyes.

Standing before me is a digital man—a mere equation of ones and zeroes now but a proud, patriotic man of the Federation. The third former Commander of the CC014 MSN Yilan, from August twenty-nineteen to August twenty-twenty. His shoulders. Large and broad. Large, man hands—yet kind in nature—cupped professionally behind his back. It’s him. But it’s not him. It’s a mere snapshot—footage of a man that once was. A man in his prime. A man at the cusp of his career. A man who has caused me so much trouble as much as I caused him because of my father. A man with a chip on his shoulder when it came to me—yet at the same time, a spirit who cheered me on silently… even though I thought nothing of it. Someone who indescribably made me who I am.

I can’t help but salute. The clacks from my boots are nearly deafening.