It's funny, standing here now in front of the very metallic door—simplistic in nature, but has left a lasting impact on my life and indirectly affected countless others in the fleet. Or rather, I want to say, futile attempts to prevent an unprecedented disaster—yet I achieved it, although not in the way I expected or wanted any of it to go. I wonder how many times it makes it now, mentally preparing myself for a confrontation with my past doings? Debating, wondering if my actions will trickle up the chain of command.

I raise a tense fist to the door, intending to knock. Of course, there is no need to do so. It's an officer quarter that has been left vacant ever since Buttermilch’s passing. There will be no disgruntled CO to receive me, grumbling for me to come in through this thick, steel door. There won't be a raven-hair beauty to unexpectedly open the door and back me to the wall, as exciting as that sounds. Just the memory of it is enough to make my chest throb.

Of course, there is none of that. There is only the cold air tickling through the collar to my neck, and my chest fluttering from my imagination going wild. Without wasting any time, I open the door and step inside the office—an immediate baking of heat seemingly blasts me as the air is released from the sealed-off room. The heat is so particular that it makes me stumble back in shock. I don’t need to caress my face to know it’s as humid as an average Straya summer.

I can't help but scoff. It doesn’t matter how many times I stop by here because I can't help but criticize the former CO for his poor distaste for the muted colors of his quarters. I've said it before, but the former quarters of Buttermilch leaves the impression of stepping into a different world. If there is one of dozens of the regrets I harbor, it would be not asking Buttermilch if he had a say in the decor. I wouldn't have a single doubt in my mind that he was displeased with it, or if he had, indeed, any say in the matter.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, sir?” I whisper, closing the door behind me. I’ve only visited twice since we left Toscana—once to mope in here, and the second time to collect some of his literature. But other than that, the place is a bloody mess. It’s not that Mazzareli or even Prince forbid anyone from coming in here, it’s simply that most just didn’t out of consideration. Frankly, and I failed to realize this at the time with Li—but the cabin room is in total disarray—anything that wasn’t furniture was knocked over, like most of Buttermilch’s collection of literature, and little things like folders and other paperwork. Interestingly, only one of the bottles on his drinking cart was spilled—some of it stains the cherry-red carpet and honey-like wood paneling, giving both darker, purplish stains.

I take another deep sigh, and I shuffle around to some of the books and folders lying about. After Mazzareli assumed command, he took what was impartial to the Yilan and left the rest to Friederika and I… which are mostly his large literacy materials. I’ve gathered a considerable amount in my room wall racks, but there’s still a whopping amount left that I’ve left behind here. Kneeling and glancing around to collect some of these, I can’t help but feel guilty that Friederika is right after all. Maybe Buttermilch would be disapproving of how I handled his personal belongings. I told myself that having it part of my organized mess was a way to honor his memory… but the guilt runs through my spine picking up a few of these, and I can’t bring myself to even smirk at my rudeness.

“I can just imagine it now, Buttermilch,” I mutter, gathering a few and stacking them on the table. “You must be rolling at the speed of light just wondering how I of all people inherited your collection, huh?” I smirk with a scoff.

There’s no reason for me to be here. Friederika should’ve talked me out of me; she should’ve forced me to come along to the canteen. But she didn’t, and here I am, reveling in this sinking regret. But I feel if I don’t come here and let out my remorse, it’ll only make living with the guilt worse as time goes on. I needed to come here to get it out of my system—just as Buttermilch invited me to his quarters after the Malabo meeting, I feel it would be appropriate to come here to bring some closure.

Closure… that’s one way of putting it, I guess. Buttermilch failed to keep our promise of averting a disaster from snowballing, so maybe it’s only appropriate that I come here to let my former Commander know that he can rest easy. I came here, guilt-ridden, running through the gauntlet to deliver some good news of what I’ve done. Did Buttermilch feel this way upon returning from the Malabo staff meeting, I wonder? Did he feel immense guilt over being potentially responsible for so many lives being lost? Did he feel more at ease after telling me his life’s mission of wanting to forge a better leadership for the navy, capable of making rational decisions despite directives?

“I can only wonder,” I tell myself. A mere scoff escapes my lips. Running through the gauntlet, huh? When I put it that way, raking myself through memory lane does hurt. If I don’t get it out of my system now—if I don’t compel myself to get sliced and stabbed through these awful, sharp memories, through these terrible nightmares which keep me up at night and remind me of the actions we took, even running, pointlessly, the Toscana simulations repeatedly… then I’d never rest easy. Buttermilch would not be able to rest easy, either.

I head to the other side of the office desk to sit on the cushy chair, hunching over and ruffling my golden locks of hair repeatedly. “I can only wonder,” I mutter again, leaning back into the cushioned chair at the gray, emotionless ceiling. The light is blinding, of course, and I sit straight after the strain subsides. “Back then, I declined your offer to sit down… I thought… I felt it was necessary to give this vibe that I was a strong person. And now look at me,” I slump in the chair slightly after a pause.

With a lift of my hand, I make dashes on the table’s surface, pushing the ashen dust blanketing it into built-up clumps. My hand hovers over the top drawer, unable to open it, unwilling to see what it holds. “I’m a total bloody mess,” I continue, “the Toscana Heroine, Lucky Vicky… can you believe they call me things like that, Buttermilch?” I ask the vacant attendee. If Friederika were here with me, she’d scold me for being so down in the dumps. But how can I not be?

I’ve been telling myself—a feeble attempt at prep talk—that I should be more high-spirited after leaving the Trinidad. There’s no reason for me to be so mopey. I’ve done now what I couldn’t do then, after all, but is it worthy of a pat on the back? Is it really worth getting a double promotion over, and a Victorian’s Cross on the corpses of so many?

I couldn’t save our allied Ides formation. I couldn’t do a single bloody thing to save the brave personnel stranded, abandoned at the sister Malabo-Baltit Sides. I despise what the Commodore has done so far, and yet my success, in a strange twist of misfortune, has been accomplished literally off someone else’s failure. I’m certainly no better at this whole whopping honor and glory thing than that dreadful man. Saving the detachment heading for Lübeck was an accomplishment in itself.

And even so…

I consider it all a fluke. No matter how many times I tell myself that Buttermilch shouldn’t have died, it won’t change anything. He’s dead. The thousands I’ve left to die at Ides are dead. The fighting force we left stranded will forever be labeled as killed or missing in action, never to return home to their loved ones—to normal lives. I don’t know how to cope with his death. I don’t know if I could ever forgive myself for the lives I’ve failed to protect. I don’t know how to handle all this newfound, undeserved respect. I’ve simply done what any other officer would’ve likely done in my acting duties.

A heavy sigh.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe forcing myself to flake through memory lane hoping to honor Buttermilch’s memory and pay my respects does me more harm than good. My hard-earned victory at Trinidad? Hell, I can hardly call it such a thing. What could I have done better there than I have with making an amateur attempt at convincing Buttermilch to change the minds of the Commodore and his staff? I was unable to replicate what I could do there—I had no time.

It was all happening so fast then, standing in front of men with greater authority. Men who had time and tools at their disposal to calculate a proper simulation. People who are highly trained professionals with war games. The Admiral made his decisions on sound decision-making. He has every right to ignore my suggestions altogether. Send most if not all our ground forces to one crucial Side? It has almost no basis, other than a chance shot at knocking out Johnny and his chain of command.

It’s a risk with almost no calculations. At that point, I’ve only reinforced the mindset that the Commodore’s fleet is full of laughing stocks who think of their personnel as merely nothing but tools at their disposal. And that’s all we truly are, tools of destruction. The entire point we were here, after all, was to keep an eye on the Franks—and I’m not even sure that’s even the real reason we were here.

Perhaps looking back on it now, it was merely a cover story for Ishtar-Terra? Or maybe it’s the other way around? What would have happened if something went down in the Frankish Realms? If one of our dozen war simulations became a reality? Would the Commodore have what it takes to turn our guns on them? Would I be thrust into a situation where I would have to decide as I have at Malabo?

It makes me uneasy. Knowing that I might have contributed more harm than good to operation Entebbe. Maybe it is for the best that the Admiral sticks to the original plan. Only time can tell, is what I want to tell myself. But it could mean the difference between several thousand killed or an easy victory. I would have far more blood on my hands than I would know what to do with. This strange reputation as Lucky Vicky would be gone instantaneously. My father’s reputation would be tarnished. Could I look my father in the eye even after everything that I’ve done so far?

Maybe my old man was right. Maybe enlisting in the Metropolitan Navy was a bad idea back then. I should’ve just taken his advice to follow his steps in SEATO.

Another blow of hair through my golden bangs.

Glancing at the timbering drawer. Maybe I have no right to come here after all. I hoped it would help relieve this lingering despair over my showers—I wanted to feel more at ease. I wanted things off my chest. I found myself overcome with the need to reassure Buttermilch one last time that I made up for what happened over his regrets at Malabo. But in the end, I say, it has only made me feel worse—empty, compared to when I stepped foot in the office. I reach for its handle—a firm grip. It feels like it wouldn’t budge at first like it would require a hearty pull. It probably hasn’t been opened in months, I’d wager.

But the more I stare it down in this dim reddish room, the more my chest pounds. Something about this doesn’t feel right. And so, I relent.

“I’m sorry, Buttermilch,” I whisper. “I… I guess I just wanted to get to know you better. I felt there is so much more I wanted to learn about you, so many things I have yet to learn. I figured the first step to that would’ve been by letting it off my chest, but I can’t be right about everything, can I? It only did me more harm than good.” I can only imagine his scoff as he shakes his shot glass. Brushing it off, telling me not to worry and get a good night’s sleep.

Of course, that is a scenario that will never happen. The man is long dead. Rotting away—well, kept in frozen suspension for burial back in Terra, along with the hundreds of other dead awaiting their final rest in peace.

“Well… Buttermilch,” I say, getting up, “even with all that said and one—I feel if I stay any longer, your pale old ghost will come and haunt me—“ a cracking smirk “shooing me out so you can relax in peace. Maybe… I’ll come by again eventually. But for now, it might be best to leave this place sealed off again,” getting up, a glance at the busy desk stacked to the brim with any number of scholarly and fictional materials.

“At least, until I get sick of catching up with all your volumes I have, then I’ll come back for the others,” a meek smile.

I take a few steps around the table—and promptly flail around, trying to keep stabilized. I barely get any opportunity to realize the situation before I’m forced to shield my head as I stumble to the floor, nearly knocking myself unconscious against the hardwood. Whole stacks of paper crash beside me—some lighter books hitting me on the way down, but nothing serious, merely brief stars.

“W-what the hell?” I stammer, “enemy attack?” My heart pounds, expecting a siren any moment now—but nothing. Sitting up, it dawns on me I merely fell over a rather thick volume of books laying next to the desk. Enemy attack? How silly of you, Victoria.

“Oh blimey…” I murmur, “Buttermilch, I’m sorry, I’ll—“ picking up a few books here and there to put back on the desk, I freeze. A beep—no, a clicking sound can be heard somewhere nearby. Glancing around—the room being a little dim as it is—I scramble to find the origin point, but it’s difficult to search for. I rummage as quickly and carefully as I can, hoping I can find it in time before any curious eyes peer in.

Flipping books over one after another, my heart beats faster before I finally find something that sticks out—a circular pearly-white device with blue trimmings, no bigger than your typical hand-held device. In a way, it reminds me of a roomba—Vivi if she wasn’t charcoal. The physique of it is similar but its dimensions are slightly smaller, so it’s not a roomba at all… what is it then?

The device continues to click. Squinting, I look closer, making out that it is not because of any kind of malfunction but because of a small rectangular container pressing down on a few of its analog buttons still. Before I pull the box away, the green-lit screen catches my eye. Curious, I find it displays data that flicks to the rhythm.

ENTRIES 56/71 10TH SEPTEMBER 217 MAC 7MINS, HOLO 55/71 3RD SEPTEMBER 217 MAC 4MINS, HOLO 54/71 27TH AUGUST 217 MAC 2MINS, HOLO

“A captain’s log?” I mutter, watching as the log device continues to rewind in dates. Did it not cross Mazzareli’s mind to retrieve this when he took over command of the Yilan? No, there’s a chance it must’ve simply been overlooked. I sit there pondering if I should take this to hand over to Mazzareli, all the while observing the data entries dwindle into the single digits as far back as the year 215.

After several minutes, I glance towards the door, a sigh of relief that nobody enters. Guess I should count myself lucky that nobody is intruding… well, to be frank, I am intruding here. By all means, if Mazzareli or heaven forbid Prince got wind of what I’m doing, I’m sure it would be a little more than a nuisance. I didn’t technically tell either officer I would be in here. And if they stumble across me accessing confidential information, it’d be hard for Mazzareli at that point to play favorites and not throw me into the brig. Oh, who am I kidding? The two of them would love to do just that.

So it’s just all the more reason for me to take just a little look, right? A little curiosity never hurt the cat, after all. And if anything, I reckon these are private logs anyway rather than official ones… judging that the only two names that have shown up thus far are this MAC and EDGAR.

Huh, actually, now that I think about it, could these be official captain logs? Maybe I should just pick it up and head on my way, it might just be—

I get up, a slight pain in my foot as I watch the small plastic container slide and tumble away. Likewise, the ship log recorder rolls away, landing face-up. In a panic, I dive for it in the grave realization I could’ve just damaged years’ worth of important assets for Mazzareli and the Yilan. That’s when I hear something mechanical whirl-up—and then blindness.

I reel back in shock. When my vision recovers, I find the office’s appearance has been engulfed in a dark-blue mist. The layout of the officer’s quarter is different, too—it is no longer messy and the furniture is rearranged.

Focusing in front of me, the shades of mist give way to a white holographic figure, fizzling on the occasion. I hold my breath in anticipation, but it doesn’t seem like they have taken notice of me just yet given their back is turned to me.

Slowly getting to my knees, I can still distinguish what looks like a Commander jacket draped over her shoulders… or is it? It’s longer than what I have seen, anyway. One smoking pipe twirls in their hand as the officer swifts through something on the desk. Judging from the hair—long, seemingly dark hair tied in a ponytail. No cap either, interesting enough.

I don’t… who is this? This obviously couldn’t be Mazzareli. He was always a hardass with uniforms. Even if he found so much of a speck on inspection days, he would deduct so many points for it. Could this be the Mac person record? Possibly… ah… but that’s not important now, I shift around for the hologram device, but it’s difficult to find in this blasted fog!

After enough crawling underneath the mist, I’m able to locate it. I reach forward to press the OFF button—

“Oh… blimey,” a woman’s voice freezes me in place. I didn’t hear the door open. Oh, bummer, I’m never going to hear the end of it from Mazzareli, am I?

I sit up straight in an apologetic manner, head hanging low. “Um, listen, I can explain—“

“No matter how much I look at it, those decor folks have a horrific taste. Apple-red in contrast to our uniforms? Hell, I’d put my grudges aside to wear a NOSP uniform again.”

Huh? I turn around, finding that the Commander—a tall, slender woman sporting a nice pair of shades—blows from her pipe, adding to the mystical mist surrounding us. NOSP? That sounds familiar… I think it was one of the forerunners to the Metropolitan navy back in the day. My old man talked little about it back then. Just how old is this holographic recording, anyway? I glance at the device behind me—

“Hmmm,” the Commander muses, an extended suck from her pipe, “it’s certainly been a long while since I’ve done one of these. How goes the procedure again, I wonder? Well,” she pauses, “this isn’t going in the official log, at least, so it’s not particularly important. Anyways…”

The officer sits against the table, tucking her left arm in and resting the other on it. She holds the pipe still for a moment, but begins to twirl it ever so slowly as crystal-white mist escapes her partially closed lips. Her Adam’s apple bobbles slightly. Her gaze ignores me as she stares at the ceiling.

She begins. “Captain’s log, the twenty-second of May, two hundred fifteen. Commander Mackenzie Cadenza of the MSN Yilan…” a head tilt, her eyes shift to the right “ah, computer?” There’s a short beep from Mackenzie’s recording device, “for future reference, please shorten Mackenzie to simply Mac… thank you! Anyways, moving on,” the slim, beautiful Mackenzie pushes herself off the desk and strolls past me towards a portrait of some folks, but it’s difficult to make out any of them through this dreadful mist and the overall cruddy quality of the recording.

Mackenzie remains silent for a few moments, then sucks on her pipe before speaking. “These numb brains in Sydney,” she mumbles, a heavy sigh, “every last one of them. Pulling me out of retirement like this, just who do they think they’re fooling? They never learn from their mistakes, dissolving the organization because of mistrust and thinking they can start anew. They pulled all of you out of retirement, but not me. And look where that ended for you lot?

“It should’ve been me that went to Zonal,” MacKenzie murmurs, “those bloody idiots. I simply cannot comprehend why they would pull me out now instead of then. I just don’t…” MacKenzie tails off, shoulders sagging. But it isn’t long before she pulls herself up and glances towards her desk, presumably where her recorder is situated. “And even so, everything in parliament is against this idea in the first place. We need more time, we need more resources… what hope do they have in fighting this unprecedented threat to our everyday lives with a universal fighting formation? We whack the ragtag group of one ugly bandit bastard, they just regroup and regrow like a nest of rats in another sector…

“To simply admonish the colonial navies and issue gag orders that are nothing more than empty missives… it’s distressing, isn’t it? We’re better than this. This whole attempt at a Federalized navy is one big joke, one big sham!” Mackenzie finishes with a heavy sigh jumping off her shoulders, she rubs her temple, teeth gritting as she turns away for the time being.

I simply cannot believe what I am hearing. An odd feeling morphs in my stomach, and my heart beats with a resolute pounding. Gag orders? Was… or is Sydney parliament against the idea of a Metropolitan navy? My thoughts are a jumbled mess making me process anything she says. As I watch MacKenzie pace around, I can only wonder… were we lied to back at the academy? Were we, the civilians of Terra, being deceived—being lied about what lay above the clear blue skies of our little blue planet?

Even now, Alexandra’s words from the past echo through my mind. Who tells the truth? The Federation or the Ruthenians? Both may have some truth in their lies. But even so…

“If old Signor was still around…” Mackenzie continues, slumping into her seat, “if those politicians could only recognize the bigger picture that we set out to accomplish…” Mackenzie sets the pipe down, the bowl resting on the table as she sinks to the side and rubs her chin. “The situation—this precarious environment forced upon us by our civvie, blue-collared mates…

“it would not be so precarious as it is now than it is for the boys back home we seek to protect,” MacKenzie stops tapping the pipe, brushing off the lower side of the bowl as she lifts the pipe back to her lips. “We wouldn't need to siphon what we don’t even have. We wouldn’t have to gravel and make concessions to the Franks or what have you to make some shitty barely-melded together scrap piss off into the void and fight an impossible battle!

“All we’re doing is making the people suffer for more in the intermediate term. We’re forcing them to ration for more when we don’t even know if it will be worth it in the end! Boy, when the Zonal expedition failed, I was relieved when the prime minister—“ Mackenzie cocks her head, scratching her chin, “Fillip? Phelps? When he and his entire cabinet resigned, I felt relieved… maybe the next guy would have a brighter head? Maybe people might remember that NOSP wasn’t the bad chaps after all… Maybe they realized that Signor was doing the right thing. But no… fail, and try again… I just can’t make heads or tails of it at all.

MacKenzie moans, pushing her glasses up to pinch her nose bridge. “I wouldn’t have to pat each of these bright-minded individuals, telling them that what we do is for a great good. For a greater sacrifice… and they’re more than happy to comply…” an odd chuckle “or maybe they’re just happy a lovely old dove other than their mum is giving them attention. And yet—“ MacKenzie lets out a harsh scoff “they don’t know that all of this—to fight and die for a purpose that could’ve been nipped in the bud so many years ago. Why, just why…?

Slumping on the carpet myself, running a hand through my golden bangs. Why? Why indeed…?

MacKenzie mumbles something under her breath. She props her feet on the desk, leaning back in her seat with her arms crossed. The video feed fizzles some more in this eerie silence. “I’ve gotten off track quite a bit, haven’t I?” Mackenzie asks softly. She looks first at me—a shiver down my spine—and then at the portrait from before. “I went by for so long without resorting to either, too.

“Imagine my surprise when I get the mobile call to put the uniform on some more,” a slight grimace follows. Mackenzie slowly lifts a hand to tug at her jacket’s loose arm sleeve, “—well, whatever constitutes this dreadful thing. Even when I was silver for so long, they overlooked it for…” MacKenzie shakes her head. She slumps back in her chair, sighing heavily and seemingly biting down on the smoking pipe.

“Computer…” MacKenzie mutters, again pinching her nose bridge, and in no short time, she is answered by a short round of beeps. “Computer,” she repeats a little softer this time. “Please omit the entire transcription after…” she rests her head on the chair, and for a moment I can make out the hesitation in her tired eyes as her pupils dart around seemingly frantically. “Everything after ‘moving on’.” There’s a moment of silence followed by the computer asking for confirmation. The little robotic voice repeats the question several more times, but it goes unanswered.

“Even though this isn’t supposed to go on the official record,” MacKenzie says, “I went ahead and got carried away. If it ever got out what I said, I’d be in heaps of trouble… not like it matters. What’s a little disciplinary misconduct and minor court martial going to do? My records are stained black as-is. What’s one more for the closet, I reckon?” MacKenzie’s musing overlaps with the computer asking for continued confirmation on the deletion of the transcript. As much as I would want to, the thought of jokingly writing the computer off as a persistent guy doesn’t amuse me in the slightest. I’m simply shaken to the core to even—

A knock at the door. Then another—then several more impatient follow-ups. An intense shiver rapidly runs up my spine. I immediately beeline for the recorder device and frantically scramble to press the OFF button. I stutter to respond to the door knocking, my heart racing faster than ever. I knew it was a bad idea to let this thing run! I really never will hear the end of it from Mazzareli! Bloody hell… and I was looking forward to going ashore at the nearest Frankish Side with Friederika, too.

The voice is muffled, and I clear my throat. How would I go about explaining this? What possible excuse could I get out of this? Memories of that incident of having Prince fetching me the classified information come rushing back, and I grit my teeth, bracing for the worse. The squeak of the chair and boots slamming on the floor… the chair rolling back as MacKenzie gets up for a stretch. “Right, right, yes, come in—“

Huh? Eh? The single bead of sweat nervously rappelling my cheek is unable to control itself and splashes to the floor. MacKenzie sighs more heavily, angrily this time. Getting to her feet and stomping off past me to the recording device. “I said—come in, you deaf bloke—“

The door slides open, but through the foggy mist, it is impossible to tell otherwise. My heart, beating as it, increases at a faster pace. Through the bluish-purple thick atmosphere, a black silhouette forms from the doorway. It gets more clear with each step, imposing itself ever larger through the condensed mist. I crane my neck the moment the figure confidently cuts through the clouds of holographic pixelation.

And the pounding of my heart screeches to a halt. The uncomfortableness swelling in my neck is too straining to handle as I bear witness… bear witness… I can’t even process it. I don’t want to process it. I want to look away—but I can’t. My mouth, increasingly dry, tries to utter words that refuse to come out for reasons I can’t understand. Yet, for reasons I understand perfectly well.

With a clumsy clacking of boots that resonates throughout the room the most amateur—the most god-awful, fresh-out-of-boot-camp positioning the fingers positions at an angle certain degrees past what is nominally acceptable—half his uniform tucked in, wrinkles galore, the garrison cap itself positioned slanted—and the wrong acceptable way at that. His hair is slightly greasy and unkempt. Sideburns at unacceptable length and a growing goatee past regulations…

I don’t want to believe it. I can’t believe it. I refuse to… I clasp my mouth in a brief attempt to look away.

I’m sorry.

“Lieutenant Kenneth Buttermilch!” Buttermilch declares “Present and accountable for, reporting in for official duties as per XO Edgar’s direction.”