Fleet Captain Michael Lancaster’s Personal Log, Stardate 2401.8

During my time in command of Arcturus, I have been remarkably lucky. Through numerous battles, I have only lost seventeen crew members. Given our average crew levels reaching up to 2,500, this is a casualty rate of only 0.68%, which puts us within the top 1% of all Starfleet vessels for survival over a multi-year period. I believe my crew and I are now paying for our good fortune.

 

After five days of search and recovery efforts in the remnants of Outpost C-91, the physical and emotional toll the crew is facing is substantial, even with the support of a dedicated team from the Starfleet Bureau of Mortuary Services. In many ways, the dead are easier to face than the few survivors—C-91 was brand-new, and the only civilians aboard were the family members of the crew. Those we have been able to bring aboard alive are either severely injured or faced with the loss of a mother, father, sibling, or child—in many cases, they are both. 

 

I have to admit that I would rather be in one of the 2,971 torpedo casings lying in the cargo hold myself than see Luca or Ari in one. I… don’t often find myself so overwhelmed by empathy, but I have never seen my husband so close to breaking as he forces himself to work double and triple shifts to ensure that all of the dead are identified, washed, dressed, and prepared for their final disposition. He comes back to our quarters silent and shell-shocked. Nothing I say or do seems to make it better, but I don’t know if he’s ready for anything to be better yet.

 

He isn’t the only one struggling. My bridge crew are acting like true professionals and I can tell their sense of pride and honor in being able to bring our Starfleet comrades home, but their usual banter and light are gone. To reduce the psychological burden, I have ordered Arcturus to face away from the wreckage as we finish our task. Ari called me a coward, but the last thing anyone needs is to stare at the debris while trying to find an iota of solace in the lounge. He has been leading teams to comb the debris personally, to attempt to piece together what happened here. He has seen more than I have during this mission. I can’t fault him or even find the energy to be angry with him, because I do feel like a coward. 

 

We do not have enough stasis units or sufficient cold storage to return the dead to a starbase. In this situation, Starfleet’s operational protocols for mass casualty scenarios allow for two courses of action: I can wait for medical ships to arrive, or I can arrange for mass burials in space. I have elected the option that will end this ordeal as quickly and with as much dignity as possible. In approximately twelve hours, we will commend our dead to a low solar orbit, and I have no idea what I am going to say to my crew.