Hours of reports and endless streams of messages later, Aoife retreated to her quarters. The Mariner was no longer her squadron’s problem, and the Valhalla and Andromeda limped back to Starbase Bravo. There was still much to do, but the immediate problems were solved. She could worry about the rest tomorrow.

Entering her quarters, she opened her uniform jacket and let it fall to the deck. She was a tidy person, and under normal circumstances, disorder wouldn’t be tolerated. Tonight… or is it morning? She mused, too tired to even ask the computer the time.

She dropped into her chair behind the desk and sat silently in the dark. The only light was the blue glow of the four warp nacelles through the window. At the edge of her view, she could make out the Andromeda, her grey hull pockmarked with carbon scoring. She sighed.

“Computer, open Captain’s Log… Belay that, open personal log.” The computer beeped in response, and her shoulders drooped. The soft hum of the engines filled her quarters. At last, Aoife spoke in a wavering tone, her brow furrowed. “Personal log, supplemental. I, uh… well, I don’t really know how to say this. I’m pretty sure what I feel isn’t something any Starfleet Captain wants to admit… Computer, pause log.”

She drummed her fingers on the desk before pushing herself away and stood. She crossed her quarters, and at a cabinet, she slid open the door and with a tink of glass on glass, removed a bottle of Scotch Whiskey. Returning to her seat, she sat down, poured a dram, drained it, and refilled it. Once again, she drummed her fingers on the desk.

Sighing, she spoke at last, “Computer, resume log.” She waited for the computer and sighed once more. “We lost a lot of people in this… in our encounter with the Lost Fleet. Damn the Vorta! Damn the Founders for putting me in this again. It was bad enough when I was fighting those greedy degenerate lowlifes the first time. I wasn’t making the decisions on the Denver. Here I am. How do I live with sending good Starfleet men and women to their deaths? They died on my watch. They died from my orders. Twenty-eight from the Andromeda, and another ten here in the Valhalla.”

She stared into her whisky. It was black in the dim light of her quarters. She took a sip. She held the glass in front of her, and she was overcome with rage and threw the glass across her quarters. It slammed into the transparent aluminum of the window, shattering and smearing whisky over the window. “Damn the Dominion.” She clenched her fists, and her manicured nails dug painfully into her palms. She paid that no attention. “I don’t know how many Klingon and Romulan lives died at the Battle of Arkan II. I called them in. That’s on me too. They would be home with their families right now.”

She stood and started to pace, her body rippling with uncontained rage. “I don’t want to hear it. The whole honor,  and dying in battle thing,” she spat, pacing the room with restless energy. “All that Klingon honor and whatnot… it’s a load of bull crap. And the Romulans aren’t that way. Hur’agh and Tomarah came to aid me. That’s a debt I can never repay.”

She snatched the bottle from the desk and drank directly from it. “And what of the Jem’Hadar? I know they aren’t exactly innocent in this, but they don’t have free will. They are slaves to the situation. I gunned them down. Snuffed out their lives. Yeah, it was kill or be killed, but that doesn’t make it any easier. God, how many ships did I personally order destroyed?” Her voice wavered, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air. She clenched her free hand, the memories of her past decisions flooding her mind with sickening clarity.

Taking a long drink from the bottle, she shuffled to the window and stared out as the stars streaked by, her breathing uneven. Tears streaked down her cheeks as the silence filled the air. It hung heavy in the quarters like an oppressive blanket, removing any hope of joy and optimism. She collapsed on the couch that sat in front of the window with her elbows resting on her knees. Plap, plap, tears hit the carpet one by one.

“I can’t talk to anyone about this,” she spoke, breaking the silence. Her voice was low and soft. “Who do you talk to about this? They’ll take my command away… but do I even want it now? I… we saved Arkan II and the Mariner. Is that enough? Obviously, 20,000 lives are greater than what was lost in the battle, but how do I know the Dominion would have killed those miners… irrelevant. If they got their hands on the stuff to make white, they could breed Jem’Hadar, and then millions if not billions of lives would be at risk from a return of the Dominion in a second war… They had to be stopped. I just wish it hadn’t been my responsibility.”

She sniffled and paused to collect her thoughts. Swallowing, she stared up at the dark ceiling. “Those letters home to mothers, wives, or sons and daughters… They never seem… No, they aren’t. They aren’t sufficient. They are not… How do you tell a mom about her son who you met once when they came on board? Sorry for your loss. His sacrifice will not be forgotten? We all know that last part isn’t true…”

She stood. “Perhaps command isn’t right for me. Step down and leave the Valhalla? Go where? Starfleet Academy and teach engineering? Leave Starfleet altogether?” She went to the cabinet and slipped the bottle back into place and slid the door shut. She stood silently for a long time, gazing into nothingness.

At last, she wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. “Computer, end log, and delete the entire entry.” The computer beeped in acknowledgment. Taking a deep breath, she scooped up her uniform jacket and pulled it on. As the zipper closed on her uniform, she took one last sigh of self-pity and walked out of her quarters to start another day, having not slept at all.