“Yeoman Jacob Yabari,” came the words from a middle-aged admiral from the computer terminal. Michael watched from his seat as the man in dress uniform continued to call out names in alphabetical order. Each time he spoke, an officer would carry a folded Federation flag down the runway to the memorial pod stationed in the center of the cargo bay the ensemble had gathered. Michael had been watching the live feed for the last half hour, his eyes never leaving the screen, even as the occasional tear ran down his face.

He should be there, standing among his crew, honoring the officers of the Nakatomi who had lost their lives. But instead, he sat alone in a Type 11 Shuttlecraft as he warped halfway across the quadrant to begin posting at his new assignment with the Fourth Fleet. He watched the cameras panning back and forth between the Honor Guard, who carried memorial flags, and the surviving senior officers on the stage holding one final salute to the honored dead. He saw the same grief on the faces of the men and women he served with, that he saw on his own when he occasionally caught a glimpse of his reflection in the console; sadness buried deep but occasionally seeping out of their core.

Then the camera panned to the center of the stage, where the presiding admiral stood, reading off names, and the captain, who stood to his right, had a stoic face, as if he were the one presiding over the ceremony. Every time Michael saw the captain’s face on the live feed, the Betazoid’s blood boiled. Adorned in dress attire, Captain Brownson stood at attention, not even holding a salute as if his rank lifted him above such details. A small part of him wanted to cut the feed to save from having to ever see him again, but his integrity would not allow one man to prevent him from seeing through what little respect he could give to his former colleagues. He may not be able to be there in person, but he’d be damned if he didn’t see it through to the end.

Michael’s release from the brig, following his interview with his defense attorney, was swift, and so too were the transfer orders. His attorney was well aware of the bad blood between the two men, wanted to remove Michael from the sphere of influence that Captain Brownson had within the Sierra Sector Block, and did so before the captain could even make a move to prevent it. Michael only had a brief stint on Starbase 38 before he was ushered onto the shuttlecraft and sent on his way; he didn’t even have time to object, let alone reflect on the memorial service that was being planned.

However, in hindsight, it might have been for the best. Had Michael attended the ceremony, he would have come face to face with the man who besmirched his name and honor in his darkest hour, and who knows how well he would have been able to hold his tongue, or fist, at what sly quips the captain would have prepared to try and paint him as a loose cannon.

As the naming of the officers killed in action came to a close, Captain Brownson took the stage for the final send-off, as customary for commanding officers. It could have been his prejudice, but the speech was short and dry. He presumed the captain had someone write it for him the night before, but then, had Captain Brownson truly perished like they thought, would Michael have been able to do any better? His mind drifted from the service that was to the service that could have been, where he was on the stage presiding over the memorial instead. What words could he have given differently that would have made up for the loss of life? What words could he offer to the families that survived them? Could the commanding officer afford to shed a tear on stage? Or would that not demonstrate to the rest of the crew the strength to endure on? The pit of disgust for the ranking officer quickly soured into one of self-loathing, as he began to hold himself to the same standard he had been judging Brownson on.

The final boatswain whistle blew, following the captain’s speech, just in time to snap Michael’s attention back to the screen as the memorial pod began to close and ready for its launch. Michael ceremoniously rose to his feet at attention, holding his right hand above his eye in a salute to the fallen’s final send-off. As much as he resented not being there, Michael felt as though he should still be so lucky; at least he was able to watch the service live. That was more than he had been afforded many times prior, when duty called in times of celebration or mourning. He stood there in silence as a whirlwind of emotions clashed within, making a mental note to check the environmental controls’ humidity levels. It was the only explanation he was willing to admit to for the amount of precipitation at his feet.

The red hue of ‘END TRANSMISSION’ cut across the viewing screen and irradiated the cockpit. Still, the only thing Michael could focus on was the extreme silence that followed. Usually, he could hear the muted roar of hundreds or thousands of surface thoughts of all around him aboard a starship or starbase. But here he was, sailing alone across the void of stars, and the silence he would once yearn for was overwhelmingly deafening.

“Computer, ETA?” he nipped, closing his eyes to try and ward off the tension building in his skull.

“At current heading and velocity, you will arrive at Station Bravo in twelve days, fourteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes.” The computer responded almost immediately, as if it had been asked a hundred times before.

He sighed deeply, shaking his head lightly before turning and walking out of the cock-pit in defeat. He didn’t know why he bothered; he knew that answer wasn’t going to bring him the solace he needed, not that he felt anything could right now anyway. Crossing the threshold into the aft section of the shuttlecraft, he entered the habitat compartment and stopped once more.

He needed to find something to do, to keep his mind off things. Thinking professionally, he knew in cases like his, it was recommended that the grieved speak with someone, friends, co-workers, or family. But that was in short supply for him right now. He could call one of the councilors who spoke with him back on Starbase 38, but he feared that leaning too much on therapeutic sessions would reflect negatively on his career, and the last thing he needed was to be mothballed, or to have Brownson catch wind and use it against him.

He could call his father; other than the sparse message he sent following his release, he hadn’t had a chance to really talk to his old man yet. But that idea, too, was quickly disbarred. Michael could not trust himself enough to keep himself together if his dad started to press the issue, and the last thing he wanted to do was to make his father worry even more about him, after thinking he was dead briefly, then finding out he was in the brig.

Michael crossed over to the bunk beds tucked into the starboard bulkhead and slumped down onto the bottom bunk. Retrieving his data PADD, he absentmindedly scrolled through as if something new might jump off the screen and distract him. He had already read most of his new posting information, and he had begun to replicate his personal effects and clothing that he had lost in the destruction of his former vessel. Still, something was better than the nothingness he sat in. Reluctantly, he selected a segment of his assignment information. “Computer, read the following passage.” He ordered, setting the PADD down on the table and walking over to the replicator.

“The Intelligence Department is responsible for gathering information within the Mellstoxx system, and the surrounding sectors through means of communication monitoring, long and short-range sensor analysis, and interviews with local and foreign contacts.” The computer recited aloud in its monotone voice.

Michael absentmindedly listened as he made his selection on the replicator’s menu. A tall glass of sweet black-leaf tea materialized and was quickly scooped up into his hand. “Computer, display Mellstoxx System sector block on screen.” He commanded as he raised the glass to his lips.

The cool, earthy flavors of the tea blended well with the over ten percent by volume of liquified cane sugar. The tension that had been building in his head felt like it was subsiding ever so slightly, like the tides slowly pulling from shore, with every refreshing sip he took of the caffeinated beverage, until he had completely drained the glass of its contents. Appreciating the brief respite the drink brought him from his suffering, he set the drink back down on the replicator plate and turned his attention back to the viewing screen.

In the center, upon the cusp of the Paulson Nebula, was Starbase Bravo and the Mellstoxx System. Rolling his view clockwise, he made a note of the Japori System, its second planet being a haven for Federation and Klingon trade. Just south was the Kyban System, home to one of the most populated worlds in the sector, and the seat of a major Starfleet Intelligence Base. To the west was the Corvan System, which was one of the largest reserves of Dilithium crystals in the quadrant.

It was clear there was going to be a lot to do, and even more data to cover. This wasn’t like on a Starship where you had to funnel intelligence in retrospect to your mission; this was frontier work. Michael smirked to himself, thinking about how he always pitied the Intelligence officers on his ship.

His smirk fell, for a flicker of a moment, it had worked, he had forgotten. But as he reminded himself of his former crewmen, so too did the memories of the memorial come flooding back like torrential waves. This wasn’t going to be a scenario he could drown himself in work to get through, at least not in this setting. Tapping the screen again next to the replicator, another sweet tea materialized, but this time he took the drink and set it on the table at the head of the room. He needed something stronger.

Back when he was a Junior Lieutenant, he learned of a special onboarding flight crews would occasionally do for shuttles bound for long trips. Crossing back into the cockpit area, he checked the Port Locker that held emergency rations and medical equipment and found what he was looking for. Tucked away at the bottom of the locker was an old, dusty, and half-empty bottle of Alaskan Vodka. He nodded his head in approval as he walked back to the habitat compartment, making a mental note that he would need to purchase a replacement to put back in its place.

Taking a seat at the table, Michael twists open the cap of vodka and pours some into his tea, a little more heavy-handed than he anticipated. Setting the bottle aside, he raises his glass in memory and takes another swig. The sting of the vodka clashes on his palette compared to the sweet undertones of the tea, causing him to recoil, but he manages to keep it down. He takes the bottle back into his hand and re-reads the label once again in disbelief, forgetting how pungent actual alcohol could be.

Through it all, he could envision his former crew, the ones who remained, all sitting in a bar raising equally revolting drinks in memory of those they had lost, and to each other. He couldn’t share stories, he couldn’t revel in the past with them, but at least he could raise his glass with them, in spirit.