“Personal log, Fleet Captain Geronimo Fontana, Starbase Montana.” He lounged on his long couch beside the warming fireplace in his expansive quarters. The final reports had been submitted to Fourth Fleet Command. “I can’t shake the feeling that this thing is over. Tougun expanded his growing Orion Syndicate empire, and we had to watch it spin madly and out of control.” He sipped slowly at his Montana whiskey, feeling the warm burn comfort his conflicted mind. “Hasara tells me he believes we did the right thing…but I don’t think he’s telling the whole truth.” In his other hand was a PADD with Hasara’s unredacted dossier, “There was something in his eyes when we talked…I don’t know if it was regret, guilt…or something else. Cardassians aren’t known for any of those feelings…and yet…,” he jumped up and refilled his glass, “I can’t shake that what he and his crew saw on that station…what they heard…has left a mark he can’t scrub off.”

He ambled around the room, his feet shuffling over the polished floors. He could see the splatters of blood that had littered the Syndicate station decks, frantic and furious patterns scattered all around. “I also am having a hell of a time shaking the loss of life on the station…five lives is still too much, as evil as they were. I’m getting hourly reports on the prisoners’ conditions…and so far, the twenty remaining are alive.” He drank lazily from his glass, “We didn’t lose anyone.” When they’d received the initial assignment, he feared the losses he would have to bear.

He mourned, “We were one of the lucky ones.” The initial reports of crew losses had grown to include familiar names on ships across the Fourth Fleet. He sat quietly for a few minutes, long enough for the computer to chirp at him. Geronimo roused out of sadness, “I used to agree with Kirk’s assessment that ‘Risk is our business.’ I’m starting to understand what believing in that line can mean for our friends across the fleet.” Another refill and he sat back on the couch, “I was a fool to think we’d get a respite after Frontier Day. There will always be someone…or something out there that wants to remind us they don’t believe in our shared future – that they know better.” He tossed back his drink, clicking his tongue at the kick, “And somehow…we keep pushing back.” Memories of the past filtered through his mind. The Lost Fleet. Underspace. Frontier Day. The Borg’s shadowy appearances of late.

“We pay the price…every time. We were the lucky ones this time. We all get to come home.” He pushed himself out of the couch and wandered towards the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out into the blinking stars and suns, “There will be beds out there that will be empty. A place at the table is waiting.” He was quiet again, reflecting on his career and the officers he had worked with and led into the unknown. Loss had found him early. “It never gets any easier,” he said more to himself. “Loss and Grief stalk our steps. They wait…they watch. You can only dodge it for so long before it…extracts from you what they always come to take.”

He played with the empty glass in his hands, “We helped a madman get a foothold in our backyard. I’m still wrestling with it…and I won’t soon be able to forgive myself.” He leaned against the thick window, “You grow up thinking the adventure in space will be full of the good and right things in the universe, that you’ll be saving people and putting a stop to the bad guys who lurk in corners.” He laughed dryly, “What you find out pretty quickly in the academy…there’s a lot of grey out here. Then, when you get your first posting…you start to figure it out. The universe is much better than it used to be…but plenty of work remains to keep all our people safe.” He pushed off the window, “I was talking to a friend this morning…he’s been retired a year…and the stories he tells me of the places he’s been, the alien races he’s met…the universe he’s just getting started exploring…he told me he wished he’d chosen Starfleet instead of the private sector.” Another dry chuckle escaped his lips, “If only he knew what life was like on the other side. If only he knew.” Geronimo walked to the console in his living room, “We were lucky this time. I hope we’ll always be that lucky.” He turned back to the windows, searching the lights that littered space. Where would the next threat come from? Who was plotting their downfall? What lay beyond that next horizon? He poured a small amount of whiskey into his glass.

“Someone once told me, ‘We’ll know when we get there.’ To the luck of the Montana Squadron. And to each of us coming home… every time.” He tossed back the drink, gritting his teeth. “Computer, end and save log. Mark as private for now.” The chip of the computer replied. He returned to the windows, watching the comings and goings. He whispered, “Bring me that next horizon…whatever may come.”  He felt his chest tighten.

“Whatever may come.”