Cascading Echoes

CHAPTER FIVE

As the ceremony continued, Michael Burnham remained a statue of composure, her pristine white uniform standing out against the solemn backdrop of muted grief that hung in the air like an invisible fog. The gold accents on her shoulders shimmered, a faint glint in the artificial light of the venue, but her mind was far from this room, this moment.

The sound of Cadet Vothi'Cha and Lieutenant Nephium Jo'til's names being spoken aloud drifted into her ears like a distant echo. She tried to focus on the present, on the weight of duty that pressed heavily upon her. But her thoughts slipped, unbidden, to places she rarely allowed herself to go. Death. It was always there—never lurking too far behind, never giving her a moment to breathe without the haunting reminder of what she had lost and what she continued to lose.

Her parents. Their deaths had shaped her, hollowed her in ways that time could never fully repair. Raised by Vulcans, Burnham had been taught to suppress emotions, to seek logic as a means of survival. And yet, here she was, fighting to hold back the waves of grief threatening to overwhelm her, waves she had been battling since that fateful day as a child when she had first learned that they were gone. She could still picture the aftermath in her mind—the sterile, cold finality of it. The absence of their warmth, their voices, their love.

Her heart ached with the sting of that memory, and now, it compounded with the loss of two crewmembers and friends she had led. Their bright futures, extinguished in the violent chaos of their final mission. Could I have done more? Her internal question repeated like a mantra, piercing through her attempts at logic, clawing at her carefully constructed walls. Could I have made a different call, taken a different route, saved them?

Burnham's grip tightened, her hands forming fists at her sides. She could feel her nails digging into her palms, but the pain was nothing compared to the guilt that gnawed at her. She had tried so hard—so desperately—to protect her crew, to be the commanding officer her parents would have been proud of. But here she was again, staring at flag-draped coffins, wondering how much more death she could take.

The white of her uniform felt heavy, like an ill-fitting shroud. A symbol of Starfleet's ideals—peace, exploration, unity—but it did little to shield her from the raw truth of loss. She could still feel Vothi'Cha's desperate weight in her arms, could still hear Jo'til's last battle cry echoing in her mind. Faces of the fallen, their last moments, haunted her with every blink. And the questions that lingered—What if I had been faster? What if I had seen it coming?—burned at her.

As the ceremony pressed on, the low murmur of voices—the quiet recitation of Starfleet's honors—faded into the background, becoming indistinguishable from the storm within her. Around her, officers stood still, their own grief tightly controlled, their faces set in the stone masks of military discipline. Burnham knew they were looking to her now. They needed her to lead, to be the unwavering presence that guided them through the darkness. But at that moment, as the coffins were carried away, she felt the weight of their expectations more than ever.

Her mind drifted once more to her parents. She thought of her mother's soft but firm voice, her father's calm guidance. If they were here, what would they say? Would they tell her to let go, to forgive herself, to accept that death is a part of life in space? Or would they encourage her to keep pushing, to fight harder, to be better? She didn't know. She hadn't had them long enough to ask those questions. The universe had taken them from her before she ever had the chance to learn their wisdom.

And now, she faced the galaxy again, this time without Jo'til and Vothi'Cha. Without the ones who had trusted her to bring them home. She had failed them—just as she had failed her parents—and the weight of it all threatened to crush her.