Ships Don't Wait

Posted on 13 Aug 2025 @ 6:37pm by Senior Chief Petty Officer Elias Merrick

1,151 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Assignment: Arawyn
Location: Starbase 369
Timeline: 242508.13

=/\= Starbase 369 – Fleet Administration Office =/\=

Senior Chief Petty Officer Elias Merrick had been in the Fleet Administration wing long enough to learn every quirk of the overhead lighting and every spot on the corridor deck plating that wasn’t quite fitted into place yet. He arrived each morning without fanfare, set his PADD down in precisely the same spot on his desk, and began the daily triage of Admiral MacLaren’s incoming requests. Usually, before his senior Ensign Quen did.

The coffee was already brewing; not because he needed it, but because the Admiral did. Strong, dark, and without embellishment. Merrick had learned to pour it into the taller mug that never sloshed at her purposeful pace. That small detail alone had prevented more than one accident over the last couple of months since the starbase was opened.

Across the office, Ensign Quen Lira was frowning at her console, one hand resting lightly against her temple as she scrolled through an endless stream of messages. Her red uniform was immaculate, and the neat arrangement of her sandy blonde hair framed the ridges of her Bajoran nose without a strand out of place. Even so, the faint crease between her brows betrayed her mood.

“Fleet scheduling is like warp core tuning, Ensign,” Merrick said without looking up from his own screen. “Fine tolerances, steady hand. Overcompensate and you’ll be chasing the imbalance all day.”

Quen gave him a sidelong glance, half grateful and half exasperated. “I just need to make sure the Admiral’s briefing with the captains doesn’t collide with her operations review.”

“You need to make sure the Admiral gets where she needs to be without wondering why she’s there,” Merrick replied evenly. He tapped a note on his PADD and slid it across to her desk. “These two can swap. Same end result, less sprinting through the command deck.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Understood, Senior Chief.”

Merrick didn’t push. He’d been “training” junior yeomen for long enough to know that the ones worth their collar rank didn’t need lectures. Just nudges.

By mid-shift, the office was running in its usual rhythm: MacLaren sweeping in and out with a PADD tucked under one arm, department heads checking in with updates they could have sent over the comm, and Merrick quietly moving pieces around so the Admiral’s day looked effortless from the outside.

It wasn’t glamorous work, but it was necessary, the sort of thing you only noticed when it wasn’t being done.

Still, the view from his desk had changed in recent days. Through the broad viewport at the far end of the admin corridor, he could see the curve of a Sovereign-class hull whenever the lighting hit it just right. The USS Arawyn had been berthed here for her final outfitting, sleek lines gleaming against the station’s backdrop. Even at a distance, she looked like she belonged in motion. Merrick had seen ships come and go, but this one… this one looked like she was meant to go places.

When Quen left for a meeting, Merrick keyed in his personal log, keeping his voice low even in the quiet of the office.

Personal Log – Senior Chief Petty Officer Elias Merrick – Stardate 242508.13

They tell me mentoring is a privilege. It’s true, in the same way cleaning out a Jefferies tube is a privilege, necessary work, occasionally satisfying, and not something you’d turn into a hobby. Ensign Quen is sharp enough, eager in the right places, but she’s still learning the difference between keeping the Admiral’s calendar full and keeping it functional. I’ve been trying to teach her that the former makes you look busy, but the latter keeps you in one piece.

My days on Starbase 369 are predictable: review the schedules, smooth the ruffled feathers of department heads who think they’re too important to wait, and quietly make sure the Admiral’s coffee is in her hand before she even asks for it. It’s a rhythm I know well.

The problem is, rhythms can turn into ruts.

The Arawyn’s been berthed here for just a few days now. She’s sharp, clean lines, smart crew, the kind of ship where a Senior Chief could make himself useful without a lot of “teaching moments.” I’m not in the habit of chasing posts, but it’s been a long time since I served on a ship that was going places instead of hosting them. Maybe it’s time.

He closed the log before the thought could tempt him any further.

The Admiral returned a few minutes later, brushing past the desk with a quick, “Chief,” in greeting. Merrick handed her a PADD without needing to be asked. She glanced at it mid-stride, slowed, and gave him the briefest nod of approval before disappearing into her office.

That was the thing about MacLaren: she never wasted words on praise, but she didn’t need to. A nod from her meant the work was right.

Quen returned soon after, flustered and carrying twice as many PADDs as she’d left with. Merrick watched her juggle them onto her desk. “You’ll want to tag those by priority,” he said mildly. “Also, it helps to just have a central PADD, all the information can be transferred to any PADD, carrying more than one is unnecessary.”

“I was going to,” she began, then caught the faint quirk of his brow. “…Right. Now.”

Merrick turned back to his own work, but his gaze drifted again toward the viewport. The Arawyn sat there like an unanswered question. A ship like that didn’t come along often. And a captain like Sabrina Corbin, operations-minded, precise, wasn’t the type to waste her yeoman’s talents.

Training Quen had its merits. She’d be a fine yeoman one day. But ships didn’t wait.

By the time the day wound down, Merrick had already rearranged the Admiral’s morning to give Quen more hands-on experience. It wasn’t altruism. If the Ensign could run the office without leaning on him every third task, he might just have the freedom to answer that question out the viewport himself.

He powered down his console, gathered his PADD, and gave Quen a simple, “Good work today.”

The crease between her brows smoothed a little. “Thanks, Senior Chief.”

As he stepped out into the corridor, Merrick glanced once more at the Sovereign-class silhouette. The itch to be back aboard a starship was still there, steady as the hum of the deck plating under his boots. Ships didn’t wait

Maybe tomorrow, he’d start making a few inquiries. Quiet ones.

Senior Chief Petty Officer Elias Merrick
Fleet Command Yeoman
Epsilon Fleet

 

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