Through Calm, Toward Storm

Posted on 16 Aug 2025 @ 10:21pm by Captain Sabrina Corbin

1,488 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Fractured Accord
Location: USS Arawyn
Timeline: 242508.16

OOC: For anyone who wants more information on where we are going and what we could be facing (depending on your logs): https://arawyn.epsilonfleet.com/index.php/wiki/view/page/13

=/\= USS Arawyn – Ready Room =/\=

The latest crew status reports scrolled neatly across Sabrina Corbin’s desk display, a steady line of names, transfers, and clearances. She read them with the same practiced focus she gave any systems diagnostic, not lingering, but not skimming either. This was her crew now, every name a responsibility she carried.

Two new entries in particular drew her attention.

Lieutenant M’Leyna, Chief Flight Control Officer. Meruian. Thirty-six years old. Medical clearance complete. The notes were as striking as the image file: glistening blue scales that caught the light with an iridescent sheen; black eyes with luminous pink irises; red tendril-like hair that seemed more fin than strand. Webbed fingers and toes. Gills behind the ears. A physiology built for oceans, not a vacuum, yet here she was. The first of her people to wear a Starfleet uniform. Entire worlds carried reputations on such firsts, whether fair or not. Corbin allowed herself a faint smile; helm officers were always a breed apart, and she suspected this one doubly so.

Commander Adrian Sorvak, Chief Science Officer. Human/Vulcan hybrid. Eighty-six years old, though the photograph showed a man who looked scarcely past forty. Vulcan genetics slowed the years, leaving him lean, athletic, dark-haired, with only faint threads of gray. His features were soft compared to the sharp severity typical of his kin, approachable in a way that most Vulcans were not. His record stretched back decades, Galaxy, Nebula, Intrepid-class ships, wartime service, commendations, and even a long civilian career at Daystrom. A man of science first, command second, who had chosen to return to Starfleet after loss.

Corbin sat back in her chair, fingertips tapping lightly against the edge of the desk. Two very different officers: one carrying the weight of being a pioneer for her species, the other bringing the scars and wisdom of decades. Both hers to shape into Arawyn’s senior staff.

She made a mental note for each: a conversation soon. Helm and Science were not stations she left to strangers, however accomplished.

With a flick of her fingers, she closed the files and reached for the porcelain cup of tea waiting at her elbow. Steam curled upward in soft ribbons, and she let herself breathe it in.

The hum of the Sovereign-class wrapped around her as she lifted the cup. The ship was alive now, not just metal and circuits but breathing with the energy of a crew finding its rhythm. Outside the viewport, Starbase 369’s docking arms still held them fast, glittering like a cage of light around a waiting predator.

She took a sip. Not replicated. She could tell instantly. The warmth and depth carried subtleties that synthetics never managed. Merrick had arranged it, of course. Somehow.

Her lips curved into the faintest smirk. Either she had become transparent in her habits, or her newly acquired yeoman had an uncanny instinct for people. Neither prospect was entirely comfortable. Still, she wasn’t about to complain while she had a perfect cup of tea in her hands.

“Damnably efficient,” she murmured, setting the cup back down.

The comfort lasted until her eyes fell on the glowing screen of her console open to Admiral MacLaren’s mission orders. Opening it for the third time that morning. The words hadn’t changed, but they landed differently every time she read them.

Convoy. Escort. Protection during planetary upgrades.

“An escort mission,” she said aloud, voice dry. “Yes, and Romulus was just a ‘local disturbance.’”

She leaned back, letting her gaze drift toward the ceiling as she considered the names highlighted in the orders.

USS Curie. A Nova-class, or the most recent variant, depending on how generous the shipwrights felt when labeling it. Nimble, bright, quick-footed. Perfect for detailed science operations, utterly fragile if pressed into combat. Corbin knew the type well enough to remember how temperamental their power matrices became when pushed beyond design limits. Curie would need to be tucked close under Arawyn’s wing, where her talents could shine without painting a too-wide target.

USS Newton. Descendant of the venerable Oberth. For all the engineers’ attempts to modernize, she still wore the bones of her antiquity. Bristling with sensors, designed to peel mysteries back from a safe distance, which meant she was close to useless once that distance closed. Still, her data would be invaluable, perhaps the difference between flying blind and catching threats before they took shape. Sabrina made a note to tie Newton’s arrays directly into Arawyn’s tactical systems.

USS Ardent. The convoy’s heart, and the convoy’s burden. An Olympic-variant, stuffed with terraformers, equipment, and hope. Too slow to sprint, too massive to dodge, and far too valuable to risk. She would draw eyes and weapons alike, and that meant Arawyn’s shields would need to hold, whatever came.

Corbin rubbed her temple with one hand, dragging her attention back to the Tavrik dossier. Rival factions, the Kaldari Union and Vethari Combine, glaring across disputed space. Colonists who resented the Federation's presence. Years of tension waiting for the smallest spark.

She trusted neither faction, and trusted both even less within weapons range of one another.



Finishing her tea in one swallow, she placed the cup aside with deliberate care. Brooding would not make the orders any prettier. The crew needed clarity, and clarity was her duty.

She activated her console, voice calm, professional. The version of herself the crew needed to hear.

Sabrina ended the recording and let the silence linger. She read the words once more. Not stirring, perhaps, but clarity mattered more than inspiration. Poetry had its place; standing orders were not it.

She transmitted the file directly to Commander Holt with a clipped note: Distribute immediately. I want responses on my desk before the evening cycle.

The console chirped its confirmation. Done.

Leaning back, she let her gaze drift toward the viewport. The saucer section gleamed under dockside lights, pristine in its berth. Her ship. Her responsibility.

She allowed herself one flicker of nerves, not for Tavrik, but for tomorrow’s ceremony. The speeches, the christening, the watching eyes of brass and civilians alike. She had never much cared for pomp. She’d spent her career making operations flow, not theatre. But this was part of the uniform’s price. A ritual endured by every captain before she could claim her command fully.

Afterward, at dawn, all of that would fall away. The pomp would be finished, and the ship would be hers in truth.

Her PADD chimed with Merrick’s latest notes. Already, he had anticipated half her questions, left clipped reminders, and, infuriatingly, another suggestion for how she might endure the ceremony with a fraction more grace. She shook her head, half laughing despite herself, and wondered again how in the stars he had guessed about the tea.

“Dangerous man,” she muttered, amused. “And far too useful to be rid of.”

Another chime: Holt forwarding the first of the department reports. Efficient, punctual. Just as it should be.

Corbin straightened in her chair, the faint amusement fading into focus. The day’s work had begun in earnest, and already she could feel the buzz of urgency in the decks around her, the ship’s rhythm quickening as their timeline closed in.

Captain Sabrina Corbin
Commanding Officer
USS Arawyn

 

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