Those She Did Not Know
Posted on 04 Apr 2026 @ 12:58am by Captain Sabrina Corbin
1,094 words; about a 5 minute read
Mission:
Arawyn’s Itchy Trigger Finger
Location: Captain's Quarters
// Captain’s Quarters :: USS Arawyn //
The ship had settled into the depth of the middle of the night.
Corbin had no intention of attempting sleep. Not until this was done.
It was not silence. It never truly was. The low hum of the warp core carried through the deckplates, steady and constant, a reminder that even in grief the Arawyn did not stop.
But it was quieter.
Quieter than the bridge.
Quieter than sickbay.
Quieter than the moment the names had been confirmed and nothing more could be done.
Captain Sabrina Corbin sat at her desk.
The lighting was dim, intentionally softened. The viewport beyond her showed starlight drawn thin and endless, warp stretching distance into abstraction.
On her lap, Ptolemy had settled with complete certainty that this was where he belonged.
He was heavy, warm, alive in a way that required no thought to understand. One paw rested lightly against her forearm, as if anchoring her there. His purr was steady, a low vibration she could feel as much as hear.
Her left hand moved through his fur in slow, absent rhythm.
Her right rested near the edge of the desk.
The tumbler sat just within reach.
Scotch.
Amber, catching what little light there was and holding it. Not replicated. Drawn instead from the small reserve she kept tucked away, the kind of thing that was not meant for routine use. The kind of thing that meant something when it was poured.
Her fingers curled around the glass, lifting it slightly, not to drink at first, but simply to feel the weight of it. The cool surface. The quiet solidity.
Grounding.
She took a measured sip.
It burned, as it should. Warmth following in its wake, settling somewhere low and controlled, not sharp enough to distract, but present enough to be felt.
She set the glass back down.
The diary lay open in front of her.
The pen rested in her hand, unmoving.
She had the names.
Dr. Amberlyn’s report had been precise. It had needed to be. Names. Ranks. Times. The kind of clarity that did not allow space for ambiguity.
Three.
An ensign.
Two crewmen.
Her gaze lingered on the page.
She knew the ensign.
Not personally, but the name was familiar. It had passed across her desk before, attached to reports she had reviewed without pause. Competent. Reliable. The kind of officer who became part of the ship’s structure without ever needing to draw attention to themselves.
She could see the name in text.
Could hear it spoken in a report.
But when she searched for the face, there was only a gap.
Her jaw tightened slightly.
Her hand stilled in Ptolemy’s fur for just a moment.
Then resumed.
The crewmen were worse.
She closed her eyes briefly, not in fatigue, but in effort.
Corridors.
A figure stepping aside as she passed.
A nod returned without words.
The movement of someone at a console she had walked by a dozen times without stopping.
Fragments.
Nothing she could hold.
Nothing she could name with certainty.
She exhaled slowly.
The glass sat within reach.
She did not take it again.
Not yet.
Her pen touched the page.
I know that I did not know them as well as I should have.
The words came carefully, deliberate.
That is a failure I will carry forward, not because it can be corrected for them, but because it must be for those who remain.
Her grip tightened slightly as she continued.
They were part of this ship. That is not a small thing. The Arawyn does not function on the strength of a few visible names, but on the quiet, constant work of those who do not expect to be seen.
She paused, then added:
I have seen that work. Even if I did not always know the names attached to it.
Her fingers pressed into Ptolemy’s fur again, grounding, steady.
The cat shifted, then settled, unconcerned with the weight of what surrounded him.
Corbin’s gaze drifted to the viewport.
A week to Starbase 369.
But that was not the next step.
Her pen moved again.
We will hold a memorial in two days’ time.
She could see it already.
The shuttlebay.
Open space, wide enough to hold the crew without compressing the moment into something smaller than it deserved. The echo of footsteps. The stillness that would fall when voices ceased.
She would stand there.
She would speak their names.
Not as a report.
Not as a number.
As people.
Her hand tightened slightly around the pen.
The crew will gather. They will be remembered not for the moment we lost them, but for the time they served here. That matters. It will always matter.
She stopped.
The tumbler caught her attention again.
This time, she lifted it without hesitation.
Another measured sip.
The burn was familiar now. Controlled. It did not soften anything. It did not dull the edges.
It simply existed.
Like everything else.
She set it down with quiet precision.
Her pen returned to the page.
They should not have been lost during a test.
No hesitation.
We entered that field with intent and preparation. We did not expect it to cost us anything. That assumption was wrong.
Her posture remained straight. Composed.
But the weight beneath it settled deeper.
I will not forget that.
Silence followed.
Full.
She read over the page, not to correct it, not to refine it.
Only to acknowledge it.
Three letters still to write.
Three families who would receive them.
Three distances that would collapse into something immediate and permanent.
She closed the diary carefully.
Ptolemy lifted his head just enough to register the movement, then rested it again against her wrist.
Her hand returned to him, fingers moving slowly through his fur.
The glass sat beside her.
Half full.
Untouched for the moment.
Corbin leaned back slightly, her gaze lifting to the stars.
Her expression did not change.
It would not, when she stood in the shuttlebay in two days.
It would not, when she spoke their names.
But here, in the quiet, with only the steady presence of the ship and the weight of a cat in her lap, she allowed the thought to surface without resistance.
They had been hers.
All of them.
Whether she had known them, or not.
Her hand continued its slow, deliberate motion.
The ship carried on.
And so would she.
Captain Sabrina Corbin
Commanding Officer
RSS Feed