A Call From Risa

Posted on 11 Apr 2026 @ 11:50pm by Captain Sabrina Corbin

2,109 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Arawyn’s Itchy Trigger Finger

// Captain’s Quarters :: USS Arawyn //

The stars stretched clean and white beyond the viewport, long lines of light drawn taut by warp. No horizon. No atmosphere to soften them. Just motion, constant and unrelenting.

Corbin stood before it, one hand wrapped around a ceramic mug, the heat steady against her palm. She had not set it down. Had not forgotten it.

That, in itself, was something.

The quarters were in order. Precisely as they should be. Every surface aligned, every object placed with quiet intention. No evidence of the hours she had spent there without sleep. No evidence of the names she had read, committed to memory, and read again until they settled into something permanent.

A soft chime broke the stillness.

She did not move at once.

Her thumb shifted slightly against the curve of the mug, grounding. The second chime followed, patient, waiting.

Personal.

Corbin turned then, crossing the room with measured steps. She set the mug down this time, carefully, before reaching for the control. Her fingers hovered just above the panel for a fraction longer than necessary. Not hesitation. Calculation.

She accepted the call.

Sunlight. Real sunlight. Warm, saturated gold that seemed almost excessive after the controlled illumination of a starship. The suggestion of open sky, of water just out of frame. A riot of color that had nothing to do with duty or restraint.

And in the center of it, reclining at a scandalous angle as though gravity itself were optional, was Judith Reyes.

Wide-brimmed hat. Something bright and flowing that might have been a dress or might have simply been a suggestion of one. A glass in hand, condensation catching the light.

She looked exactly as Corbin remembered.

“Junie.”

Corbin felt the name before she reacted to it. A small tightening at the base of her spine, a reflex she did not allow to reach her expression.

“Aunt Judith.”

Judith’s eyes narrowed just slightly, amusement threading through the scrutiny. “Oh, we’re starting there, are we?”

“I was not aware there was a required order of address.”

“There isn’t,” Judith said easily. “But there is a preferred one. Mine.”

Corbin inclined her head a fraction. “Judith.”

A pause. Then, deliberately, “Junie.”

It was not a correction. It was a choice.

Corbin let it stand.

“You took your time answering,” Judith continued, lifting her glass for a small, casual sip. “I was beginning to think I’d have to escalate to something dramatic. A surprise visit. A singing telegram. Something truly embarrassing.”

“That would have been ill-advised.”

“Almost certainly,” Judith agreed. “Which is why it remains an option.”

Corbin’s lips pressed together faintly. Not quite a smile, but the echo of one.

The silence that followed held for a breath too long.

Judith tilted her head. “Go on, then.”

“Go on?”

“Tell me how you are.”

“I am well.”

“Ah,” Judith said, with quiet satisfaction. “We’re lying immediately. Efficient. I approve of the time management.”

Corbin did not shift her stance, but her shoulders drew back a fraction. Subtle. Reinforcement.

“I have been maintaining correspondence.”

“Messages,” Judith corrected. “Structured. Concise. Contained.” Her gaze sharpened. “Safe.”

Corbin’s hand moved, almost unconsciously, brushing once against the side of the mug before stilling again. “They were sufficient.”

“They were avoidance,” Judith said, still light, still warm. “Very polite avoidance. I almost admire it.”

A flicker of irritation surfaced, small and controlled. Corbin’s chin lifted a fraction. “I have had a demanding schedule.”

“You always have,” Judith replied immediately. “That has never stopped you before.”

The words did not land hard. They did not need to.

Corbin’s gaze shifted, briefly, toward the viewport. The motion was slight, but it broke alignment. For a second.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you since before your ship was commissioned,” Judith added, softer now.

Corbin felt that one settle.

“The Arawyn has required my full attention.”

“I would imagine she has,” Judith said. A small pause. “New command. New expectations.” Her voice dipped, almost imperceptibly. “New losses.”

Corbin’s fingers tightened against the ceramic before she realized it. Heat pressed more sharply into her skin. She did not loosen her grip immediately.

The word lingered between them.

Judith did not press further. Instead, she leaned back, reclaiming the ease of her surroundings with practiced grace.
“You should see this place today,” she said, gesturing loosely. “Absolute chaos. Someone thought it would be a good idea to combine a cultural festival with a surf competition. I am fairly certain there is a dispute involving a flute happening just out of frame.”

Corbin’s breath shifted. A small inhale that expanded her chest just enough to be noticeable. The image, absurd and vivid, cut through the tightness at the center of her focus.

“Risa remains consistent,” she said.

“Relentlessly,” Judith agreed. “It’s one of its better qualities.”

She took a slow sip, then lowered the glass.

“That bought you about a minute,” she added. “Try again.”

Corbin did not answer immediately.

Her thumb traced once along the rim of the mug, a small, grounding motion. The ship’s hum pressed in around her, steady, constant, unyielding.

“Three,” she said.

Judith stilled.

“Three confirmed dead,” Corbin continued. Her voice did not waver. “Multiple critical injuries. Structural compromise across several decks. Systems disruption still under assessment.”

Each word precise. Measured. Placed.

Judith listened without interruption.

“And you?” she asked.

Corbin’s jaw tightened, just slightly. “I am operational.”

Judith’s expression softened, though her gaze did not lose its focus. “That was not the question.”

Corbin felt the tension settle higher now, along the back of her shoulders, across the base of her neck. A familiar weight.

One she knew how to carry.

“It is the answer,” she said.

“Of course it is,” Judith replied gently. “You’ve always been very good at answering the question you wish had been asked.”
The observation slipped past her defenses more easily than it should have.

Corbin’s breath caught, barely. She masked it with a small shift of her stance, redistributing her weight.

“I am not your counselor, June,” Judith said then. “I retired. I refuse to fill out the paperwork.”

Corbin’s brow lifted faintly despite herself. “A wise decision.”

“Yes,” Judith said. “Less documentation.” A small tilt of her head. “Unfortunately, I am still very good at it.”

Corbin exhaled slowly, controlled, but it carried more weight than the previous ones.

“You’re doing that thing,” Judith continued. “Everything aligned. Voice even. Words measured.” Her gaze sharpened with recognition. “You used to reorganize your books when you were upset. Alphabetical. Then by subject. Then by size. As though order might make the rest of it behave.”

Corbin felt the memory before she saw it. The neat rows. The control.

Her fingers shifted again against the mug.

“People are not books,” she said.

“No,” Judith agreed softly. “They are far less cooperative.”

A flicker passed through Corbin’s expression. Not visible for long. Long enough.

“They expect me to be steady,” she said.

Judith leaned forward slightly, the light catching differently across her face now. “Yes.”

A pause.

“Steady does not mean silent.”

The words struck clean.

Corbin’s gaze dropped, unguarded this time, to the mug in her hand. She watched the faint movement of the liquid inside, the way it responded to even the smallest shift of her grip.

Her throat tightened. Subtle. Controlled. Present.

“I know their names,” she said, quieter now.

The admission cost something. It showed in the way her shoulders held, in the way her breath did not fully release after the words left her.

“All of them.”

Judith did not move. Did not interrupt. She simply held the space.

“I would expect nothing less,” she said.

The response did not diminish it. It did not try to fix it. It allowed it to exist.

A soft weight brushed against Corbin’s leg.

She reacted without thinking, bending slightly to lift Ptolemy into her arms. The motion was instinctive. Familiar. Grounding.
The cat settled against her immediately, warm and solid, a low vibration of purring filling the quiet space between breaths.
Judith’s entire expression shifted.

“Well,” she said, brightening. “There he is.”

Corbin felt something in her chest ease, just a fraction, as she adjusted her hold. “This is Ptolemy.”

“I adore him,” Judith said. “He looks deeply unimpressed with everything.”

“He is.”

“Excellent. You need that.”

Corbin’s hand moved along the cat’s back, slower now. Intentional.

“I am not alone,” she said.

Judith’s gaze lifted from the cat to Corbin’s face. “No,” she agreed. “Not entirely.”

A beat.

“And the man?” Judith added, as though the thought had only just occurred. It had not.

Corbin’s hand stilled against the cat’s fur.

“Evan,” Judith said gently.

The name settled differently. Not sharp. Not heavy. Just… present.

Corbin drew in a breath, deeper this time. It expanded her chest, then held there for a second too long before releasing.

“He was local to Lathira,” she said. “Agriculture. Education during off cycles.”

“And?”

“It was uncomplicated.”

“And now?”

Corbin met her gaze. Held it.

“It concluded when we departed orbit.”

Her fingers tightened slightly against Ptolemy’s fur before she eased them again, smoothing the motion out as though it had never happened.

“Of course it did,” Judith said softly.

No judgment. Only understanding.

“It was never intended to continue,” Corbin added, more firmly now.

“No,” Judith said. “But intention and outcome are not always the same thing.”

The words settled deeper than the others.

Corbin did not respond. She did not need to. It showed anyway. In the stillness. In the way her shoulders held just a fraction tighter than before.

Judith leaned back again, letting the tension ease without breaking it.

“For the record,” she said lightly, reaching for her glass, “I am choosing to believe he was at least somewhat charming.”

Corbin’s lips curved, faint but real. “Moderately.”

“I’ll accept that.”

Judith lifted her glass, holding it toward the screen.

“For the ones you brought home,” she said.

A breath.

“And the ones you couldn’t.”

Corbin looked at her for a long moment.

Then she raised the mug in her hand. Not as an afterthought. Not out of obligation.

Deliberate.

She took a sip this time. The warmth grounded, anchored. Something real, something present.

They lowered their glasses together.

“You don’t have to carry all of them alone, June,” Judith said.

Corbin’s expression tightened, the shift immediate, unguarded for just a fraction too long.

“If not me,” she said, her voice even, but firmer now, “then who?”

The question did not rise. It settled between them with weight.

“They were my crew.”

Judith did not hesitate.

“The people still standing beside you,” she said.

Corbin held her gaze.

“And the ones who would not have asked you to break under the weight of it.”

The words did not strike.

They lingered.

Corbin felt it, not as impact, but as pressure. A quiet shift against something she had already set in place. Not enough to move it. Not yet.

Her fingers adjusted slightly against the ceramic of the mug, the motion small, controlled. Ptolemy shifted in her arms, pressing closer with quiet insistence, grounding her in a way she did not consciously acknowledge.

Her jaw eased. Not fully. Just enough.

She did not agree.

She did not argue further.

Her head inclined, a fraction.

Acknowledgment.

Judith watched her for a moment longer, then smiled, satisfied with what she had been given.

“I’ll call again,” she said lightly. “Without warning.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“Good.” A pause, softer now. “Take care of yourself, Junie.”

The line went still.

Corbin remained where she was.

The quarters felt different in the absence of Judith’s voice. Not quieter. The ship’s hum still filled the space, steady and constant. But the edges of it had shifted, just enough to notice.

Ptolemy adjusted in her arms, then settled again, his weight a quiet, living presence.

Corbin exhaled, slow and measured, though it carried more than the ones before it.

She lifted the mug again and took another sip, finishing what she had started.

Outside, the stars held their lines.

Inside, she stood a moment longer before setting the mug down, her hand lingering briefly against the surface before she let it go.

Then, with the same deliberate control she had carried through the call, she straightened.

There was still distance to cover before Starbase 369.

And a ship that remained, in every sense that mattered, hers.

Captain Sabrina Corbin
Commanding Officer

 

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