Time After Time

Posted on 31 Jul 2026 @ 12:30am by Captain Sabrina Corbin & Senior Chief Petty Officer Elias Merrick

2,390 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Time After Time
Location: Ready Room
Timeline: Late Evening

By late evening, the ready room had become less a command space and more a quiet exercise in administrative endurance.

It had been a full day since the away team had returned from the planet. The immediate medical evaluations were complete, the ship had put distance between itself and the system, and the Arawyn was again moving through quieter stars. Yet the mission had not truly ended. Not while the official report still waited to be finalized and transmitted to Epsilon Fleet.

Corbin sat behind her desk with one PADD in front of her and the rest of the report routed through the ready room console. She disliked clutter almost as much as she disliked vague language, and multiple PADDs scattered across her desk offended both her sense of order and her belief that Starfleet had, in fact, moved beyond paper with batteries.

Elias Merrick stood on the far side of the desk, managing the flow of attachments from the console with practiced efficiency. He had the working index open in front of him, not a pile of loose devices, and one hand rested lightly near his own PADD. On his wrist, the old-fashioned watch he favored ticked on with its tiny moving hands, an analogue oddity in a room otherwise built from glass, light, and voice-responsive systems.

The sound was nearly too soft to hear.

Nearly.

“Science tricorder logs are appended,” Merrick said. “Sickbay preliminary evaluations are cross-referenced rather than fully embedded. Doctor Dunross’s examination notes are included under the CMO’s medical attachment authority, with Doctor Amberlyn listed as approving officer.”

“Very good,” Corbin said, making a small notation on her own copy. “And Commander Batenburg’s report?”

“Primary narrative attachment,” Merrick replied. “Flagged as away team command assessment. I am sending it to your display now.”

The text shifted neatly onto Corbin’s console.

She nodded.

“Temporal language?”

“Cautious.”

“Meridian classification?”

“Even more cautious.”

“Excellent.”

Merrick allowed himself the smallest smile, then lowered his attention back to the report index. He had learned, over time, that Corbin appreciated precision most when she did not have to ask for it twice. Tonight, though, the usual rhythm between them felt thinner around the edges. The ship was safe. The away team was back. The report was almost complete.

And still the ready room felt as if some faint trace of that impossible California evening had followed them home.

He could see it in the way the Captain paused between sections, not hesitating exactly, but listening inwardly to something she had not yet dismissed.

For a few moments, there was only the low hum of the ship at warp, the quiet movement of data from Merrick’s console to Corbin’s, and the steady, delicate ticking of his watch. The Arawyn was away from the system now, moving toward an uncharted survey region that, Corbin dearly hoped, contained nothing more ambitious than rocks, dust, and perhaps a mildly interesting nebula.

She signed off on another section, then stopped.

Merrick looked up. “Captain?”

Corbin’s stylus hovered over the screen. Her expression had changed, not with alarm, but with the particular irritation of someone who had been ambushed by her own memory.

“I have found it,” she said.

Merrick blinked. “Found what?”

“The tune.”

He waited.

“The tune that has been circling my head since we left that impossible suburb,” Corbin clarified. “The one on the radio. It was playing when the away team first began reporting cultural markers, and again in several of the recordings. I knew I had heard it enough times to be annoyed by it, but I could not place the title.”

For a second, Merrick simply stared.

Then his face changed with sudden, almost scandalized recognition.

“Time After Time.”

Corbin looked up.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The song,” he said, as if this were obvious. “Cyndi Lauper. Time After Time.”

Corbin stared at him for a beat.

Then another.

“You are telling me the song that has been lodged in my head throughout a temporal displacement incident was called Time After Time.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“That seems excessive.”

“It was a very popular song.”

“I was referring to the universe’s sense of humour.”

Merrick’s mouth twitched. He tried to stop it. He was not entirely successful.

The absurdity of it struck him harder than expected. Not because it was funny, exactly, though it was. But because after hours of casualty checks, classified language, and reality-stabilization summaries, the mission had somehow left behind a pop song. Something fragile and human. Something that belonged to a world of radios, cars, lawns, and people who would never know how close they had come to being lost.

Corbin leaned back in her chair, regarding him with mild suspicion.

“And you knew this immediately?”

“Captain, with respect, everyone knows that song.”

“Everyone presently alive?”

“Enough people presently alive.”

“I do not think it is especially surprising that I am not familiar with pop music from four hundred and fifty odd years ago.”

Merrick looked genuinely pained. “Captain.”

“That sounded distressingly like judgement, Mr. Merrick.”

“It was concern.”

“For my historical education?”

“For your cultural wellbeing.”

Corbin lowered the stylus. “My cultural wellbeing has survived admirably without extensive knowledge of twentieth-century popular music.”

“With respect, Captain, I am no longer certain that it has.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

Merrick held his ground with the solemn courage of a man who knew he was technically overstepping and morally correct. The second hand on his watch swept forward with quiet confidence, as if even it supported his position.

Corbin’s gaze dropped briefly to the watch, then returned to him.

“Your antique is looking smug, Mr. Merrick.”

“It takes after its owner, Captain.”

“That is a dangerous admission.”

“So is admitting you like Cyndi Lauper.”

Her mouth curved, barely.

“Touché.”

Then, because the day had already contained ancient Klingons, displaced Californians, singing space fauna, and a cosmic child being scolded by his luminous relatives, Corbin decided this was not the argument she intended to win.

“Do not let this interfere with the report.”

“It will not.”

“And nothing loud.”

“Understood.”

Merrick moved to the side console with the confidence of a man who had been waiting his entire posting for an excuse to do exactly this. A moment later, music filled the ready room, low enough not to intrude, but clear enough that Corbin recognized the melody immediately.

She narrowed her eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “That is the one.”

Cyndi Lauper’s voice moved softly through the room while Corbin returned to the report. For several minutes, neither of them spoke. The song was gentler than she had expected. Less irritating without the context of a frozen California sunset and a village of frightened civilians looking up at the wrong sky.

It carried a melancholy she had not noticed before.

Perhaps that was because, in the recordings, it had been background noise. A cultural marker. An artifact. Another detail to be filed. Here, with the report nearly complete and the ship safely at warp, it sounded more like what it had likely always been meant to be: a person promising to stay.

Corbin made one small correction to the command summary and found herself slower to move to the next.

Merrick noticed, but wisely said nothing.

The song ended.

For a moment, he considered letting the silence return. The Captain had tolerated one song. That might have been victory enough.

Then he remembered the look on her face when she had recognized the title, and the brittle weariness beneath the dry remarks, and decided that cultural wellbeing required courage.

The next song began with a brighter, more insistent rhythm.

Corbin looked up. “Is this part of the same file?”

“No, Captain. This is Prince. When Doves Cry.”

“I see.”

“It was also 1984.”

“Of course it was.”

They worked through the next section while the song played. Corbin approved the final classification language for the Meridian, then sent back a note requiring that all references to “childlike entity” be replaced with “juvenile self-identification,” which was both less sentimental and less likely to encourage anyone at Fleet to assume Aster could be understood through human developmental standards.

Merrick reviewed the correction and felt a small pang of admiration he would never have said aloud.

Corbin was tired. Anyone would have been. Yet even here, after the danger had passed, she was still guarding the shape of the truth. Not making it softer. Not making it crueler. Just refusing to let the report lie because simplicity would be easier.

The playlist moved on.

Madonna came next, bright and unapologetic.

Corbin glanced at the console. “This one appears to be enjoying itself rather a lot.”

“Madonna,” Merrick said. “Like a Virgin.”

Corbin’s eyebrow rose.

Merrick cleared his throat. “Culturally significant.”

“I am certain.”

“It was.”

“I am choosing to believe you.”

He felt warmth rise up the back of his neck, though whether from embarrassment or amusement, he could not have said. “There are other examples I could have selected.”

“I am suddenly grateful for your restraint.”

The next hour continued in much the same fashion.

The Cars’ Drive accompanied the final review of the transporter record. Tina Turner’s What’s Love Got to Do with It played while Corbin corrected three instances of unnecessarily dramatic wording in the science appendix. Wham!’s Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go began just as Merrick discovered that one cross-reference had been duplicated across two report sections, which Corbin considered proof that the music had become actively mischievous.

It was ridiculous.

It was also, Merrick thought, the first time the room had felt breathable all evening.

Not relaxed, exactly. The Arawyn’s senior staff did not relax so much as reduce pressure in controlled increments. But the weight had shifted. The mission was no longer only a report full of impossible clauses. It had a soundtrack now, however inappropriate, and that made it easier to hold at arm’s length.

Then Cyndi Lauper returned, this time with Girls Just Want to Have Fun.

Corbin paused again.

Merrick looked over, entirely too pleased with himself.

“This is the same person?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Corbin listened for several seconds longer, expression unreadable.

“She has range.”

“She does.”

“I rather like her.”

Merrick’s smile threatened to become triumphant.

“Do not look so satisfied,” Corbin said without glancing up from the PADD. “I have approved one artist, not an entire century.”

“Understood, Captain.”

“Also, this is not going in the report.”

“No, Captain.”

“Nor is any mention of my cultural wellbeing.”

“Certainly not.”

They continued.

By the time True Colors began, the final Epsilon Fleet packet sat complete: bridge summary, away team assessment, tricorder logs, transporter records, Sickbay preliminary findings, tactical observations, science appendices, and a command note that managed to be honest without sounding hysterical.

The song was quieter than the others. Less playful. Less eager to make its case.

Corbin did not comment on it at first.

She reviewed the transmission queue one final time while Cyndi Lauper’s voice filled the room with something gentler than celebration. Merrick watched her hand pause above the authorization field.

It was only a fraction of a second, but he noticed. Of course he did. A yeoman’s work was often made of noticing. The hesitation was not doubt. The report was correct. The attachments were complete. The classification flags were in place.

It was the pause before an ending became official.

Corbin pressed her thumb to the authorization field.

The report cleared.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

The ready room felt quieter after that, despite the music still playing. The worst of the mission was not gone, not really. It would live on in follow-up appointments, dreams, classified reviews, stray memories, and whatever careful language Starfleet eventually decided to use for the Meridian.

But the report was sent.

The story, at least on paper, had an ending.

Corbin sat back and looked toward the viewport. The stars beyond it were steady, ordinary, and blessedly distant from 1984.

“This one,” she said after a moment, “is rather lovely.”

Merrick looked up from closing the working queue.

“It is,” he said, more softly than before.

Corbin’s gaze remained on the stars.

“I can see why that century kept it.”

Merrick glanced down at his old-fashioned watch, its narrow hands still moving with patient certainty, then began clearing the last of the report copies from the console.

“Anything else tonight, Captain?”

Corbin considered the question.

“No,” she said. “I think that will do.”

Merrick gave a small nod.

As he turned to leave, Corbin added, “Mr. Merrick.”

He paused. “Captain?”

She gestured lightly toward the console. “Leave the playlist.”

For one bright, unguarded moment, Merrick looked delighted.

Then he remembered himself, straightened, and gave the most professional nod he could manage.

“Of course, Captain.”

“But if this becomes known beyond this room, I shall deny it with conviction.”

“Naturally.”

“And if you look that pleased with yourself for more than another three seconds, I may reconsider.”

His smile did not vanish. It simply became better behaved.

“Yes, Captain.”

Corbin looked back to the console, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “Dismissed, Mr. Merrick.”

He turned toward the doors, then paused just long enough to say, “For what it is worth, Captain, Cyndi Lauper is an excellent beginning.”

“To my cultural education?”

“To your evening.”

That made her look up.

Only for a moment.

“Good night, Mr. Merrick.”

“Good night, Captain.”

The doors parted for him, and Merrick stepped out, leaving Corbin alone with the quiet hum of the ship, the newly submitted report, and a four-hundred-and-fifty-year-old song that had, despite her best efforts, earned a place in her evening.

In the corridor, Merrick paused just long enough for the doors to close behind him.

He did not laugh.

Not quite.

But he did smile as he walked away, the final report sent, the ship safe, and the Captain of the Arawyn privately converted, however narrowly, to Cyndi Lauper.

Inside the ready room, Corbin reached for her tea, found it cold, and set it back down.

Then she listened.


Captain Sabrina Corbin
Commanding Officer


SCOP Elias Merrick
Yeoman

 

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