A Drink

Posted on Mon Feb 17th, 2025 @ 3:18am by Commander Simon Calloway

522 words; about a 3 minute read

Mission: Episode 1.01 - "Ad Astra"
Location: Commander Calloway's Quarters, USS Carina

The USS Carina moved at warp, the gentle hum of the Galaxy-class vessel a familiar comfort. Commander Simon Calloway sat alone in his quarters, a mug of untouched Tarkalean tea cooling beside him on the desk. The room was immaculate—every item in its proper place, every book on the shelf aligned with precision. The large viewport framed the streaking stars outside, but Simon’s focus was elsewhere.

A PADD rested in his hands, its contents glowing softly in the dim lighting. He was reviewing the most recent crew evaluations, a necessary duty but hardly the most engaging. His eyes drifted, not reading so much as scanning the words, his mind wrestling with something else entirely.

The burden of leadership never truly left him. It was a constant presence, an expectation that came with his family name, with his rank, with the choices he had made. The Carina was a fine ship, her crew seemed skilled and disciplined, but that only meant he had to be even better—always prepared, always in control.

With a quiet sigh, Simon set the PADD aside and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. He could still hear his father’s voice, crisp and authoritative. 'Starfleet officers don’t dwell on doubts, Simon. They act.'

Perhaps it was time to act, then. He stood, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders, and crossed to the replicator. “Computer, delete Tarkalean tea. One glass of Andorian ale, chilled.” The replicator chirped, and moments later, a deep blue liquid materialized before him.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before picking it up. A rare indulgence, but tonight, he allowed it.

Taking the glass, Simon moved toward the viewport. He studied the distant stars, each one a reminder of the vast unknown—of the challenges, the discoveries, and the choices yet to come.

For now, he would watch. And think. And when the time came, as always, he would act.

After a few silent moments, he turned away from the viewport and sank into the plush armchair in the corner of his quarters. He took a measured sip of the Andorian ale, feeling its crisp chill spread across his tongue before burning lightly on the way down. It was a taste of something outside the rigid discipline he held himself to—a reminder that he was still human beneath the uniform.

His gaze flicked back to the padd, and with a slow exhale, he picked it up again. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that leadership wasn’t about avoiding doubt, but carrying it forward and acting anyway.

He activated the screen and started making notes on the evaluations, this time with more focus. Each officer, each report—these were more than just assessments; they were lives, careers, futures. His decisions mattered. And if his burdens felt heavy, it was because the weight of responsibility was never meant to be light.

As the hours passed, the Andorian ale dwindled, the stars outside continued their silent march, and Simon Calloway did what he always did: he pressed on.

 

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