The Encounter
Posted on 23 Jan 2026 @ 6:17am by Lieutenant Commander Elias Harlan & Lieutenant Jorik
1,319 words; about a 7 minute read
Mission:
Lathira Shoreleave
Location: Lathira IV
It had been hours since Elias negotiated the release of the junior officers and sent them back to the ship. He stayed planetside, supervising the damage-control teams himself—senior engineers, mostly full lieutenants and seasoned petty officers who’d been aboard the Arawyn long enough to know her quirks but not long enough to know him.
They sized each other up quickly. No posturing, no territorial nonsense—just quiet nods when someone handed over a fused relay or called out a voltage spike. They knew their stuff. He knew his. The work moved fast as dawn crept closer. Lieutenant Kael hadn’t exaggerated about the backup systems; half the resort’s emergency lighting had already flickered out, and the rest was running on fumes.
Fused parts came out, new ones went in—replicated on the spot using the Arawyn’s compact industrial units. That made the job bearable. No waiting for shipments from orbit, no arguing with local suppliers. The damage was localized to a couple of distribution substations—no generation hardware, thank God, or they’d still be there at sunset. Power came back in stages: first the promenade lights, then the beachfront replicators, finally the refrigeration units that had been sweating through the night.
The locals, predictably, came with grievances.
Some replicators had been mid-cycle when the grid dropped—half-finished meals turned to slag. A few refrigeration units had lost valuable consumables: rare seafood, imported fruits, a couple of kegs of local brew. Elias listened to every complaint without interrupting, nodding, taking mental notes. He didn’t argue when someone inflated the loss by a few credits here or there. He’d seen it before—opportunists using a blackout as an excuse to pad the bill. Most of the claims were legitimate, though, and he authorized replacements without haggling.
He spent as much time on diplomacy as on repairs—calm explanations to resort managers, quiet assurances to kitchen staff, a few understated apologies delivered with the same flat sincerity he used when telling a captain their ship was about to lose main power. No groveling. No defensiveness. Just ownership.
“Starfleet caused this,” he told one particularly irate chef whose walk-in cooler had lost a shipment of imported crustaceans. “We’re fixing it. You’ll have new units and fresh stock by end of shift. If it’s not right, find me. I’ll make it right.”
The man stared at him for a long second, then gave a grudging nod. “Better be.”
“It will.”
By the time the last substation hummed back online and the beachfront lights flickered to full strength, the sky was turning pink. Elias stood on the promenade, arms folded, watching the glow spread across the sand. His uniform was smudged with conductive gel and insulation dust; his boots were caked with resort sand. The coffee in his mug had gone stone cold hours ago.
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the familiar ache settle in deeper. Senior engineers milled nearby, packing tools, trading quiet jokes about the night’s chaos. They’d done good work—clean, efficient, no shortcuts. He’d make sure they got the credit when the reports went up the chain.
Kael approached, arms still crossed but the hostility mostly drained out of his posture.
“Power’s stable,” the constable said. “Grid’s holding. No more complaints coming in—at least not yet.”
Elias gave a small nod. “Good. My teams will do a final sweep at 0600. Any lingering issues, they’ll handle it before they beam up.”
Kael studied him for a moment. “You didn’t have to stay.”
“Yeah,” Elias said quietly, staring out at the ocean. “I did.”
The constable didn’t argue. He just gave a short nod and walked away.
“I didn’t expect you to be here,” came the stoic voice from behind him. “I assumed you would be asleep.”
Elias closed his eyes for a second, rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger like he could press the exhaustion back inside. He turned slowly to face Lieutenant Jorik.
The Vulcan stood there in a uniform so crisp it looked freshly replicated five minutes ago—every seam perfect, no trace of sand or fatigue. Dawn light caught the faint silver in his hair, but his posture was as rigid as ever.
“I had a situation,” Elias said, voice rough from lack of sleep and too much coffee. “Some junior officers got themselves into a mess. I’ve been down here fixing it—getting power restored to the resort.”
Jorik inclined his head slightly. “I have read the status updates.”
Elias exhaled through his nose, a short, tired sound. “Then why ask the question?”
Jorik didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped to the sand between them, just for a second—long enough for Elias to notice.
“I’m sorry,” Elias muttered, the words coming out quieter than he intended. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just… tired.”
“Did you at least sleep?” Jorik asked, voice level but with that faint undercurrent Elias had once known too well—concern he couldn’t quite suppress.
“I got maybe six or seven hours before the bridge woke me up.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No.”
Jorik took two measured steps forward and produced a small travel bag from behind his back. “I brought you something to eat.”
Elias eyed it warily, half guarded. “What?”
“The sandwich you used to prefer,” Jorik said simply. “With the mayonnaise containing—”
“—the Vulcan spices,” Elias finished, the memory hitting harder than it should have. He remembered the first time Jorik had replicated it for him—late shift, shared quarters, the way the heat of the spices had cut through the fatigue like nothing else. “Yeah.”
Jorik opened the bag just enough to reveal the neatly wrapped sandwich and a thermos beside it. “I also brought iced coffee. The blend you favored.”
Elias didn’t need him to specify. He knew exactly which one—sweet, creamy, one of Jorik’s quiet experiments that had somehow become the only way Elias ever took coffee with anything in it. The memory was sharp, unwelcome, and strangely comforting all at once.
He reached out and took the bag, fingers brushing Jorik’s for the briefest instant—enough to feel the familiar warmth, enough to make his chest tighten.
“I’ll take it,” he said, voice quieter now, almost reluctant.
He didn’t open the bag right away. He just held it, thumb tracing the edge like he was testing whether the gesture was real.
Jorik remained still, hands returning to their clasped position behind his back. His expression was composed, but Elias caught the small tell—the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes, the way he seemed to be measuring every word before it left his mouth.
“You should rest,” Jorik said after a moment. “Properly.”
Elias let out a short, humorless huff. “Yeah. I’ll get right on that.”
He met Jorik’s gaze for a second longer than he meant to—long enough to see the concern still there, carefully contained but unmistakable.
“Thank you,” Elias said finally, the words coming out rough but honest. “For this.”
Jorik inclined his head once, small and precise.
“I did not come expecting gratitude,” he replied. “Only to ensure you were… attended to.”
Elias nodded—just once, small and tired.
Then he turned toward the transporter pad, sandwich and thermos in hand, boots heavy on the sand.
“I’m heading back to the ship,” he said over his shoulder. “Need real sleep. You should too.”
He didn’t wait for Jorik to answer.
He just walked—mug abandoned somewhere along the way, breakfast in hand—toward the beam-out point. Behind him, Jorik watched him go, hands still clasped, the dawn light catching the faint tension in his jaw. The silence between them lingered, softer now.
Not empty.
Just… waiting.
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