The Dream Does Not Sleep
Posted on 16 Feb 2026 @ 5:42am by Captain Sabrina Corbin
1,102 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
Silent Inheritance
Location: Captain's Quarters
// Captain’s Quarters – USS Arawyn //
The doors slid closed behind her with a quiet whisper.
Sabrina did not move immediately.
The workout still clung to her skin, muscles warm and faintly trembling from the final set she had forced through more on discipline than energy. It had been necessary. The only way to bleed off the residual tension from the conversation with Aev before it followed her home.
She had not changed.
A light gray tank top clung at the shoulders, dampened slightly at the collar. The charcoal hoodie hung open now, sleeves shoved to her forearms. Dark gray training pants and flat lifting sneakers anchored her to the deck plating.
Practical. Controlled.
Her pulse was steady again.
Her thoughts were not.
Home.
Ptolemy announced himself from the back of the couch.
A burst of orange and white fur launched into the air, tail a plume of outrage and welcome. He landed with the confident thud of a creature who had never doubted gravity would cooperate.
“Well,” she murmured, crouching to greet him. “You’ve kept the ship intact, I see.”
He chirruped, offended and affectionate all at once.
He was absurdly fluffy. His ruff flared around his face like a mane, white paws oversized against the floor. When he walked, he floated.
She rose and retrieved the wand toy from the side table, flicking her wrist once. The feathered lure danced. Ptolemy’s pupils widened into dark galaxies. Hindquarters wiggling with dramatic intent.
“Up,” she said softly.
He bolted.
The shelves along the upper bulkheads formed his private highway, narrow ledges curving with the Sovereign-class architecture. Climbing posts connected levels at deliberate intervals. A suspended bridge near the viewport swayed gently as he thundered across it in a blaze of orange determination.
She guided him along the route, drawing him across the highest shelf, down the vertical post near the bedroom arch, over the curved bulkhead seam, then back toward the living area. He leapt cleanly, caught the lure midair, missed on purpose, then pursued again with theatrical ferocity.
For several minutes she did nothing but move her wrist and watch him fly.
No reports.
No threat matrices.
No layered concerns.
Just a cat on his track and the faint, steady hum of Arawyn beneath her feet.
Eventually he misjudged a landing and slid in a tumble of fluff down a post, then sat upright as if that had been the plan all along.
“Of course,” she said evenly. “Flawless execution.”
He collapsed dramatically onto his side, chest rising fast, tail twitching.
She let the wand fall still.
The quiet returned.
She moved toward the bathroom alcove and turned the water on, letting the bath fill slowly. Steam began to soften the edges of the room.
Ptolemy followed, curiosity outweighing wisdom.
He peered over the rim of the tub, extended one white paw, and tapped the surface.
Water clung.
He recoiled instantly.
A sharp shake of his paw. A look of profound betrayal.
Then he fled at full speed, claws skittering slightly against the deck.
A faint exhale of amusement escaped her.
“Not tactical,” she informed the empty room.
She stepped out of her lifting sneakers, peeled off her clothing, and tossed it in the cleaning unit before slipping into the bath. Heat closed around her shoulders, easing muscles that had been braced since returning from leave.
Kestrel Reach felt distant now.
The warmth of the café. Real paper. The hum of conversation not centered on threat assessments. The quiet ease of being simply Sabrina, not Captain.
Evan.
Her gaze lingered briefly on the far bulkhead as if the thought might manifest there.
They were still in orbit.
A single message would reach him.
A courtesy.
A complication.
She let the thought pass.
Duty had resumed its full weight the moment she came back onboard.
A Changeling somewhere within reach.
Subtle directives from Epsilon Command.
Aev navigating a mind that now worked in unfamiliar ways, struggling with the ability.
Lieutenant Collingway… carrying something heavier than she knew about, and what she knew was already enough. That concerned her. She would monitor it. Medical would monitor it. She trusted Amberlyn and the counselors. Trusted the system to catch what might slip.
Children on Lathira IV fighting a virus that had no patience for innocence.
The burden was not one crisis.
It was the accumulation.
Layer upon layer of responsibility pressing inward until even solitude carried noise.
She leaned her head back against the tub and closed her eyes.
When she was eight years old, she had commanded starship models across the carpet of her parents’ living room, vessels her father had helped her build piece by careful piece. A Starfleet engineer, he had shown her how to align nacelles properly, how to balance a hull, how systems connected even in miniature. She had listened with fierce concentration, absorbing every word as if it were already instruction for her future crew.
She had known with absolute certainty that one day she would sit in a center seat.
Back then, command had meant adventure. Exploration. Giving the order to go to warp with unshakable confidence.
She had not imagined the silence that followed difficult decisions.
Or the careful restraint required when others looked to her for steadiness.
But she had imagined the stars.
She had not imagined the administrative weight.
Or the politics.
Or the quiet hours after everyone else slept.
But she had imagined the stars.
Afterward, dried and dressed again for sleep, she crossed to her desk.
The leather-bound journal waited precisely where she had left it.
She selected one of her rollerball pens, turning it once between her fingers before opening to a clean page.
Ink touched paper.
Eight-year-old Sabrina would be furious if I complained.
She paused, then continued.
She wanted this. The ship. The stars. The responsibility. The command of a Sovereign-class vessel with her name in the registry.
She did not know the cost.
Thirty years later, I do.
The loneliness.
The scrutiny.
The endless balancing of other people’s lives against my own.
Her handwriting remained steady.
And yet.
I would not trade it.
This is still the dream.
So few are granted that.
I will bear it with honor.
She closed the journal without rereading the words.
Ptolemy had returned, having forgiven the bath entirely. He leapt onto the desk, circled once, and settled against her forearm, a soft avalanche of orange and white.
She rested her hand in his fur.
Outside the viewport, stars drifted slowly past.
The weight remained.
So did the dream.
Captain Sabrina Corbin
Commanding Officer
USS Arawyn
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