Bearing: Part II: Impact Radius
Posted on Wed Feb 11th, 2026 @ 6:26pm by Vice Admiral Sidra MacLaren
1,337 words; about a 7 minute read
Mission:
Dreamdust
Location: Starbase 369
Sidra took the turbolift deep into the heart of the station.
The corridor outside her office felt narrower than usual. Officers stepped aside as she passed, offering quiet nods. Word would already be moving. A Ross-class leaving dock did not slip quietly through a station running hot.
She kept her pace measured.
Motion steadied her. It always had. Movement translated pressure into direction. Stillness let it settle too deeply, let it gather behind her ribs until it pressed outward. If she stood too long in one place, she would feel everything at once.
The holodeck corridor was louder.
Teenage voices carried through the closed doors. Laughter. The sharp crack of simulated bat against ball. A shouted argument over a missed strike.
For a moment, she stood outside the arch and simply listened.
Will’s voice cut through the others. Competitive. Slightly louder than necessary. He did that when he wanted to look unaffected. When he wanted to prove something, usually to himself.
She stepped inside.
Artificial sunlight flooded the batting cage simulation. The smell of dust and polymer turf hung in the air. A pitching machine hummed at the far end of the lane, firing holographic baseballs in tight arcs.
Will stood in the box, cleats digging into simulated dirt. Helmet tipped low. Sweat darkened the edge of his hair.
He swung.
Clean contact.
The ball cracked into the projection netting.
His friends shouted approval.
He reset.
The next pitch came faster. He swung late and sliced it foul. He adjusted, shoulders tightening.
On the third pitch he connected solidly.
That was when he saw her.
Recognition registered in layers. A glance toward the arch. A freeze. The red of her uniform. The admiral’s pips.
In front of his friends.
The next ball flew past him untouched.
A couple of the other boys glanced toward her. One straightened instinctively. Another whispered something that earned a sharp elbow.
Will did not look at her directly. He stepped out of the box, removed his helmet, and handed it off with forced ease.
“Time,” he muttered.
She did not raise her voice.
“Walk with me.”
It was not harsh. It did not need to be.
He hesitated half a second, then followed her into the corridor.
The holodeck doors sealed behind them, muting the artificial sunlight and noise. The corridor lighting felt cooler. The hum of the station more present.
He did not look at her.
“What?”
No greeting. No attempt to soften it.
“I’m leaving on the Caelestis,” she said.
His head turned sharply.
“Where?”
“Undetermined.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.”
He folded his arms. Cleats scraped lightly against the deck.
“Dad’s still on Tavrik,” he said.
“Yes.”
“There was an explosion.”
“Yes.”
“It was all over the feeds.”
“I know.”
He swallowed once.
“They said people died.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re leaving.”
The words were not loud. They were controlled. Too controlled. That was the part that struck her.
She studied him.
The anger in his green eyes was familiar. Not wild. Focused. Contained. The same fire she had learned to discipline in herself. The same steady burn she had seen in Stephen when he chose restraint over reaction. It did not flare. It banked.
He had learned to recover quickly. He was doing it now. Adjusting his posture. Tightening his jaw. Presenting something measured when he wanted to lash out.
“I have a lead,” she said. “It cannot wait.”
He gave a short, humorless breath.
“It never can.”
She let that stand. She would not defend the pattern.
“No,” she said. “It rarely can.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I’m staying with the Ruckers,” he said.
“Yes.”
He nodded once. “Figures.”
“You’ll go there straight from here,” she said. “When practice ends, you check in with T’Vara. Then you come home.”
“Home?”
“You feed the cat. You pack what you need for a few nights. Then you go back.”
He processed that quickly. His mind always moved fast. Always scanning the next step.
Structure.
Not dismissal.
“Okay.”
“You message your father tonight,” she added. “He will want to hear from you.”
“Yeah.”
She held his gaze.
“You’re angry.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
His jaw tightened.
“You both just go,” he said. “Whenever something happens.”
The words were diplomatic in tone. The anger underneath them was not.
“For a long time, we didn’t,” she said.
He looked at her.
“You were eight when I put the uniform back on,” she continued. “Before that, I was home. Every night. Your father was home. Nothing sustained. Nothing like this.”
He remembered.
The cottage in Scotland. Wind through barley fields. Running until his lungs burned and his dog outran him. Stephen by the hearth with case files balanced on his knee. Sidra in wool sweaters instead of command red. The sound of wind against stone instead of alert tones. No deployment clocks. No casualty reports. No news feeds flashing images of smoke over distant settlements.
“You promised,” he said quietly.
She nodded.
“I promised you would never be without structure. Without contact. Without a way to reach us.”
That had been the compromise. The only way she could justify returning.
“You still have that.”
He held her gaze.
“The private channels,” she said. “The ones we built when I returned to uniform. They route outside fleet traffic. They bypass public bands. If you need us, you use them.”
“I haven’t.”
“I know.”
“Because you said they were for when it mattered.”
“Yes.”
He searched her face.
“And this doesn’t?”
She felt the pull of that. The way escalation blurred lines between ordinary and crisis.
“It might,” she said. “But right now, you are still here. You are still safe. We are not unreachable.”
He absorbed that.
“You didn’t leave before,” he said. “Not like this.”
“No.”
“You were just Mom.”
“Yes.”
“And Dad was just Dad.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re…” He gestured at the uniform.
She glanced down briefly at the red.
“This is what the uniform is,” she said evenly. “It means when something escalates, you move. It means you go when others cannot. It means you step into uncertainty and you hold it.”
He held her gaze.
“You still want this,” she added.
His eyes flickered, but he did not look away.
“Yes.”
“You want Starfleet.”
“Yes.”
“Then you need to understand it.”
He swallowed.
“I do.”
“You’re allowed to be angry,” she said quietly. “I would be.”
That caught him.
“You would?”
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate.
“I am angry,” she continued. “About Tavrik. About the explosion. About having to leave you standing here when I would rather stay.”
That honesty shifted something in him.
He had expected command posture. Instead, she gave him truth.
He exhaled slowly.
“If it gets worse,” he said, “I’ll use the channel.”
“You will.”
“And you’ll answer.”
“Yes.”
The holodeck doors slid open behind him as someone called his name.
He hesitated.
Then he looked at her again.
The anger was still there. But steadier now. Sharper.
“Just come back,” he said.
Not dramatic. Not a plea.
A directive.
She stepped forward and pulled him into a firm, brief embrace.
He stiffened for half a second, surprised.
Then he returned it.
Solid. Grounded. Familiar.
She felt the breadth of his shoulders now. When had that happened?
She pulled back first.
“I will,” she said.
He nodded once, cleared his throat, and stepped back into artificial sunlight and noise. Cleats digging into simulated dirt. Bat in hand. Recovery complete. Composure restored. Stephen’s son in the way he squared his shoulders.
The doors slid shut.
Sidra remained in the corridor.
Stephen stood in escalation.
Will stood at the edge of the same life she had chosen.
And she stood between them, fully aware that this was the cost of the uniform.
Seven minutes.
She turned toward Fleet Operations.
Vice Admiral Sidra MacLaren
Fleet Commander
Epsilon Fleet
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