One Foot In Front Of The Other
Posted on Sun Oct 19th, 2025 @ 3:20am by Commodore Lucian Marshall
Edited on on Mon Oct 20th, 2025 @ 2:49am
919 words; about a 5 minute read
Mission:
The Hand That Rocks The Babe
Location: Bridge, U.S.S. Dreadnought
Timeline: Current.
Commodore Lucian Marshall stepped onto the bridge of the Dreadnought like a man crossing into sacred ground. He wanted to keep his arrival quiet, not wanting the traditional pomp and circumstance distracting the crew which was why he arrived by shuttle.
The deck was spotless, the air recycled and sharp, but the silence wasn’t from lack of activity—it was mourning. The crew moved efficiently, but not freely. Eyes tracked him without turning and he forgave them for not announcing him given the loss they suffered. Voices stayed low, like the walls themselves were still listening for him, Admiral S'iraa.
S'iraa had commanded the Dreadnought, in its many classes through conflict, blockades, and deep-space standoffs. He was a legend in uniform and a ghost now, lost when history and grudges rekindled war..
Lucian had watched one of S'iraa's court apperances back when S'iraa was a Captain. Long enough to admire him. Long enough to understand how hard it would be to step into that shadow.
He paused at the command chair. His chair now.
He didn’t sit.
"Status report," he said, calm and clear.
A few heads turned. Not all. Most just kept their eyes on their stations. A thin, dark-haired lieutenant, Rana, if he remembered right, answered first. “Resupply and replenishment at 80%, ETA 12 hours. Crew arrivals and replacements estimated in 10 hours sir.”
He exhaled, slow. One thing at a time.
This wasn’t how he’d imagined his first flag command. No ceremony. No transfer of authority. Just a silent data packet with his orders, and a ship still bleeding.
Lucian took a few steps forward along the expanse of the room that was the Bridge, his boots muffled by the deck plating. He didn’t need to be S'iraa. He couldn’t be.
But this crew needed more than orders. They needed someone to hold the line.
He looked out over the stars on the holographic viewscreen of shuttles and other starships in transit, hands clasped behind his back.
“I won’t replace him,” he said quietly, to the room. “But I’ll damn well make sure his ship stays standing.”
No one answered. But the silence changed—less hollow, more solid.
The Dreadnought still had a heartbeat.
And now, it had a new Commodore. The silence didn’t last however.
A soft chime broke it, the sound of a comm ping from the tactical station.
“Commodore,” said the officer seated at communications, Ensign Halvik, barely older than a cadet. His voice wavered, but he pressed on. “We’ve just received a flagged transmission from Fleet Command. Encrypted and urgent.”
Lucian turned. “Route it to the ready room. I’ll take it there.”
“Aye, sir.”
He spared a glance at the command chair again. Still untouched. Too soon, then turned and made his way to his Ready Room.
The ready room was spartan—either S'iraa had preferred it that way, or the cleanup crews had cleared it too thoroughly. Only one personal item remained: a small, cracked glass globe on the shelf behind the desk, the kind you could only get at starports or orbital platforms. Inside it, stardust glittered when turned. Lucian didn’t touch it.
He keyed in his authorization.
The ready room display flickered, stabilizing into the sharp, lined face of Admiral Isha Rourke. Her uniform was crisp, but her voice carried the strain of someone who hadn’t slept.
“Commodore Marshall,” she said without preamble. “New orders, effective immediately.”
Lucian gave a curt nod. “Ready to receive, Admiral.”
“You’re being redirected to Velis III—a colony in the Trion Belt. They’ve reported a rapidly spreading viral outbreak. Unknown strain. Civilian medical infrastructure’s overwhelmed. Local governance has requested emergency support.”
Lucian straightened slightly. “Containment measures?”
“Minimal. Whatever it is, it burns hot—highly contagious, fast incubation, multi-system failure in late stages. Early cases looked like standard flu variants, but we’ve confirmed mutation markers consistent with bioengineering.”
Lucian’s eyes narrowed. “Deliberate release?”
She gave a grim nod. “We don’t have confirmation yet, but the possibility’s real. That’s why this falls to you.”
The weight of it settled fast. Not a battle, but a different kind of war. Against time. Against panic.
“You’ll render full medical aid,” Rourke continued. “Deploy your med teams and infectious disease specialists. Set up mobile treatment centers planetside if needed. The Dreadnought’s surgical bays are being resupplied now.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened. “And if it spreads beyond Velis?”
“Then we’re looking at a sector-wide biohazard scenario. Your orders are to contain it. Stabilize the population. We’ll send backup if we can spare it, but for now... you’re the frontline.”
“What about security?” he asked.
Rourke’s eyes sharpened. “Your Marine detachment will deploy with the medical teams. We’re not ruling out civilian unrest—or worse, intentional sabotage. Keep your people sharp, and your perimeter tighter.”
A beat passed. Then, in a quieter voice:
“This isn’t the assignment anyone wants, Lucian. But the Dreadnought is still standing—and we need her where she can do the most good. She has the facilities, the crew and the capability no other starship can provide in the quantity needed.”
The transmission ended, the display fading to black.
Lucian stood in silence.
No glory in this. No fleet maneuvers or enemy formations. Just a dying colony, a frightened population, and a crew still reeling from their own loss.
But they had doctors.
They had Marines.
And they had him.
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