The Weight of Returning

Posted on Sun Nov 2nd, 2025 @ 8:01am by Major Samantha Snyder

1,002 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: The Hand That Rocks The Babe
Location: Passenger Onboarding.
Timeline: Post Arrival To Earth, Post Admiral's Death.

The Dreadnought loomed above the curve of Earth like a shadow of its own legend, battle-worn and silent. As the shuttle’s docking clamps locked with a dull thud, Major Samantha Snyder exhaled slowly, steadying herself before the hatch opened. The air inside the ship was familiar yet sterile, metallic, tinged with the faint scent of coolant and oil, but the familiarity only deepened the ache in her chest.

She’d spent most of her career aboard this vessel. Every corridor, every console, every hum of the reactor core carried echoes of Admiral S’iraa’s command. His voice firm, measured, yet always carrying that undercurrent of warmth still lingered in her memory. He had been more than a superior officer. He had been her mentor, her compass when the void turned cold and the orders grew heavy.

Now he was gone.

The crew spoke his name in hushed tones, as if saying it too loudly might remind the universe of the loss it had already taken. Samantha walked through the main passageway, the sound of her boots steady but hollow against the deck plating. Officers nodded as she passed, their faces drawn, their grief contained behind the discipline S’iraa himself had instilled in them all.

When she reached the command deck, the stars filled the viewport like scattered ashes. She stood at the center of the bridge where the Admiral once stood hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the horizon that never ended. The silence pressed against her like gravity.

For a long time, she said nothing. Her reflection in the viewport looked older than she remembered, tired, perhaps but behind her eyes was the same fire S’iraa had seen all those years ago when he’d first placed her under his command.

The ship felt the same, steel corridors, the faint scent of ozone from freshly cycled systems but something vital was missing.

Admiral S’iraa’s presence had always filled these halls. His voice, calm yet commanding, had been the steady current that guided them through chaos and conflict alike. Samantha had served under him for years, learning not just the art of command, but the weight of it, the quiet strength it took to lead when the stars themselves seemed to turn against you.

Now, as Earth’s blue curve shimmered outside the viewport, Snyder felt the full measure of his absence. The Dreadnought had returned home, but it was a homecoming marked by loss.

Still, duty endured. The Admiral would have expected nothing less.

She squared her shoulders and made her way toward the command deck, each step a quiet promise, to honor his legacy, to uphold the discipline and compassion he’d instilled in her, and to ensure the Dreadnought remained a symbol of what they had fought for together.

“You brought us home so many times, rest easy, sir,” she murmured under her breath. “We’ll keep the course.”

The lift doors slid open with a soft hiss, and Major Snyder stepped inside. The hum of the engines was faint here, steady, constant, like a heartbeat she’d known her entire career. The panel glowed softly beneath her hand as she keyed in her destination.

“Marine Deck.”

The descent was quiet. The kind of quiet that left too much room for thought. S’iraa had often told her that silence was where a commander truly met themselves, when the noise of battle and the chaos of command faded, and only the weight of choices remained. She understood that now more than ever.

When the doors parted, the Marine Deck greeted her with the scent of gun oil, disinfectant, and old sweat, the perfume of soldiers. The faint echo of drills sounded from somewhere down the corridor. Marines in black-and-red fatigues stood in formation, their movements crisp, disciplined, every motion a promise that the Admiral’s legacy endured even in his absence.

As she stepped through, conversations tapered off. Eyes followed her, not out of suspicion, but recognition. Respect. Many of them had served under her before, through boarding actions, combat engagements, and the long, cold campaigns at the edge of known space.

“Major on deck!” someone called.

The line snapped to attention, boots striking the deck in unison. The sound reverberated through the space, sharp and clean. It was a sound she hadn’t realized she’d missed until that moment.

“At ease,” she said softly, and the words felt heavier than they used to.

She moved among them, exchanging brief nods, words of acknowledgment. Faces blurred past—some new, some painfully familiar. A few bore the scars of the last campaign; all of them carried the same hard-set look in their eyes. Survivors.

In her quarters, she paused at the door before entering. The space inside was exactly as she’d left it, a touch of Bianca tapered Sams otherwise spartan yet functional approach, a few mementos carefully anchored against the ship’s gravity, an old combat knife, a faded photograph of her first command squad, and a small holo-image of Admiral S’iraa taken after her promotion to Major.

She sat on the edge of the bed and studied his image, the gentle flicker of the projection painting the room in pale blue light. So much had changed from the young and eager woman in a male dominated realm, rising through the ranks, even finding Bianca. Yet even that was darkened by recent events.

“You always said the Dreadnought didn’t need heroes,” she murmured. “Just people who didn’t give up.”

Her reflection in the holo shimmered faintly beside his. For a brief, fragile heartbeat, it almost looked like he was standing beside her again, watching, waiting, proud.

Samantha inhaled deeply, squared her shoulders, and rose to her feet. Tomorrow, she would begin the long process of rebuilding the unit. Reclaiming the rhythm of command. But tonight—tonight she allowed herself the quiet.

The Dreadnought had come home. And so had she....Bianca would be home soon too.

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