Mending Starts At Home

Posted on Tue Nov 4th, 2025 @ 6:11am by Lieutenant Cassian Massy

875 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: The Hand That Rocks The Babe
Location: Orbit of Earth
Timeline: Current

Cassian stood in the middle of Operations, a padd tucked under one arm, the other hand resting on the console’s edge as data scrolled across the display. Cargo manifests. Fuel consumption ratios. Crew transfer authorizations. The ship had been at high orbit for a week now, and the constant flow of supply vessels, personnel shuttles, and engineering drones hadn’t slowed once.

It was the kind of organized chaos Cassian normally thrived in, except this time, it didn’t feel like the usual bustle of life aboard a Federation warship. The shadow of Admiral S’iraa’s death still lingered in every deck and corridor. The admiral’s absence was more than just a gap in the command roster; it was a wound the crew was still learning how to work around.

Cassian exhaled quietly and keyed a sequence into the console, watching as the latest refueling update synced with the logistics network. The new transfers had arrived the previous day, fresh faces from the Academy and other posts, all looking to him for direction. Most of them didn’t yet understand the unspoken tension hanging over the Dreadnought. He couldn’t blame them. You didn’t feel that kind of loss until you’d served under a leader like S’iraa.

“Operations to Massy,” came a voice over the comm, breaking his thoughts.

“Massy here.”

“Cargo bay three is reporting a delay with the antimatter containment coils. Supplier’s short on personnel.”
Cassian nodded to himself. “I’ll be down there in five. Tell them we’ll make it work.”

He grabbed his padd and headed for the turbolift, the soft thrum of the engines following him down the corridor. Whatever the Dreadnought had lost, whatever ghosts it carried now, Cassian knew his job was simple: keep the ship running. Keep the crew moving.

Because if Operations stopped working, everything stopped, and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

The turbolift doors parted with a soft hiss, releasing Cassian into the echoing expanse of Cargo Bay Three. The air was thick with the scent of coolant and lubricant, a familiar blend that clung to the decks whenever resupply was in full swing. Crates of antimatter containment coils, duranium plating, and rations for a thousand crew members were stacked in orderly rows, though the chaos of activity made it feel anything but orderly.

Crewmen and petty officers darted between pallets, shouting over the rumble of antigrav loaders. A few of the new transfers were there too, still in crisp uniforms, their eyes sharp with the energy of wanting to prove themselves. Cassian spotted one of them near the coil assembly line: Ensign Tralen, if he remembered correctly. Fresh from the Dorsetshire. Young. Eager. Maybe too eager.

“Ensign!” Cassian called, his voice cutting through the noise. “Report.”

Tralen straightened. “Sir! We’ve got a three-hour delay from the supplier, apparently their containment frames didn’t pass inspection. We’re improvising with the previous batch until the replacements arrive.”

Cassian took the padd the Ensign offered and scanned the readout. The numbers weren’t terrible, but the schedule was tight enough that every delay rippled outward. “All right,” he said after a moment. “Shift resources from Bay Two; Engineering won’t need their next allocation until the end of the cycle. I’ll clear it with Lieutenant Commander Aries.”

“Aye, sir.”

Cassian handed back the padd but didn’t move immediately. He caught the look in Tralen’s eyes, the uncertainty just under the surface. It was the same look half the department had worn all week. The Dreadnought was running again, yes, but morale wasn’t. Not yet.

He leaned in slightly, his tone quieter. “You’re doing fine, Ensign. None of this is routine right now. Just keep your head clear, listen to your team, and don’t try to fix everything at once.”

Tralen blinked, surprised by the reassurance, then nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Cassian turned back toward the main floor, watching as another crew unloaded a stack of crates stamped with Starfleet Logistics Command. Somewhere in the distance, a pipe clanged, the kind of sound that made you think of how vast the ship really was.

The Dreadnought was a monster of a vessel: two and a half kilometers of armoured hull and ambition, a ship built for strength. But Cassian had served long enough to know that it wasn’t the ship’s hull that held things together, it was the people inside it. And right now, they were all patching themselves up just like any damaged system.

He tapped his commbadge.

“Massy to Bridge. Operations resupply is proceeding, slight delays, but manageable. We’ll be back on schedule by 1800 hours.”

A voice replied, steady and efficient: “Acknowledged, Lieutenant. Good work.”

Cassian hesitated for a fraction of a second before closing the channel. Good work. The words felt almost out of place this week. Still, he took them. Sometimes, good was the best you could manage.

As he moved toward the next manifest station, the bay lights dimmed slightly, flickering just once before stabilizing. The ship hummed around him, steady, powerful, alive. And for the first time in days, Cassian felt something that might have been hope.

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