Never a Burden

Posted on Mon Sep 1st, 2025 @ 2:56pm by Vice Admiral Sidra MacLaren

1,755 words; about a 9 minute read

=/\= MacLaren MacCafferey Quarters =/\=

Sidra stirred at five sharp, no alarm required. Purpose steadied her, though her gaze lingered in the dim corners of the bedroom. The quarters had the right pieces, her people within them, yet they had not settled into feeling like home, not yet.

Stephen’s soft snore steadied the silence beside her. Sidra slipped from the bed with practiced ease, careful not to disturb the warmth they shared. She took her PADD from the bedside table and stepped into the walk-in closet, letting the door seal behind her before bringing up the light, sparing the chamber from its spill.

Her eyes moved over the hangers, fingers lingering on a soft light-blue cashmere sweater. The thought of slipping into its comfort, of passing unnoticed in a crowd, tempted her. But duty tugged harder, as it always did.

She sent a quick note to Ensign Quen, clearing her calendar until the afternoon. The Admiral could wait; this morning belonged to her family. She had misjudged Will’s interest in the Arawyn, and regret touched her; she should have seen it sooner. With her position, arranging a tour would have been nothing at all.

Not wishing to stand out, she chose a uniform variant: a high-collared red shirt with black trousers edged by a red stripe, her rank and commbadge set neatly on a black synthetic-leather jacket. She slid into her boots, a Klingon blade hidden in one, then unlocked the biometric safe to retrieve a slim, low-profile phaser for her inner pocket. With the lights dimmed once more, jacket over her arm and PADD in hand, she stepped into the main living space.

A few familiar touches of home had begun to take root, though the kitchen refit she’d ordered remained buried deep on the station’s long list of engineering priorities.

One detail she had insisted on before Stephen and Will arrived was a proper coffee and tea bar: her espresso machine, carefully chosen beans, the kettle, and their loose-leaf teas; replication reserved only for moments of true desperation.

Sidra set her jacket over a dining chair, PADD beside it, and began gathering supplies for a cup. Will padded in, and she looked up, surprised to see him awake. He was dressed neatly, in a collared shirt and pressed trousers, though sleep still clung to him. With a half-yawn and a crooked grin, he crossed to her. “Mum, will you make me a cup?”

Sidra arched a brow; he had never asked her that before. She tamped the grounds into the portafilter, locked it in place, and glanced at him while the water began to heat.

Sidra noticed she could no longer see the crown of his head; had he already grown taller than her? A quiet ache rose in her chest, pride woven with a sadness she couldn’t quite name. His path would carry him away soon enough; she knew it, accepted it. Yet some part of her still reached for ways to slow the march of time.

His green eyes, so like her own, flickered with worry. He pushed a hand through the thick auburn hair falling over his brow. “What?”

She smiled faintly as she drew the shot, her voice even. “Nothing. Get the milk.” A pause, then a dry smirk tugged at her mouth. “Unless you’d rather take it black, like mine?”

His red hair had deepened over the years, leaving only two clear marks of her in him: that and his green eyes. The rest was Mac through and through. His face was nearly a mirror of his father’s, his shoulders broadening, his height climbing with each month. Perhaps he would even overtake Stephen one day, as her own brothers had towered over their father. His manner carried the same calm and deliberation, threaded with empathy and warmth. Yet there was a spark of youthful enthusiasm that was hers as well, and an easy athleticism she quietly claimed for her side of the bloodline.

“No, like you have it,” he said with surprising confidence. Sidra tipped out the grounds and prepared another, this time a double shot. She passed him the small cup, amused at the determination in his eyes. He moved to the table, settling across from where she had set her PADD, and waited for her to join him.

Sidra drew her own double shot and sat across from him. “You know,” she said lightly, “most people don’t drink it straight. They cut it with water, or milk, or both.” Her eyes flicked toward the waiting PADD, but she let it be. She already knew the Arawyn’s departure schedule, and she had made her choice for the day. Everything else could wait.

Will smirked, a hint of teenage confidence in his voice. “Mum, I know.”

She chuckled softly. “Well then, enjoy.” Sidra lifted her cup, tasting the dark brew, still too hot beneath its thin layer of crema. After a beat, she ventured, “I didn’t realize you were so interested in the Arawyn. You could have taken a tour if you’d wanted.”

She studied him as expressions flickered across his face. Surprise, a trace of frustration, then the quiet resignation of a thought already buried. At last, he muttered, almost too low to hear, “I didn’t want to bother you.”

The words struck deep, sharper than he could know. Instinct urged a rise, but years of command kept her face still, her tone measured. He lowered his gaze into the cup, a flicker of regret in the way he held it. Sidra reached across and closed her hand over his. “You,” she said, deliberate and steady, “are never a burden to me.”

Color rose in his cheeks, a flush creeping from his collar upward as he gave a small, silent nod.

Sidra let the silence stretch, not for lack of words but to measure them carefully. He had already declared his intent to apply to the Academy the moment he was eligible. She and Mac had always agreed he must choose his own path, yet both of his parents wore flag rank. Sidra herself had been born into the service. Was there ever truly a chance he would walk another road?

What unsettled her about his choice? Her gaze drifted, searching for words that would not come, and settled on a photo: herself as a new Ensign, her father a Captain in dress whites, Aidan already rising in rank, London and Kelsey in their civilian clothing. The last time they had stood together. Her heart sank.

Though long retired, Alec MacLaren had never shed a captain’s instincts. When Frontier Day left the fleet staggering, Starfleet called on those still trusted to steady it. He returned without hesitation, white-haired, slower, yet quietly commanding. He sought no glory; only duty. In the end, he gave his life holding the line beside younger officers, and Sidra carried both pride and grief in knowing he had given his last measure not for himself, but for them.

Aidan’s loss cut deeper than words. As captain of the Ticonderoga, he had carried their name with the same steady courage as their father. When raiders struck a colony, he stayed at his post to cover the evacuation, calm even as the ship failed around him. She could still hear his last transmission, measured, unflinching, meant for his crew, not himself. To Starfleet, he was another fallen captain. To Sidra, he was the brother who had named her, shielded her, and shaped her path. The hollow remained, carried quietly into every command decision she made.

She steadied her breath, in, hold, out, before turning her eyes back to her son. He hadn’t lived through any of it: Alec’s last stand, Aidan’s sacrifice, her mother cut down in uniform before Sidra ever drew her first breath. He only knew the simple truths: that his grandmother, grandfather, and uncle had died in service, that his mother had fought wars and survived abduction. To him, it was history, polished into heroism. He could not know the weight she carried, nor that he was not the first son she had ever loved. That was a truth she would never let him bear. And still, she would not turn him from Starfleet. Pride and fear mingled as she imagined him in uniform, her eyes threatening heat she forced down with another slow breath.

“What do you want to do in Starfleet, Will?” Her voice was calm, steady, inviting more than demanding.

Sidra watched him wrestle with the espresso, grimacing but resolute in finishing it. As the silence eased, his eyes brightened. “I want to command a ship, like the Arawyn.”

Sidra chuckled, a quiet warmth in her voice. “And until you’ve earned your own ship, decades after the Academy, what then?”

He gave a small shrug, shifting uneasily. She could see the indecision, and something unsaid held behind his eyes. Sidra leaned in slightly, her tone low but certain. “Say it.”

“I want to help people, like Da does.” He paused, giving her a sidelong glance. “I even thought about security for a while.” The words carried more as a reassurance than a conviction, already left behind. He looked away, quieter. “But… I don’t know yet.”

She gave his hand a firm squeeze, a faint smile softening her words. “I know you thought about security. But you don’t have to follow me, or your Da. You’re too smart to be boxed in. Find your own way.”

Sidra drained the last of her espresso and set the cup aside. “Go wake your Da, we don’t want to miss the departure.” A gentler note touched her voice as she added, “And later, you can show me that swing.”

When Will rose to rouse his father, Sidra stayed at the table, fingers resting on the rim of her empty cup. She had given him what a mother should: care, guidance, protection, and Stephen had honed his mind with patience and depth. But fifteen was different. He was ready now for harder lessons, for the physical training she had always held back until the time was right. The Academy would offer its brief curriculum, but she knew that was never enough.

She shifted slightly in her chair, the hidden weight of Kor’s Klingon blade pressing against her boot. Steel, discipline, survival, the things only she could pass on. If her son was set on this path, she would see him ready.

Sidra MacLaen

 

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