The Discipline of Survival

Posted on Sat Sep 13th, 2025 @ 3:07pm by Vice Admiral Sidra MacLaren

1,352 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Second Light
Location: SB 369

=/\= Gymnasium - SB 369 =/\=

The chronometer glowed 0457 when Sidra slid through the gym doors. The air inside was cool and faintly metallic, scrubbed too many times through recyclers, but touched with the earthy rubber of mats and the faint tang of cleaning solution. The place was quiet, blessedly so. Only two junior officers occupied the far corner, earbuds in, doing their best not to stare when she walked in.

She ignored them and tied her auburn hair back into a quick tail. Training gear clung comfortably: a fitted tank, dark leggings, boots light enough for both treadmill and bag. She stepped onto the machine and tapped out her usual program: punishing incline intervals with short bursts of speed. No variety. No mercy.

The belt hummed underfoot as she started at a steady jog. Her knees ached almost immediately, the familiar reminder that fifty-eight brought its own demands. She leaned into it anyway, letting the rhythm of footfalls carry her forward. Breath in, sharp and cold in her lungs. Breath out, measured, controlled, defiant. Sweat gathered at her temples, trickling down to dampen the wisps of red hair escaping her tie.

The incline climbed. Stride shortened. Arms pumped harder. The ache in her calves grew into fire, chest burning with each breath. She fixed her gaze on the display, refusing to glance away. Fifty-eight, the numbers seemed to sneer. Fifty-eight and still chasing it.

Good. Let it sneer. She’d outlast it.

When the program finally ticked down into cooldown, she stepped off, bent forward with her hands braced on her knees, lungs pulling air like bellows. Sweat dripped to the deck in small dark spots. For most, that would be the end. For her, it was only warm-up.

She crossed to the rack where the heavy bags hung, pulling a roll of handwraps from her kit. With practiced ease, she wound them tight, loop over knuckles, wrap across palm, cinch the wrist, repeat. The ritual steadied her mind as much as it protected her hands.

She tested the bag with two sharp jabs, then launched into rhythm.

Jab. Cross. Hook. Pivot. Kick. Reset. Again.

The strikes cracked against canvas in a steady war-drum cadence. The two ensigns glanced up, tried to look away, then stole another look when they thought she wouldn’t notice. Sidra noticed. She always noticed. But she didn’t break rhythm. Let them wonder if the rumors were true, that the Vice Admiral still trained harder than her own security division. She wasn’t here for them. She was here because the body only stayed sharp when the mind demanded it.

Her arms trembled with fatigue, abs burning, sweat running freely down her spine. She drove one final roundhouse into the bag, sending it rocking wildly on its chain. She leaned her forehead against the leather, breath hot and ragged, heart hammering.

Fifty-eight. Still here. Still stronger than most half her age.

She stripped the wraps free, hanging them over her shoulder, and moved through a slow cooldown, rotating shoulders, stretching calves, rolling her spine until the muscles eased. Cooldown wasn’t optional anymore. That was the lesson age had driven home.

By the time she finished her cooldown, the ensigns had already slipped out, quietly, almost guiltily, as though afraid she might draft them into the same punishment.

=/\= Corridor =/\=

The station was still half-asleep at this hour. A Bolian strode past with a steaming mug, nodding politely. Sidra returned the nod, towel slung around her neck, stride steady despite the soreness in her legs. She preferred this part of the day, quiet corridors, before the endless comm traffic began to build.

The door to her quarters slid open, spilling her into warm light and the comfortable scent of home.

=/\= Quarters – MacCafferey Residence =/\=

The smell of coffee drifted from the galley, though not the familiar smooth aroma she was used to. This smelled… scorched.
Will stood at the espresso machine, frowning at the controls like they were plotting against him. His dark auburn hair stuck up in uneven tufts, pajama shirt wrinkled, green eyes bleary with sleep. The machine sputtered, half-foam, half-liquid spilling into a mug already too full.

Sidra leaned against the doorway, arms folded. “Planning to fight it into submission, or let it finish?”

Will jerked, nearly sloshing coffee onto the counter. “Mum—uh—morning. I was just… testing it out.”

“Mm-hmm.” She stepped closer, plucked a clean mug from the rack, and with two precise taps coaxed the machine into behaving. Rich, dark espresso poured smoothly into the cup. She slid it across to him.

He accepted it with caution, took a sip, and immediately grimaced. “This is bitter.”

“Strong,” Sidra corrected, taking her own. “Functional. Which is more than I can say for you before six hundred hours.”
He narrowed his eyes at her damp hair and the towel around her neck. “You actually get up this early just to… punish yourself? That treadmill, the bag, you’re running yourself into the ground.”

She sipped, unbothered. “Not into the ground. Into shape. There’s a difference.”

“You already run fleets. You don’t need to prove anything.”

Her gaze softened, though her voice stayed firm. “That’s why I do it, Will. The uniform doesn’t keep me quick. The position doesn’t keep me strong. Only this does. And if I stop, if I let the years win, someone else pays the price for that. My crew. You. Your father.”

He frowned into his mug. “Still feels like overkill.”

Sidra leaned her hip against the counter, her expression softening just slightly. “Will, no matter what path you choose in Starfleet, medical, operations, or engineering, you’ll need to know how to fight. Not because it’s glamorous. Because one day you may not have security at your shoulder when trouble finds you.”

He shifted, uncomfortable but listening.

“It’s not about throwing punches,” she continued, her tone quieter now, more intent. “It’s about being prepared. About knowing your body won’t fail you in the moment you need it most. That’s why I train. That’s why you’ll learn too.”
Will’s eyes dropped, his fingers tightening around the mug. “Even if I don’t want to be security?”

“Especially then,” she said firmly. “If you don’t plan for it, you’ll need it most.”

A silence hung between them, heavy but not unfriendly.

Then her mouth curved into a faint smile. “Don’t take my word for it. Get up tomorrow and join me. See for yourself.”
His eyebrows rose. “You think I can keep up with you?”

Sidra’s lips curved into a knowing smile, but behind it flickered the real question she kept to herself: Can I still keep up with you? Aloud, she only said, “I think we’ll find out together.”

Will groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’d drag me out of bed at oh-five-hundred? That’s barbaric.”

“Discipline isn’t barbaric. It’s survival.”

He muttered, “Sounds like boot camp.”

“Not boot camp.” Her grin turned sly. “More like apprenticeship.”

He groaned again, louder this time. “Suspiciously like torture.”

She chuckled, finishing her coffee. “Don’t worry. Builds character.”

She stretched her arms over her head, spine popping satisfyingly, and turned toward the bedroom. “And now,” she added casually, “I’m going to wake your father.”

Will sputtered mid-sip. “Mum!”

She gave him a look of mock innocence. “What? He’s still asleep. I thought I might… motivate him.”

His face turned crimson. “Please don’t say things like that.”

Sidra laughed outright, enjoying his squirming. “Embarrassing your children is one of life’s privileges. You’ll thank me someday.”

He muttered into his mug, “I should’ve stayed in bed.”

She slung the towel over her shoulder and headed down the hall with a satisfied smile. “Too late for that. Tomorrow you’re up with me. No excuses.”

Behind her, he groaned one last time. “Barbaric.”

She let the word hang in the air like a promise.

VAdm Sidra MacLaren
Fleet Commander

 

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