Unscheduled Maintenance
Posted on Sat Jan 10th, 2026 @ 9:25pm by Lieutenant Evelyn Stewart & Lieutenant Tollan Yara
1,181 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
Year One: The Point of No Return
Location: USS Moore - Sickbay
Timeline: MD: 005 0507 hrs
Sickbay was still in night cycle, lights dimmed low enough that the space felt paused between shifts. The ship hadn’t fully woken yet—no foot traffic, no chatter, just the steady hum of life-support and medical systems idling.
Tollan Yara was at the central console reviewing overnight telemetry when the doors parted.
He looked up—and paused.
“Stewart,” he said. “You’re here early. I wasn’t expecting you until 1300 hours.”
She stepped inside and let the doors close behind her.
Her hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, not yet braided into her usual duty plait. Her jacket was on but open, uniform beneath it regulation and neat. Intentional. As if she’d decided exactly how much effort she was willing to spend getting ready and no more.
“I know,” she said.
“It’s barely 0500,” Tollan added, already reading her posture.
“I couldn’t sleep.” She shifted her weight, then stilled, breath tightening for just a fraction of a second before she smoothed it out. “I had a flare-up. I figured I’d just come early and get it over with.”
He didn’t comment on the phrasing. Just turned, already reaching for a tricorder.
“Where,” he asked.
She gave a faint, frown. “Pick one.”
She reached for her jacket then, movements slow and careful. Sliding it off her shoulders drew a sharp inhale she didn’t quite manage to hide. The pain flared—not confined to one place but jumping, erratic: shoulder, ribs, lower back, somewhere along her leg.
Tollan stepped closer, hands half-raised, ready to help.
She shook her head once.
He stopped.
She finished removing the jacket herself, folding it with unnecessary precision before setting it aside. Only then did she lower herself onto the biobed, easing down inch by inch like gravity itself was negotiating terms.
Tollan activated the tricorder and began scanning—along her spine, across her side, down her leg as the pain shifted again.
“Pain scale,” he said.
“Eight.”
No hesitation.
He exhaled slowly. “We’ll get it down.”
“You always say that.”
“And I am usually correct.”
The tricorder chimed. Tollan frowned—not surprised, but clearly displeased.
“Sleeping?,” he asked.
She stared at the ceiling. “Define sleeping.”
“Stewart.”
“A few hours. Broken.”
“Eating?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
She hesitated. “Yesterday.”
“Properly?”
She didn’t answer.
Tollan’s jaw tightened as he scrolled.
“Stress markers are elevated,” he said. “Recovery indicators are lagging.”
“I’m managing it,” she replied lightly.
“No,” he said, sharper now. “You’re enduring it.”
Another flare hit—sudden, electrical, cutting across her lower back. Stewart hissed, fingers curling into the edge of the biobed.
Tollan lowered the tricorder and looked at her directly - all business.
“You do not push through this,” he said. “It does not heal that way.”
The pain ebbed slightly as she lay there, breathing carefully.
Tollan exhaled once, long and controlled, then moved without ceremony.
“If you are already here,” he said, “there is no benefit in waiting.”
He retrieved the neural interface pads from the cabinet—slim, familiar devices—and brought them to the biobed.
Stewart didn’t ask questions. She simply laid back and tilted her head a fraction, exposing her forehead, and turned her hand palm-up when he reached for it. She knew the routine. Knew how this went.
Tollan placed the first pad just above her brow ridge, fingers precise. The second settled against the inside of her wrist, aligned over the nerve cluster.
The system engaged with a soft harmonic hum.
She inhaled sharply, then let the breath out slow. “There?”
“Yes,” Tollan said, adjusting the field parameters. “Neural dampening only. We are not suppressing the bond—just reducing signal noise and misfire.”
The pain didn’t vanish. It loosened. Spread out. Lost its sharp edges.
“This is maintenance,” he continued, eyes on the readouts. “It reduces inflammatory feedback and improves synaptic coherence, but it does not resolve the underlying condition.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
“Starfleet medicine can manage symptoms,” Tollan said. “We can reduce the pain, limit escalation, and slow long-term damage. But we can’t undo the bond itself.”
He glanced at her.
“There’s only so much we can do.”
Her jaw tightened slightly.
“The only theoretical way to actually cure it,” he added, matter-of-fact, “would mean going back to Vulcan. Working with a Vulcan healer.”
Her eyes opened immediately.
“No.”
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
Tollan nodded once. “That’s what I expected.”
“Not happening,” she said.
“Then this stays what it is,” he replied evenly. “Maintenance.”
The device continued its low hum. Stewart lay still, breathing settling as the pain ebbed further.
“How’s the pain now?” Tollan asked, glancing at the display.
She considered it. Rolled one shoulder carefully, then stopped. “Three. Maybe a four.”
He didn’t hesitate. He reached out and powered the device down, the hum fading away.
“Good,” he said. “That’s our window.”
He removed the pads and set them aside.
Stewart sat up slowly, testing it again. Winced once, then nodded. “Better.”
“Good.”
She swung her legs off the biobed and reached for her jacket, movements still careful but no longer guarded. As she stood, Tollan spoke again.
“One more thing, Stewart.”
She paused.
“Have you talked to Koaruh about the bond?”
She turned slowly, brows knitting. “…I’m sorry?”
Tollan waited.
She stared at him for a beat, disbelief flickering across her face. “Are you asking if I’ve talked to my boyfriend about my severed mating bond with my dead Vulcan partner?”
There was a brief silence.
Just long enough for Tollan to register where her mind had gone.
Then he continued, tone steady and professional.
“I mean professionally. About the grief. The loss. The psychological impact.”
Stewart’s shoulders drew in slightly. Her grip on the jacket tightened, folds aligned too neatly, eyes shifting away as if filing the information rather than responding to it.
“Chronic nerve pain and unresolved psychological stress often overlap,” Tollan said gently. “Especially with telepathic bonds.”
She inhaled once, measured, then met his gaze.
“No,” she said. Calm. Polite. Final. “I haven’t.”
The subtext was clear: do not push.
Tollan did anyway.
“Koaruh’s the counselor,” he said. “It’s literally his job.”
Silence stretched.
“I’ll think about it,” she said finally.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
She slipped her jacket on, slower now, but without the earlier flinch. As she turned toward the doors, Tollan spoke again.
“And Stewart,” he added, gentler now, “try to stick to the regimen until then. Sleep. Eat. Don’t run yourself into the ground just because you can.”
She stopped, sighed quietly—annoyed, cornered—then nodded once.
“I’ll try,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
“Good.”
She glanced back at him. “I’ll see you later.”
Tollan inclined his head.
As Sickbay lights continued their gradual shift toward day cycle, he watched her go—pain reduced, condition unchanged. And he suspected nothing was going to change as he moved to the console, already scheduling the next treatment for next week.
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