“No matter—and no time,” I said.
The bridge was laid out more or less the same way I’d expected a Federation-built vessel would be, including the position of the stations. There was a station directly in front of me for my First Officer and communications to my left along the bulkhead. Further away was the engineering station and a place for a couple of crew members who could jump on any station when needed. At the bow, just in front of the viewscreen, were two more places for crewmembers to stand ready.
The crew members wouldn’t be specialists, I knew. We had enough specialists. They were there to fill in the gaps, cover other crew members while they slept, and provide whatever other services they were pressed into. They were invaluable.
In the center of the bridge in front of myself and the First Officer was the navigator. He sat behind a semi-hemispherical station full of blinking lights, displays of star maps, and power indicators from the different powerplants the Federation had added to the Revenge. Placing the navigator in the center would help ensure nobody would bump, jostle, or disturb him during his programming. One decimal point either way could drive us right through a star.
Of course, that was when we were using fusion drives. Nobody was really sure what it meant to travel through a “portal.” Some called them “teleporters.” Others called them “Einstein Rosen Bridges.” Marines called them “portals” because it accomplished the same description without all the fuss. We had no time for techno-babble while there were bugs to kill and enemy hardware to slag.
Nobody stood when I walked onto the bridge. I was relieved. My bridge crew were professionals. There was no need to stand on ceremony while we were on a war-footing.
“First Officer,” I said. “How long until the ship is made ready?”
“We’re ready now, Sir,” he said. “We’re scheduled to leave—”
“Navigator,” I interrupted, “do you have a course… or whatever the bugs call it?”
“Yes, Sir,” he said. “The calculations are complete. Ready when you are.”
“Well, then,” I said loud enough for everyone to hear, “battle stations.”
“Battle stations!” Zadair repeated while I climbed into my chair and began strapping myself in. The lights on the bridge dimmed and turned red. From somewhere deep in the hull, probably from several locations, the thrummers began pulsing out a pre-programmed pattern of vibrations. In situations where communication was still important, and loud, screeching klaxons would inhibit that, the thrummers were used. They had the same effect but also allowed us to communicate. “Seal the blast doors! Arm the weapons! Engineering, report!”
The engineering officer was struggling with his straps. They weren’t quite meeting at his chest, and he couldn't get the clasp to close. I looked over my right shoulder to my Second Officer’s station and saw an older man—older than I’d expect for a Second Officer—sitting there. His white hair was cropped short but wasn’t thinning. Neither were his enormous eyebrows. The hairs were so long, they’d started curling up as they approached his ears. I made a gesture toward him, then toward the Chief Engineer, who looked like he was about to have a panic attack. He nodded, unbuckled himself, and rushed to the man’s aid.
“Comm, report!” Zadair barked.
“Comm reports five by five,” he said. “The battle station isn’t expecting us to leave for another 96 minutes—”
“The captain said we’re leaving, so we’re leaving!” Zadair retorted. He was turned away from me, so I couldn’t see his face, but his body posture indicated he was ready to fight. The communications officer backed down.
“Combat, report!”
“No shields, Sir,” the 30-something hard-edged woman said. “Ship wasn’t retrofitted with them. But point defense is warmed up.”
“Tactical, report!”
The stout man turned his chair to face the First Officer and paused when the Second Officer ran back to his station. The Chief Engineer was secure.
“Tactical reports ready, Sir,” he said. His wide mouth made me think of a frog, and his nose looked like he’d been involved in more than his share of brawls—some of which he might’ve won. His accent was difficult to place, but I guessed he was Terran, from one of the larger continents.
“Engineering, report!”
“Fuel capacity is at 99%,” he said with a measure of confidence that I found reassuring, especially after struggling with his straps. “All powerplants are online. Capacitors are charged. Cooling systems are nominal.”
Zadair sat hard into his seat and strapped in before spinning to face me. “Bridge reports ready, Commander.”
“Then let’s move into hyperspace.”
It was time the Xeno got what was coming to them. The alien fuckers wouldn’t know what hit them.
Chapter Six
It’s now or never, I told myself. We were about to meet our enemy and deliver a swift, planet-ruining kick to the balls. I let my grin widen.
“Engage the portal generator,” I ordered.
“Engaging the portal generator… now, Sir!” the navigator confirmed.
His head tilted down, and he stabbed a button with his finger, but nothing happened for several seconds. Then the universe tilted a few degrees to port.
It started with a rising sound that began in the belly of the ship. It sounded like a harmonica, played by someone with no teeth or talent. It was a single note, high-pitched and shrill. When it reached a volume that made me want to shove a finger in each of my ears, it stopped, and so did the universe.
The sensation was like being dropped from a shuttle directly into a gravity well by my belly button. Then, it felt like someone was trying to drag my belly button out of my left ear.
And then it was all over. I shook the mental static from my head and noticed several others on the bridge doing the same. There were no fires. The environmental systems appeared to be functioning normally. Nobody was lying on the floor. Other than our tired, bewildered expressions, it appeared that nothing significant had happened at
