Chapter 8: Salvage

When I woke up there were two bald, naked people snuggled up to me, one on each side. Quite a trick in a standard-sized bed! I recognized Constance, eventually. The stranger to my right was the newcomer, Kris. Bald? Why were they bald? Bald or not, I was sexually aroused to a fault—throbbing cock, leaking fluid. I hurt!

“Captain Manchester wants everybody on the bridge,” Kelsey announced from my left, standing on the floor and on the other side of Constance. “You have three minutes.”

That was enough time for a shower—30 seconds each. Sex would have to wait. We took up our crew stations. The new girl was sitting at a blank control panel. Modern star ship control panels are configurable “smart boards” that can be worked so that a pilot trained on one configuration can pilot a strange star ship using the familiar controls of the last ship piloted.

“First Officer,” Captain Manchester addressed me formally, despite the fact that everybody on the bridge was nude—nude and bald. No time to ask about the chrome domes now. “You have a decision to make before we enter jump space. Either you will space your prisoner or you will enslave her. Medical Technician Wright will start the process of bonding Kris to you or you can march her to the air lock right now.”

Brutal. Direct. There was only one option.

“Kris, will you be my slave? If it doesn’t work out I can still space you, but if I space you now, there’s no undoing that.” I was scanning my control panel and performing operations for jump space insertion so I didn’t see Kris’s face. “Answer, please. Navigator Londoner has prepared the jump space insertion and has charged the jump capacitors.”

“Yes,” Kris whispered.

“I accept you as my slave,” I said as I made some minor course corrections. A star ship exits jump space with the same vector that it entered jump space. I was making sure that the exit vector was correct according to the latest navigation charts, which were something like 90 years old for our destination. Complex algorithms predicted the positions and vectors of the planetary bodies and other navigational hazards. The physics of jump space precluded exiting jump space in the exclusion zone of any other body in real space, at least that’s the theory proven through millions of successful jump space journeys. Still, it wouldn’t do to have a one light second vector away from the gas giant we were using as our next refueling station. “Navigator, course is verified. Begin count-down.”

“Engineering, report,” Ashley commanded.

“Jump capacitors charged,” Solace reported.

“Jump space insertion in six minutes, mark!” Ashley barked.

As the seconds counted down I was scanning the space surrounding us for threats. I cut power to the maneuver thrusters. Sometimes it’s a good thing to enter jump space under thrust. The procedure then was to cut thrusters after jump space insertion and power them up when exiting jump space, but that complicated the navigator’s job. A constant, unswerving vector had fewer variables to plug in. We were jumping five light years and some change. I noted the time and was astonished that I may have been sleeping for 18 hours.

Jump space insertion procedures follow traditions from the first days of space flight even though automation can handle the entire process. As the 360 seconds counted down, Engineering and Navigation and Helm (that’s me!) talked to each other. Captain Manchester gave the final GO at I minus 30 seconds (thirty seconds prior to insertion) and we were all but committed. At I minus 15 the jump coils energized and the sensors began fading out as the pocket universe, the artificial black hole, formed. To the rear, black nothingness. The side cameras picked up gray as Lightning Bolt vanished from normal space and the stars suddenly streaked forward, forming a brilliant blue-white ball in front of the bow. Just convention, shaping the jump field so that the bow pointed at the destination. Nobody I knew of entered jump space sideways.

“Jump space insertion complete,” Ashley announced.

“Jump drive operation nominal,” Solace reported.

“Helm secured,” I reported.

“Set jump drive alarms,” Elizabeth Manchester commanded. “Secure the bridge and crew report to the mess.”

Crew conference, again. I hate meetings. They’re a fact of life for us social primates, but I still HATE the rituals and posturing and status ploys. Meetings can be productive; usually meetings are a waste of time.