"Maybe I don't want to know this."
She ignored him as she forged ahead. "My console started swearing at me," she said, nodding for emphasis. "Loud."
The pen in Dillon's mouth stopped moving. "This is new."
"I know, right? It seems the system had recorded every time I swore yesterday, and played it all back, in order."
"Good lord," said Dillon. Chief Black's repertoire of obscenities was well documented. "How long did it—"
Black held up four fingers. "Four minutes, sir. Four solid minutes of expletives, swearing, cursing and general-purpose potty mouth." She beamed at him. "I almost cried."
"I would've cried for sure."
"I mean, sir, hearing yourself perform like that… it's truly humbling."
"I hope you saved a copy."
"Aye, sir. I already forwarded it to a few other chiefs. Chief Roberts in the Ojibwa thinks he can out-do me." She shook her head. "He can't."
Dillon just stared at her. He was pretty sure there was a right way and a wrong way to respond to this sort of thing. He couldn't imagine what the right way would be. "So… was it Tremblay?"
"Has to be, sir. I'm so proud."
"So what are you going—"
Across the bridge, Pakinova called out from her terminal. "Sir, coming out of FTL now."
"Thank you," said Dillon, turning his chair to face the windows as the Chief returned to her station.
The moving stars skidded to a halt, and the massive, blue-grey orb of the Daltanin homeworld lurched into place off to their right. The distant planet was surrounded by a ring of glittering points of light, as sunlight glinted off the countless orbiting structures and debris that circled the dead world. Vast, kilometres-long stations, ships, and other satellites, their builders extinct for seven centuries. The planet and its sparkling belt slid to the right as Borealis began a gentle left turn. Their course took them toward the system's central star and another, smaller collection of glittering shapes.
"We're being hailed," said the communications tech. " Vikrant is on station with Restigouche and Antietam . They're expecting us, sir."
"Very well, comms. Extend our greetings. Helm, set us up for a spot at the gate."
"Sir, Vikrant reports the gate is clear at both ends. We can go right through."
"Thank you," said Dillon, reaching above his head to poke at the console on the ceiling. He pushed a button, and a brief whistle sounded through the ship's speakers. "All hands," he said, talking to the console, "we're about to transit the jump gate. Stand by."
Dillon sat back in his chair, crossing his legs in front of him. Out the window, he could see the three patrolling ships and, between them, the swirling sphere of blackness that awaited them. Its surface was perfectly smooth and featureless, save for the occasional flicker of light across its skin; the echo of a distant star on the far side of the jump gate's permanent wormhole. Its edges were rimmed by a shifting red-and-blue glow, the light from nearby stars being stretched into encircling smears. As the Borealis approached, the black sphere grew in the window, until its edges were lost from view. The ship's engines went silent, and Borealis drifted toward the sphere's edge.
"I hate this part," mumbled Dillon through his teeth.
All noise ceased and, after a moment, everything went black. Dillon became disoriented. There was a flash, and a moment's sensation of an angry, seething red glow that filled his mind. Then he felt the numb sensation of reality seeping back in and reimposing itself. His senses returned, slowly at first, and then in a flood.
He was in his seat on the bridge. His pen was in his mouth, and his hands were gripping the arms of his chair. His stomach gave an uneasy lurch, and he had to concentrate to keep the room from moving. To his right, Black was straightening up from where she leaned over her station. Pakinova
She ignored him as she forged ahead. "My console started swearing at me," she said, nodding for emphasis. "Loud."
The pen in Dillon's mouth stopped moving. "This is new."
"I know, right? It seems the system had recorded every time I swore yesterday, and played it all back, in order."
"Good lord," said Dillon. Chief Black's repertoire of obscenities was well documented. "How long did it—"
Black held up four fingers. "Four minutes, sir. Four solid minutes of expletives, swearing, cursing and general-purpose potty mouth." She beamed at him. "I almost cried."
"I would've cried for sure."
"I mean, sir, hearing yourself perform like that… it's truly humbling."
"I hope you saved a copy."
"Aye, sir. I already forwarded it to a few other chiefs. Chief Roberts in the Ojibwa thinks he can out-do me." She shook her head. "He can't."
Dillon just stared at her. He was pretty sure there was a right way and a wrong way to respond to this sort of thing. He couldn't imagine what the right way would be. "So… was it Tremblay?"
"Has to be, sir. I'm so proud."
"So what are you going—"
Across the bridge, Pakinova called out from her terminal. "Sir, coming out of FTL now."
"Thank you," said Dillon, turning his chair to face the windows as the Chief returned to her station.
The moving stars skidded to a halt, and the massive, blue-grey orb of the Daltanin homeworld lurched into place off to their right. The distant planet was surrounded by a ring of glittering points of light, as sunlight glinted off the countless orbiting structures and debris that circled the dead world. Vast, kilometres-long stations, ships, and other satellites, their builders extinct for seven centuries. The planet and its sparkling belt slid to the right as Borealis began a gentle left turn. Their course took them toward the system's central star and another, smaller collection of glittering shapes.
"We're being hailed," said the communications tech. " Vikrant is on station with Restigouche and Antietam . They're expecting us, sir."
"Very well, comms. Extend our greetings. Helm, set us up for a spot at the gate."
"Sir, Vikrant reports the gate is clear at both ends. We can go right through."
"Thank you," said Dillon, reaching above his head to poke at the console on the ceiling. He pushed a button, and a brief whistle sounded through the ship's speakers. "All hands," he said, talking to the console, "we're about to transit the jump gate. Stand by."
Dillon sat back in his chair, crossing his legs in front of him. Out the window, he could see the three patrolling ships and, between them, the swirling sphere of blackness that awaited them. Its surface was perfectly smooth and featureless, save for the occasional flicker of light across its skin; the echo of a distant star on the far side of the jump gate's permanent wormhole. Its edges were rimmed by a shifting red-and-blue glow, the light from nearby stars being stretched into encircling smears. As the Borealis approached, the black sphere grew in the window, until its edges were lost from view. The ship's engines went silent, and Borealis drifted toward the sphere's edge.
"I hate this part," mumbled Dillon through his teeth.
All noise ceased and, after a moment, everything went black. Dillon became disoriented. There was a flash, and a moment's sensation of an angry, seething red glow that filled his mind. Then he felt the numb sensation of reality seeping back in and reimposing itself. His senses returned, slowly at first, and then in a flood.
He was in his seat on the bridge. His pen was in his mouth, and his hands were gripping the arms of his chair. His stomach gave an uneasy lurch, and he had to concentrate to keep the room from moving. To his right, Black was straightening up from where she leaned over her station. Pakinova
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