Randoms by David Liss

in space?” I tried again.
    He thought about this for a moment, or perhaps his translator was compensating for the idea of worms, which might have struck close to home. “I think so, yes. We call it tunneling. You enter an opening, and then you come out at the determinedlocation. It’s not quite instantaneous, but this ship can traverse nearly sixty light years in the course of a standard day.”
    â€œVery concise, Mr. Zehkl,” the captain said, taking me by the arm and moving me away from his station. “He used to spend an hour saying basically the same thing. He’d actually explain the equations to anyone who was polite enough not to walk away.”
    â€œMa’am, the equations are interesting,” Zehkl called as we walked away.
    The tour continued, and I spoke briefly to Wimlo, the stick insect communications officer, and then we went to the helm station, which was operated by a giant otter with a sharp and hooked beak.
    â€œMs. Ystip,” the captain said, “can you explain the basic functioning of the helm to Mr. Reynolds?”
    â€œMaybe,” the creature said, in a high and distinctly feminine voice, “if he promises me a rematch in Approximate Results from Endeavors.”
    â€œThat was you?” I couldn’t suppress a smile.
    â€œIt was me,” she said. “You’re good for a beginner. If you’d like, you can meet me in the officers’ lounge after 2200 and we’ll play a few rounds.”
    â€œI’d love that!” The humans didn’t much like me, but the beaked otter thought I was okay.
    After Ystip gave me a quick rundown of how the helm works, we moved to the weapons console. Sitting there was a short and squat being with large black eyes that had no irises. A decidedly hoglike snout protruded ungracefully from its face, and it had a pair of menacing tusks on either side. It was covered with tough gray hide, and thick ropy hair, like dreadlocks, hung from its head.
    â€œMr. Urch,” the captain said, “please show our guest how the weapons station works.”
    â€œDo you use weapons often?” I asked. “I thought the Confederation was peaceful.”
    â€œWe are,” the captain said, “but not everyone else is.”
    Urch rose from his seat and gestured toward it. He was the same height as I was, but broad and muscular, and he held himself like he was struggling against the urge to commit unspeakable acts of violence. “Sit,” he said with a grunt.
    It seemed like doing what he said was a good idea. I sat.
    â€œLet me show you a simulation.” He pressed a few buttons on his display console, and a grid appeared, green against a black background. The outlines of two enemy ships manifested. On the right side of the panel were multiple weapons sources, while data about distance, shielding, speed, and posturing of the hostile craft scrolled on the left.
    â€œMany ship functions are automated,” he said, “but in combat, all targeting and weapons discharge must be handled by a sentient.”
    â€œThe computer can’t do it more accurately?”
    â€œNo,” he snapped as though the question offended him. “It is standard ship design to vent radiation exhaust, which distorts an enemy’s sensor readings. There is no known way to compensate. Targeting must be done by cruder means. It’s not a task for all beings. To operate the weapons, you need a steady hand and a fierce heart.”
    One of the enemy ships turned and fired some sort of weapon at us. The left side of the screen relayed information on damage. “Here is an enemy ship. It will destroy us if we do not fight back,” Urch said with a grunt. “You tap on the ship to target a particular sector.” He placed a long, clawed, and strangely delicate finger on the ship, which immediately enlarged and broke down into a dozen hexagons each marked with data like LIFE SUPPORT or ENGINES or