There she stands, consoles flickering with each blast. Muffled explosions emanate through the ship, a dozen men in uniform jog from one place to the next, each with a sense of purpose, but each with a look of panic. Hands on her hips, she stands calm, eyes darting from one screen to the next. Her lips move, orders given firmly and quickly, with confidence. She doesn't bark, she doesn't shout, but there is authority to her voice. Our Fleet Master can drown out the steady thrum of the engines and the heavy reverberations of explosions without ever raising her voice. The crew dart about; shouting, yelling, running. She is the eye of the storm.
"Dammit!" cried a Chief Gunner at his quivering screen and the gunners beyond, "Fire as they bear, don't waste your time shooting at the fucking stars, wait until you've got a clean shot!"
The ship rocked, shaken by another blast, driving a few new hands off their feet, the veterans quickly grabbing rails to hold themselves up, bending their knees as the ship listed. Still, she stood, leaning into the list, but keeping her feet firmly planted as though she had rooted herself to the deck.
Slowly, the gravity of the ship aligned itself, and the storm of voices and feet continued.
Even as far as the bridge, I could hear the shell casings hitting the deck from the heavy guns. The empty tubes falling from the guns rang as they clanged to the deck.
"Dorsal batteries aren't responding, Fleet Master," shouted a panicked Ensign from his station.
Leaning onto the rail, she stared at the helmsman, "Come about, present our main batteries," then turning quickly to the Chief Gunner, "Hold your fire until every gun is in range."
"Aye, Fleet Master" they responded in unison.
The Unyielding Daylight rolled, still shaking with every hit taken, but the gun batteries ominously silent. It was then that I realized, in a strange, half dazed sort of way, that the ship itself was turning. With artificial gravity, you don't even feel it, as you'd expect, you just sort of see space spinning around you. In this almost shell shocked way, despite the din of battle, I wondered at the notion that outside of our ship, despite all the chaos and fury inside, it was absolutely silent in the vacuum of space.
"Guns are brought to bear, ma'am!" cried the Chief Gunner.
"Give them a broadside."
I felt the concussion in my chest, the impressive display of light as the ship lived up to it's name, blinding as the guns erupted.
The clang of empty shells rang once more, and the sound of metal on metal as the crews deftly reloaded. I could hear it so clearly, because the storm had abated. The bridge was suddenly tense, as if every officer were ready to pounce, flexing their muscles and eying their prey. I allowed myself a glance through the open windows, turning away from my own screen as I did. I thought it was improper, turning away from my work to see what our guns would do, but I was rewarded for the risk. Plumes of flame blossomed from the vessel, dissipating quickly in space, leaving behind scattered scraps of metal, spinning endlessly in the void.
Cheers erupted, officers stood and yelled, pumping their fists in triumph, shaking hands. As I glanced back at the Fleet Master, I saw something she hadn't yet done. She smiled. It wasn't that she were dark and brooding, or overly stern and cold, just that she'd had a goal. It was set, she knew what she needed to do, and she'd done it. Now, she could revel in the glory of the moment.
"Fleet Master," said the navigator, his wide eyes and broad smile betraying the good news, "The enemy vessels are showing their engines, they're fleeing!"
"Shall we pursue?" asked the helmsman.
"Our duty," said the Fleet Master, "Is to provide support for the troops planet side. The enemy fleet fled, we've done our job."
"What bearing shall we take?" asked the Navigator.
"Set us in low orbit, I want us in position to begin an orbital bombardment if necessary. Understood?"
"Aye, Fleet Master"
Turning to her executive officer, a burly man in a pristine uniform, "The bridge is yours. Alert me if we have any more trouble."
"Aye, ma'am."
***
It was a short while later that I joined the Fleet Master in her quarters. The large, open room doubled as a conference room, as was evident by the long table in the center of the room. It was a nod to the practicality of the Fleet Master that the well kept room had a double purpose.
The walls were smooth and freshly painted. They were divided by dark blue on the bottom, and gray on the top, segregated by a thin gold line. Her large velvet bed sat against one corner of the room, pressed up against the wall with a locker at the foot of the bed, and a bedside table that was bare save for the Uplifting Primer and a single lamp. Unlike much of the ship, the quarters had a pleasant smell to them, devoid of the oil and grease of the rest of the vessel.
Sitting at the table across from me, she sat contentedly. Her uniform was a utilitarian jumpsuit of gray and blue, with gold piping and a gold emblem pinned proudly to her chest. Simple epaulets clung to her shoulders, and her commander's cap sat on the table. Despite the practicality of the uniform and the military bearing of it, or perhaps because of this, she maintained a feminine sensibility. The jumpsuit was simple, practical, and functional, yet accentuated the curve of her body. Her dark hair was tied back, but a few locks hung to either side of her face, framing her expression.
"I'm glad you could join me, scribe," she said with a sly smile arching over her lips.
"It's my pleasure, ma'am," I said, feeling distinctly out of place in my khaki uniform, worn and faded from countless campaigns.
"I understand that your efforts as a scribe are for the benefit of your home planet."
"To be fair," I ventured, "What benefits one of our worlds can benefit all of them."
"A noble effort," she said, brushing a lock of hair from her face.
