21
The bridge of a Phoenix-Class cruiser was not a large room, but it was big enough for about a dozen crew members to work comfortably. In the exact centre, the captain's chair faced a curved screen of SmartGlass along the front wall.
That chair was occupied by Morris Desarin, who looked very much like the image of authority with his elbow on the armrest. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, eyes fixed dead ahead.
Directly in front of him, the pilot had her back turned as she scanned the readouts of her console, her hands dancing over its surface. A small woman with a bun of brown hair under a black cap to match her uniform, she abruptly sat up straight. “We'll be arriving at the specified coordinates in ten seconds,” she announced.
At the back of the bridge, near several rear-facing con
