Scott Cherella forced himself to stay calm while all hell broke loose. He’d barely recovered from being yanked off Earth, sliced-and-diced into microscopic particles by a transport beam then reassembled aboard a starship—all particles, hopefully, in their appropriate places.
He took a deep breath and willed his excitement not to show. The command center was larger than he expected, approximately three hundred square feet in area, wider across and sloping from aft to fore.
Holy Moley. He couldn’t get over it. He was on the bridge of a starship.
His heart raced. The tension in the room was palpable. The ship was in danger of attack and all he could think about was how thrilled he was to be there. He had to pull himself together, put into practice his military training and assess the situation like the commander he was supposed to be.
He quickly scanned the room. The science station was aft and to port, communications starboard. Just as the diagrams indicated. Helm was fore and center. Directly in front of the helm—navigation—position was an enormous viewscreen.
Oh, my God. Space, up close and personal.
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