Episode 32. A Captain's Chair

In the Mercator's shuttle bay, everything is in complete chaos.

Torn beams litter the floor.

Split-open containers have been overturned in the chaos of the evacuation.

Everywhere, traces of what the vessel endured... and of what it could not hold back.

While Angie checks that her little shuttle survived and organizes its transfer to the Enterprise, I search through the wreckage for my motorcycle.

After a few moments, I finally spot it.

Wedged behind a collapsed bulkhead.

I stubbornly clear away the rubble, without really believing it... then I uncover it, almost intact.

To my great satisfaction, it survived the ordeals of the past week.

I start it up.

The engine answers immediately, purring like the first day.

Like lightning, I launch my Ducati onto the Mercator's access ramp and immediately veer right.

I weave at full speed between the docks, through the frantic ballet of personnel and machines, who do not have time to understand what just shot past them.

On the ramp, I pick up just enough speed.

The Ducati lifts off.

A brief moment of suspension...

Then, as we approach the floor, I pivot the motorcycle with precision.

We land in a controlled slide inside the Enterprise's shuttle bay, leaving a long dark streak behind us on the immaculate deck.

Control.

Elegance.

A little too much, maybe.

An officer rushes toward us, red-faced, yelling like a man possessed.

The lieutenant takes my motorcycle away, visibly still shaken by our arrival.

So we head not toward an elevator, but toward a turbolift.

I am going to have to get used to it. The Mercator was not equipped with one.

The difference?

The turbolift does not merely go up or down: it moves in every direction, vertical and horizontal. A luxury... when you have a strong stomach.

After a few seconds of being shaken in every direction, the sliding doors finally open.

We enter our new command room.

The bridge of the Enterprise.

I stare at the perched chair with a grimace of disgust, roll my eyes, and mutter something unintelligible before heading straight for the communications station.

I tap randomly at the screen.

Nothing.

The panel blinks twice, emits a disapproving beep, then goes dark in an almost mocking silence.

Before I even have time to protest, Angie shoves me aside without ceremony and takes my place.

Her fingers fly over the console at a speed bordering on aggression.

In three seconds, the interface lights back up, the channels open, and Vitos's voice is already coming through the speaker.

Angie cuts the communication with a sharp gesture, then turns toward me with a triumphant smile.

Angie does it at once. With a few precise gestures, she drafts and sends the messages.

The console emits a brief whistle confirming transmission.

Angie sketches a smile, then slips her hand into mine.

Together, we leave the bridge, ready to discover our new home.