Anne had been forced to her bunk by the first mate, after hours of running scans on the ship, ensuring that the new weapons were up to date, and that the AI had sync'd with them properly, and made the appropriate adjustments to auto-calibration and tactics. Her boots, blouse and overcoat lay on the small chair in the spartan captain's quarters; Anne lay in bed wearing an undershirt and pants. Her mind still buzzed with all the numbers flying through her head, calculating, approximating, adjusting. She woozily searched for a sedative, her hand flopping against the cool metal surface of the bedside drawer. Her hand closed over the syringe. She was about to plunge the potent cocktail into the small port in her wrist, when red lights flashed and an alarm, the call to arms, sounded. All weariness forgotten, Anne jumped up, slipped on her boots and shirt, and ran to the bridge.
"What's the situation?" Her loyal crew were already there, and the AI was already recalibrating itself, performing billions of calculations a second to ensure maximum fire efficiency.
"Pirates, mam. A lot of them. Her first mate, a man named Sedgefield, looked at her grimly. Not missing a beat, Anne pressed a button, opening the comm channel.
"Deflectors up, all systems are green for activation!"
"Aye-aye, mam!"