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Roth’s guns went off, all two of them, lavender bolts that flashed toward the Frenchman, growing steadily fainter until they vanished entirely. Jack hadn’t expected a hit; the bold front of the attack was the point. “Helm,” he said, “lay in to intercept. Give me a 30 degree taking pattern with legs of 1 kilometer. Mister Veidt, fire a salvo each time we cross her bows - keep trying for the range.” He looked down at his nightshirt. “Mister Greenstreet, I’m stepping below to change into something more respectable. Call me if anything changes materially.”
He left the bridge and dropped down the companion to return to his quarters. In the great cabin he paused at the drinks machine. He dearly wanted a cup of coffee, but there was no such machine on the bridge itself, so his officers were without. “The long-term solution is to install a machine on the bridge,” he said to himself, “or perhaps in the officers recreation space there might be more room,” he added as he pulled his nightshirt over his head and tossed it onto a chair. he found a matching set of uniform pants, shirt, and jacket, and threw them on, stepped in front of a mirror to set everything more-or-less straight, and clapped a hat onto his head, Resolutely turning his back on the drinks machine, he returned to the bridge, trying to ignore the first twinges of what he feared to be a caffeine headache.
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