Act Two
Babel Falling
Part II
SES Babel, Decyn 14th, 3729.
“Excuse me?!”
Uriel frowned at Freume’s tone. Had they been on the bridge, he would have been livid at the disrespectful tone being displayed in front of the crew. As it stood, they were in Uriel’s office, so he chose to allow the Professor some leeway – after all, he wasn’t military.
Still, best not to antagonise him more, Uriel thought, and he took a breath before replying.
“I said, we’ll be continuing our short flights for now,” he said, putting as much emphasis as he could behind the words ‘for now’ without making it sound like a joke, “until I’m satisfied that the system is completely safe.” He gave Freume a small, cold smile. “I’ve already made my report – the Babel has been doing very well, but I still want to play it safe, and Sci-Corp has agreed with my recommendation.” He shrugged idly. “Something about a good sample size?”
Freume was angry. Uriel had seen that shade of purple on Sevine before, right before they gave long, furious rants about something or another. But the expected rant didn’t come: instead, the scientist took a long, deep breath, as though steadying himself.
“I see,” he said coldly. “Tell me – what does the Sci-Corp recommend as a ‘good sample size’?”
“Two hundred fifty short flights,” Uriel said. “We’ve done something like twenty, so it’ll be a little tedious, but the more complete the data is, the happier they’ll be, and the happier I’ll be.”
“I see. Two hundred and fifty short flights.” Freume narrowed his eyes and sneered, as though the very thought were disgusting to him. “Have you a particular destination in mind? Your back garden? The local children’s nursery?”
Time to throw this guy the bone to shut him up, Uriel thought, taking another breath to calm himself.
“Well,” he said, tapping his desk computer’s console, “my understanding is that the short flights required could, theoretically, take us to the edge of the Empire. The Desolation, to be precise.” He smiled at Freume. “If they’re successful and the Sci-Corp agrees, I’ll give you your long flight – all the way from the edge of the Desolation right to Zero Zero Seven again.”
“Unacceptable,” Freume said at once, surprising Uriel with his snappish tone. “The engine is ready now. Delaying -”
“Professor,” Uriel said, cutting him off and dropping the smile. “Delaying is my decision. If you don’t like it, that’s fine, but this is still my ship.”
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Freume narrowed his eyes. “Your fear and small-mindedness, Captain, should not be the barometer by which science is progressed.”
“Fear?” Uriel repeated, hissing the word. He took a deep, steadying breath. “You’re damn right I’m afraid. If you’re right about this engine, Professor, then it might become the standard one day, and I accept that. Hell, if it’s as good as you think it is, I welcome it. You’re not wrong about any of the advantages it could give us.” He narrowed his eyes at the Professor. “Right now, though? It’s new. Every officer on my bridge skeks themselves when we go through that place. And frankly, they’re right to. You and I both know that Underspace’s reputation isn’t something to laugh at.”
“You mean the delusions of a more superstitious age?” Freume hissed. “The hysterical beliefs of the early Empire and their fables of dæmons and monsters?”
“The early Empire set up the Desolation Stations,” Uriel retorted. “They instigated so many backups and failsafes. You think that’s all veerskaak? You think it’s lasted for almost ten thousand years, through insurrections and interregnums, for no reason?”
Freume’s skin paled, and for a moment Uriel wondered if he was calming down or whether this was a prelude to another blow-up. Then, finally, he nodded once.
“Very well, Captain,” the Professor said in a cold tone. “I concede to the superior authority on this occasion.”
And without waiting to be dismissed, he stood and turned, leaving the room without another word. Uriel watched him go and pondered, for a moment, if he ought to challenge the Professor on his conduct. Then he dismissed that thought as quickly as it had come – challenging a civilian on his lack of military professionalism was like challenging a dak on its inability to communicate with a veer. Better to just let the man vent wherever he planned to vent and then get back to work.
***
Alveur Freume was not merely livid. He was so angry that he could almost feel the blood vessels in his body tightening in anger, feel the increased adrenaline surges that accompanied incandescent rage. His skin was turning deep, livid purple, and he was hissing every breath in pent up rage.
Uriel Locke had never been deliberately obstructive up until this point. Why choose now, when the two of them together were so close to greatness?
No, a voice seemed to say to Freume. Not the two of you. Just you. He’s jealous – like all little men, he either cannot comprehend the enormity of what you are achieving, or he can and it frightens him. The coward.
Freume let out a hissing sigh. But what to do? He has command of this ship.
Ah, but you said it yourself, the voice seemed to say. Concede to the superior authority. Locke is only a Captain, after all.
Freume’s complexion paled back to its normal blue, and he took a calming breath. Of course – Locke relied on the hierarchy of the navy – the hierarchy of this ship – to get his way. Why would he not, when it served him so? But it was like any system – it could be made to serve anyone… if you knew how to manipulate it.
And Alveur, after all these months, knew well enough how to manipulate it. He smiled, already pulling up his computer and typing up a message directly to Admiral Diakos.
Yes, that little voice his thoughts were speaking in said. Everything will be perfect. The Underspace engine will be perfect, and all possibilities will be at your fingertips.
Everything will be as it should be, at last.
***