Act Two

Babel Falling

Part IV

Jayne Laughlin’s office, Naval Command Building. Februn 4th, 3730.

Jayne Laughlin made a habit of trying not to feel guilty for her decisions. When she made a decision – or on many occasions, chose not to make a decision – it was because it was the choice that was most suitable at the time, and she accepted the consequences of that, right or wrong.

Choosing not to support Uriel Locke, however… that was one choice that was really testing her resolve.

It wasn’t just that Uriel was an old friend – one of her oldest, in fact, and a very handy shoulder to cry on back when her first marriage had broken up and she’d needed to move out of her wife’s house – but the fact that he had been absolutely right. Professor Freume had undermined his authority, in a manner which frankly made Laughlin feel more uneasy than ever about the entire arrangement.

I picked him because I knew he’d do it, she thought bitterly. Well, he’s doing it, alright.

A knock at her door made her look up: her aide, an officer named Gerron, was standing there, hands held behind his back nervously.

“Admiral,” he said, saluting as she noticed him.

“Lieutenant,” she said, returning the salute. “What’s the matter?”

Gerron wet his lips. “It’s… ma’am, a representative of the Holy Order of Sol is here to speak with you.”

Laughlin felt her blood run suddenly cold. A Knight of Sol. The skek.

Knights of Sol were the bodyguard order of the Emperors and Empresses of the Solarin line. Their role in the military proper was largely ceremonial, but every officer knew that when a Knight of Sol was around, trouble followed.

Unfortunately, that just meant that she could not afford to ignore their presence.

“Send them in, Lieutenant,” she said after a moment. “I’ll meet with them now.”

Gerron nodded, and with another, hurried, salute, he ran out. Laughlin took a deep breath.

Whatever it is, she thought grimly, it can’t be good.

A moment later, the Knight appeared, followed by Gerron and by a small figure in a golden robe, a voluminous hood covering their head. Laughlin rose as they entered, trying to glean what she could: the knight’s armour included a full-faceplate, and there were no signs of whether they were a man, a woman, or some other identifier. The rest of the armour was not overly decorated – certainly, it was well made, with golden plating, but it was relatively lacking in decoration. Even the cloak lacked the filigree that normally found its way onto the red apparel of the knights of Sol who served on Caliburn.

Either someone who eschews the aesthetic, or a field-Knight, Laughlin thought, filing away the guess for later use if needed.

“Greetings, your graces,” she said, holding her hand in salute. “I stand as a servant of the Solarin Empire.”

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“As are we all,” the knight said, the helmet tinging the voice with a metallic edge that disguised their gender. They brought a hand up and matched Laughlin’s salute briefly, before lowering their hand. “I am Heth. This is the Fourteenth Oracle.”

The hooded figure brought their hands up, pulling down their hood to reveal the face of a young girl, no older than twenty, with wide eyes that contained no pupils or colour. Laughlin flinched.

“An… an Oracle?” she repeated. “Forgive me, your graces… I did not… I -”

“Oracles are real,” Heth said shortly. “They are a valued resource when they exist. The Fourteenth stated that she would speak with you now, and so it has come to be.”

Laughlin nodded once. “I see. And…” She turned to address the Oracle, who was looking right at her with her blank eyes. “W-what have you… come here to say?”

The girl tilted her head. “The future is written, but the writers know it not. We stand at the edge of a precipice. We know not when it will fall.”

Laughlin frowned. “What?”

“The future,” the girl said again. “Is now. The Babel is falling. It has fallen. It was always there, waiting for them. A lonely tower in a lonely land, and a Captain sent back… but changed. He has changed. He has always been that way. He is changing, now.”

Laughlin’s blood ran cold, a shiver of ice running down her spine. Though the words were strange, spoken in a way that was more lyrical and poetic than she was used to, it didn’t take a poet to discern the meaning.

The Babel is falling.

Uriel, she thought. What have I done?

***

SES Babel. No place. No time.

The ship was shaking: alarms blaring in the background, shouts of alarm from each station. Uriel Locke’s eyes were closed, and as he struggled to open them against a wave of nausea and pain he felt a deep, primal terror at what greeted his gaze.

Hell.

The outside of the observation window was white, blue and green, all of it churning like a turbulent ocean. It was not merely space in negative - it was something else entirely. The core of Uriel’s being felt like someone was reaching into his soul and squeezing.

He could hear Kyrali’s yells, see Benson’s corpse slumped in his chair, shrapnel sticking out of the Midshipman’s back, and standing in front of the window was the form of Alveur Freume. Freume was laughing, his arms held up in a gesture of triumph.

“Professor,” Uriel said weakly, struggling to push himself to his feet. He gritted his teeth, finally, shakily, managing to stand. “Freume!”

The man did not reply, instead simply laughing harder, as though hysterical. Uriel took a step towards him, but every step felt like it was through treacle… if treacle was pushing at the boundaries of what Uriel was pretty sure was his mind, crushing his sense of time or depth perception. In one moment, Freume was laughing right in front of him, and in the next the ten or so steps between the Captain and the manic professor seemed like they encompassed ten thousand miles.

Soleil preserve us, Uriel thought reflexively, and then he took a deep breath.

“Freume!” he called again, but Freume did not answer. “Dammit, Professor, what in the hells -!”

He couldn’t finish his sentence. The ship shook again, and he was thrown to the floor once more. He looked up, eyes widening in horror at the sight of the observation window cracking (that should be impossible).

“All hands, abandon ship!” Uriel heard someone (Kyrali?) yelling from what seemed like very far away.

Freume was still laughing.

“Freume!” Uriel yelled again. “Dammit, what have you done?!”

Freume lowered his arms. Slowly, the Sevine Professor turned. Uriel’s eyes widened in horror: the Professor’s face was covered in cuts, gouges and other deep wounds. When he spoke, his voice was distorted somehow, like there was something else using his mouth to talk.

“We will break through the walls.” He cackled. “We will become as Gods!”

Uriel did not have a moment to decide what the man meant, for in that moment, the window shattered. There was a rush of air, and he saw crew flying through the open window -

Then there was light. Warm, inviting, yet blinding all at once. Uriel struggled to open his eyes. He reached out a hand blindly.

Something grasped it.

***