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Bridge of the Firmitas
"Third hallway, one-hundred-and-fifty fulms. Turn a right dial underneath a set of three short, glowing blue lines. Wait five seconds. Press the panel underneath the dial. It will slide open."
". . . Confirmed."
This was a dumb idea. No, Ulf corrected himself, it wasn't a dumb idea, it was an adventurer's idea. There was a crucial but subtle difference. A dumb idea could simply fail or be outright disastrous. An adventurer's idea was simultaneously so ridiculous that it had no logical chance of being the first or even the best possible solution, but so audacious that it had the air of mad impossibility to it, possessing an intangible "What if?" that could motivate the people performing it to heights of ability which would ensure its success.
A few weeks ago, he would have thought standing up to a Borealis-class airship with little anti-air and less direct air support was a dumb idea. If they had better forewarning, he would have counselled evacuation, and offered his ships to do it. He had taken limited steps in that regard by assigning veteranus Ironfist to man the assault craft. And yet here they were, now stationed outside the harbor of Gloam with the island unharmed and its people triumphant.
Likewise, the thought of dragging Architectus Van Gravis from his confinement in quarters and keeping him trussed up on the bridge to relay instructions to the Immersabilis crew in Dagon 1500 yalms below the ocean's surface had seemed a dumb idea. He was held at swordpoint, of course, but that wouldn't stop him from telling the crew to turn a dial left when they should have turned it right, only for the facility's aspect-conversion engine to turn Gloam into a ceruleum volcano all for the sake of spite. It seemed doomed to fail, but no one understood the workings of the facility better than he.
Their options had appeared limited - either find enough engineers of sufficient skill to decipher the workings of the place while dealing with a still-damaged whale-ship and hope nothing in the facility went awry in the moons or more it would take to do so, risking attacks by the deepkin on the island all the while, or take the risk of detonating the place from afar with the Immersabilis' magitek cannon, consequences be damned. Ulf had thought, and thought, and then sat down with the Architectus and had a good, long chat. The contents of that conversation led to the current state, in which he meekly relayed instructions to the team below through an overcharged communicator.
"Central hallway. Do not approach the glowing tubes, there are chimeras in there. Straight line through to the central control unit. Regulate ceruleum flow to ten percent."
"Ten percent?" Ulf's voice had a warning note. "Not zero?"
"If you want your precious island to have enough fuel to trade, it still needs that residual trickle," Virgil snapped. He had agreed to their arrangement, but he still seemed to rankle at no longer being in command. Ulf couldn't blame him for that. "It can produce that even in a dormant state. Or do you want the pumps to corrode without a constant flow?"
". . . Ten percent, then."
Virgil tried to make an exaggerated, sarcastic gesture of thanks with his hands bound, but found the point of the gunblade deterred him. Sighing, he returned to the communicator. "Ten percent," he repeated. "Confirm?"
". . . Confirmed."
"Good. Final step. Remove three cores from central command. Look for panels underneath the consoles. Should be a glowing yellow. Do not remove glowing blue unless you want the deepkin to rampage. Ten-count between each core's removal."
"Acknowledged. Removing first core."Â
A dreadful silence fell over the bridge. The command staff were present, but with the Firmitas stationary in the water and no gunships on flight paths, there was little to do but listen. Every man and woman at their station had their fingers near a specific button, or a particular lever, all to be used to prepare to evacuate if things went awry.
"Removing second core."Â
Ulf held his breath and tightened his grip on his gunblade. A single wrong move and all of the victories of the past moon were for naught, their defection without meaning. They would face the choice of returning to Garlemald to face the noose or to Vylbrand to suffer the attentions of the Eorzeans, and their accolades for the triumph at Gloam would only take them so far.
"Removing third core."
Ticking chronometers were a thing of the past in Garlemald, obsolete curiosities, but with the exception of the Architectus every man and woman on the Firmitas was Ala Mhigan born. Even without such a device nearby, the bridge crew could hear the sound of it in their heads as ten seconds passed.
". . . Third core removed. Dagon powering down. Repeat, Dagon sleeps."
They were a well-trained and disciplined crew, but Ulf forgave them the sighs of relief and the relaxing of posture at their stations, and overlooked the occasional cheer. He took hold of the communicator as his attentions on the Architectus relaxed. "Confirmed, team. Return to the Immersabilis and prepare to surface. Excellent work."
Virgil relaxed in kind, confident that his death was at least a little less imminent. "Will that be all, Pilus?" he said with the kind of withering sarcasm best reserved for mocking a schoolteacher's position.
"Commander will do, please," Ulf replied in as mild a tone of voice as he could manage. He gestured to two of the bridge guards. "Please escort the Architectus back to his chambers."
"Turning against the Empire," Virgil grumbled as he was hauled out of his chair and to his feet. "Selling out to pirates and eikon-lovers. Giving over our weapons!" He shot one last glare at Ulf with his third eye as he was led off of the bridge. "Thunderfell would be ashamed of you. If she were alive."
The crew of the bridge, which had fallen back into their more relaxed chatter of directing gunships to launch and guiding the whale-ship back to its docking point, fell silent. All expected the crack of a gunshot, or a fist against Virgil's face - and from Ulf, all knew that was as good as a gunshot. Yet he only sighed.
"You're right," he admitted. "She would. I suppose I just know why that shouldn't matter anymore." He turned on his heel to face the bridge. "To his quarters, please."
"Third hallway, one-hundred-and-fifty fulms. Turn a right dial underneath a set of three short, glowing blue lines. Wait five seconds. Press the panel underneath the dial. It will slide open."
". . . Confirmed."
This was a dumb idea. No, Ulf corrected himself, it wasn't a dumb idea, it was an adventurer's idea. There was a crucial but subtle difference. A dumb idea could simply fail or be outright disastrous. An adventurer's idea was simultaneously so ridiculous that it had no logical chance of being the first or even the best possible solution, but so audacious that it had the air of mad impossibility to it, possessing an intangible "What if?" that could motivate the people performing it to heights of ability which would ensure its success.
A few weeks ago, he would have thought standing up to a Borealis-class airship with little anti-air and less direct air support was a dumb idea. If they had better forewarning, he would have counselled evacuation, and offered his ships to do it. He had taken limited steps in that regard by assigning veteranus Ironfist to man the assault craft. And yet here they were, now stationed outside the harbor of Gloam with the island unharmed and its people triumphant.
Likewise, the thought of dragging Architectus Van Gravis from his confinement in quarters and keeping him trussed up on the bridge to relay instructions to the Immersabilis crew in Dagon 1500 yalms below the ocean's surface had seemed a dumb idea. He was held at swordpoint, of course, but that wouldn't stop him from telling the crew to turn a dial left when they should have turned it right, only for the facility's aspect-conversion engine to turn Gloam into a ceruleum volcano all for the sake of spite. It seemed doomed to fail, but no one understood the workings of the facility better than he.
Their options had appeared limited - either find enough engineers of sufficient skill to decipher the workings of the place while dealing with a still-damaged whale-ship and hope nothing in the facility went awry in the moons or more it would take to do so, risking attacks by the deepkin on the island all the while, or take the risk of detonating the place from afar with the Immersabilis' magitek cannon, consequences be damned. Ulf had thought, and thought, and then sat down with the Architectus and had a good, long chat. The contents of that conversation led to the current state, in which he meekly relayed instructions to the team below through an overcharged communicator.
"Central hallway. Do not approach the glowing tubes, there are chimeras in there. Straight line through to the central control unit. Regulate ceruleum flow to ten percent."
"Ten percent?" Ulf's voice had a warning note. "Not zero?"
"If you want your precious island to have enough fuel to trade, it still needs that residual trickle," Virgil snapped. He had agreed to their arrangement, but he still seemed to rankle at no longer being in command. Ulf couldn't blame him for that. "It can produce that even in a dormant state. Or do you want the pumps to corrode without a constant flow?"
". . . Ten percent, then."
Virgil tried to make an exaggerated, sarcastic gesture of thanks with his hands bound, but found the point of the gunblade deterred him. Sighing, he returned to the communicator. "Ten percent," he repeated. "Confirm?"
". . . Confirmed."
"Good. Final step. Remove three cores from central command. Look for panels underneath the consoles. Should be a glowing yellow. Do not remove glowing blue unless you want the deepkin to rampage. Ten-count between each core's removal."
"Acknowledged. Removing first core."Â
A dreadful silence fell over the bridge. The command staff were present, but with the Firmitas stationary in the water and no gunships on flight paths, there was little to do but listen. Every man and woman at their station had their fingers near a specific button, or a particular lever, all to be used to prepare to evacuate if things went awry.
"Removing second core."Â
Ulf held his breath and tightened his grip on his gunblade. A single wrong move and all of the victories of the past moon were for naught, their defection without meaning. They would face the choice of returning to Garlemald to face the noose or to Vylbrand to suffer the attentions of the Eorzeans, and their accolades for the triumph at Gloam would only take them so far.
"Removing third core."
Ticking chronometers were a thing of the past in Garlemald, obsolete curiosities, but with the exception of the Architectus every man and woman on the Firmitas was Ala Mhigan born. Even without such a device nearby, the bridge crew could hear the sound of it in their heads as ten seconds passed.
". . . Third core removed. Dagon powering down. Repeat, Dagon sleeps."
They were a well-trained and disciplined crew, but Ulf forgave them the sighs of relief and the relaxing of posture at their stations, and overlooked the occasional cheer. He took hold of the communicator as his attentions on the Architectus relaxed. "Confirmed, team. Return to the Immersabilis and prepare to surface. Excellent work."
Virgil relaxed in kind, confident that his death was at least a little less imminent. "Will that be all, Pilus?" he said with the kind of withering sarcasm best reserved for mocking a schoolteacher's position.
"Commander will do, please," Ulf replied in as mild a tone of voice as he could manage. He gestured to two of the bridge guards. "Please escort the Architectus back to his chambers."
"Turning against the Empire," Virgil grumbled as he was hauled out of his chair and to his feet. "Selling out to pirates and eikon-lovers. Giving over our weapons!" He shot one last glare at Ulf with his third eye as he was led off of the bridge. "Thunderfell would be ashamed of you. If she were alive."
The crew of the bridge, which had fallen back into their more relaxed chatter of directing gunships to launch and guiding the whale-ship back to its docking point, fell silent. All expected the crack of a gunshot, or a fist against Virgil's face - and from Ulf, all knew that was as good as a gunshot. Yet he only sighed.
"You're right," he admitted. "She would. I suppose I just know why that shouldn't matter anymore." He turned on his heel to face the bridge. "To his quarters, please."
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Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine