Smoothing over discussions

The Grand Consul seemed to spend more time each day communicating at great volume from short range. Regrettably, one could not dispute the effectiveness of his outbursts (timed, Baan had noted, to occur no more frequently than once an hour). Since the outbreak of the crisis, the command deck staff had been operating above their usual efficiency. Each was a tightly wound spring, noting systemic and situational faults with admirable speed, then moving swiftly to rectify the matter before the Grand Consul noticed himself.

The orderly, a sturdy dwarf bearing an armful of hand-written reports, blinked as a drop of spittle arced onto her cheek. "Sir," she repeated, "that patrol doesn't have the aether. The renegades at the hub have been cutting off the feeds, piping it to some project—"

"So help me," Tezzeret growled. "If you give me one more excuse. Just. One. I will personally ram your head through the—"

Baan stepped forward, heels clicking smartly on the steel deck plates. To have the Grand Consul threaten the life of a messenger, as if he were some criminal thug instead of a minister of the apparatus of state, would unacceptably undercut the moral authority of the Consulate for all those present. Not the legal authority, of course, but one was oft-mistaken for the other.

"This is the potential peril of a centralized aether distribution center," Baan took pains to keep his voice as neutral as possible; flat, unconcerned, perfectly gray. As cool and nondescript as the mists burning off the Vinday River far below.

***

Burn