Champing At the Bit
Character timeline: post-Season Four
Scorpius sweeps past the guards, fast strides carrying him beyond earshot of Crichton's anger. That the Human is right, and he wrong, only adds to the hybrid's ire.
The test had failed.
He had felt in his bones the touch of victory when the pilot stepped free of her craft. The woman had flown without error, had maneuvered through the twisting curves of the wormhole with grace as well as skill. The Centauri vessel's scanners had recorded every microt of the journey as she followed their course.
Crichton had remained tight-lipped and cold-eyed the entire time, after arguing with Scorpius in the laboratory earlier.
"It's not right yet," he'd said, slapping his hand against a table. "We're close. According to computer simulations, the phase shielding reacts with the new silicate coating to give us an almost 87% survival rate. But we are not ready for live trials."
Scorpius had sighed, hands tightening on the back of Crichton's chair. "Time is not on our side, John. We have monens at most before the Scarran unrest spills beyond the Imperium."
The Human had shaken his head, rising out of the chair and moving a few steps away. "Wasting pilots isn't going to speed things up, Grasshopper. Come on, just a few more days. I'm sure Lawis is on to something with the hull's inner layer." He'd waved his hand toward the woman leaning over her terminal at the back of the chamber. "All the experiments show that it's unstable under the higher subspace harmonics that wormholes produce."
"If you would end this stubborn opposition to giving me wormhole technology," Scorpius had replied, "We would not be 'wasting' pilots, or time that we do not have. Using the silicate compound on the outer hull was your suggestion, if you recall. It should dampen the resonance enough, you said, along with the shielding, to allow a successful flight."
Narrowed eyes had glared at him. "I said it might work. I said we had to work the kinks out first."
Taking a step toward John, Scorpius had slapped a sheaf of flimsies against the Human's chest. "Do not expect me to cater to your demands this time, John. My patience is not what it once was."
He had ignored Crichton's anger then, had ignored it during the otherwise glorious flight through the wormhole.
The Prowler had followed the larger ship, both alien and Peacekeeper sensors recording everything. They had returned to the carrier, and the pilot had popped open her canopy and climbed out, crisp and trim in her black flightsuit, light hair mussed by her helmet as she slipped it off to salute Scorpius. Crichton had trailed along behind, wearing a mingled expression of hope and dread.
Then the pilot had begun to bleed. She'd brought her hand up to her face, gingerly wiped a finger under her nose, then stared at the moistened tip. Crichton had cursed softly, muttering something that sounded like "Linfer".
Scorpius had closed his eyes as he recalled the Relgarian scientist who'd defected.
"Officer Yare, report to Medical." He'd watched the woman march away, her shoulders straight and her head high. Turning, he'd found eyes bright with anger and malice staring into his own.
"How many more pilots you got, Grasshopper? 'Cause at this rate, you'll kill them all and save the Scarrans the trouble."
He'd had to restrain himself from striking down that glittering humorless grin. No one but Crichton could so easily provoke him, and he had not lied about the limits of his patience. Walking away without strangling the Human had tested the depths of his self-control far beyond measure.
Alone in his quarters, he stares at screens of figures until his eyes burn. They are close, as John had said. But not close enough.
"John," he says aloud, eyes losing focus as he turns his gaze inward. "Our time is running out." He can feel it slipping away from him, like dust falling through his fingers.
Scorpius sweeps past the guards, fast strides carrying him beyond earshot of Crichton's anger. That the Human is right, and he wrong, only adds to the hybrid's ire.
The test had failed.
He had felt in his bones the touch of victory when the pilot stepped free of her craft. The woman had flown without error, had maneuvered through the twisting curves of the wormhole with grace as well as skill. The Centauri vessel's scanners had recorded every microt of the journey as she followed their course.
Crichton had remained tight-lipped and cold-eyed the entire time, after arguing with Scorpius in the laboratory earlier.
"It's not right yet," he'd said, slapping his hand against a table. "We're close. According to computer simulations, the phase shielding reacts with the new silicate coating to give us an almost 87% survival rate. But we are not ready for live trials."
Scorpius had sighed, hands tightening on the back of Crichton's chair. "Time is not on our side, John. We have monens at most before the Scarran unrest spills beyond the Imperium."
The Human had shaken his head, rising out of the chair and moving a few steps away. "Wasting pilots isn't going to speed things up, Grasshopper. Come on, just a few more days. I'm sure Lawis is on to something with the hull's inner layer." He'd waved his hand toward the woman leaning over her terminal at the back of the chamber. "All the experiments show that it's unstable under the higher subspace harmonics that wormholes produce."
"If you would end this stubborn opposition to giving me wormhole technology," Scorpius had replied, "We would not be 'wasting' pilots, or time that we do not have. Using the silicate compound on the outer hull was your suggestion, if you recall. It should dampen the resonance enough, you said, along with the shielding, to allow a successful flight."
Narrowed eyes had glared at him. "I said it might work. I said we had to work the kinks out first."
Taking a step toward John, Scorpius had slapped a sheaf of flimsies against the Human's chest. "Do not expect me to cater to your demands this time, John. My patience is not what it once was."
He had ignored Crichton's anger then, had ignored it during the otherwise glorious flight through the wormhole.
The Prowler had followed the larger ship, both alien and Peacekeeper sensors recording everything. They had returned to the carrier, and the pilot had popped open her canopy and climbed out, crisp and trim in her black flightsuit, light hair mussed by her helmet as she slipped it off to salute Scorpius. Crichton had trailed along behind, wearing a mingled expression of hope and dread.
Then the pilot had begun to bleed. She'd brought her hand up to her face, gingerly wiped a finger under her nose, then stared at the moistened tip. Crichton had cursed softly, muttering something that sounded like "Linfer".
Scorpius had closed his eyes as he recalled the Relgarian scientist who'd defected.
"Officer Yare, report to Medical." He'd watched the woman march away, her shoulders straight and her head high. Turning, he'd found eyes bright with anger and malice staring into his own.
"How many more pilots you got, Grasshopper? 'Cause at this rate, you'll kill them all and save the Scarrans the trouble."
He'd had to restrain himself from striking down that glittering humorless grin. No one but Crichton could so easily provoke him, and he had not lied about the limits of his patience. Walking away without strangling the Human had tested the depths of his self-control far beyond measure.
Alone in his quarters, he stares at screens of figures until his eyes burn. They are close, as John had said. But not close enough.
"John," he says aloud, eyes losing focus as he turns his gaze inward. "Our time is running out." He can feel it slipping away from him, like dust falling through his fingers.