Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [24]
The Old Man smiled and nodded, pleased. “What about the ventilation?”
“Specs call for a superannuated System Four and what you need is a minimum of a Five. A Six would be better.”
“The Empire deems a Four adequate.”
“The idiot who drew up the engineering specs was interested in saving money—if he had to sit in this hall with four thousand other beings, each putting out between sixty and a hundred and forty watts of heat and copious amounts of carbon dioxide, not to mention various body odors, while listening to some long-winded admiral blather on for two hours, he’d upgrade the air exchangers as soon as he could get to a requisition form.”
The Old Man laughed. “I can see why you were sent to prison. Political delicacy is not one of your strong points, is it?”
She shrugged. “Form follows function.”
“The defense of the idealist. I will grant you that the Empire is slow to learn basic architectural concepts.” He nodded at the three-dimensional image. “All right. Make the portal changes. I’ll allow a Five for the exchangers. What else?”
Teela could not stop her grin. She was a political prisoner of the Empire, but at least she was being allowed to do work she knew how to do. As vast as the project was, they needed all the help they could get, and she was very good at her job. The Old Man knew it, even though he kept verbally poking at her every time they spoke. He himself was a willing tool of the Empire, but he had designed everything from refreshers to superskytowers, skyhooks to sports stadiums, and he had forgotten more than most architects learned in a lifetime of study. She had trained with some of the best, and she knew the hand of a master when she felt it. She didn’t enjoy being tested like a third-year arcology student this way, but she also felt a little surge of pride every time the Old Man smiled and nodded at one of her suggestions. It was good to be acknowledged by someone of his ability.
As she pointed out other inefficiencies in the standard design, however, she felt it again: that tiny twinge, that brief moment of discomfort. She was working for the Empire, a thing she had sworn she would never do, helping design a vessel that would, in all probability, be the most fearsome weapon the galaxy had ever seen. While it was true that improving the biometrics and seating pattern in an assembly hall was not the same as devising a superlaser that could melt moons, still …
Still, one was either a factor in something’s success, or a factor in its failure.
Working for the enemy, said the little voice she sometimes heard in her head. She often visualized it as a miniature version of herself, shaking a chastising finger. How sad is that?
Not as if I had a choice, is it? she replied mentally. Nobody asked me if I wanted the job, now, did they?
You could have turned it down, the avatar of her conscience shot back.
And been sent back to that serpent’s nest of a planet to rot and die? To what end?
Her inner self fell silent.
“We can’t do that,” the Old Man said to her suggestion of natural lighting in the complex. “I have limits.”
She nodded. She had thought that would be his response, but there was no harm in asking. The Old Man had considerable power when it came to design alterations. Several times Teela had seen specifications upgraded and improved to heights well beyond what she had expected. This project had support at the highest levels. While the admirals who controlled the credits were always trying to pinch and hold on to as many as they could, nobody was going to stint on anything that would make it function as intended.
Too bad the original designers hadn’t had that mandate.
Teela hadn’t seen all of the master plans—she didn’t think anybody below the Old Man’s standing had seen all of them—but there were