Archive of Our Own ^beta

Here is the thing about rank: it keeps things together.

Hilbert is a man of logic, of objects confined to a plane, of a certain set of rules that things will comply to as they must. Hilbert is made of impossibly intricate cells weaved together in one of the most complex systems known to man: life.

Here is the thing about life: it, too, must have rules.

There are systems, and hierarchies, and positions offered by shoddy government officials; there is Cutter, and there is Kepler, and there is him.

It has been this way since the time of ancient civilizations, because they too must’ve organized themselves. There were leaders and followers and those floating in between and, just like the cells that make up Hilbert, they got more complex over time, formed more intricate configurations. Changed. Shifted. Grew.

And thus: politics.

But here, smaller. In a space ship. In a galaxy. In a star system vast and far and inhabited by creatures built for questioning and creating and questioning their creation.

Here is the thing about hierarchy: there was a way it was, and there is a way it is.

There is Minkowski, then Hilbert, then Eiffel. Above there, somewhere, is Cutter, and beneath him is Kepler. They do not know of Kepler yet, though. Eiffel does not, at least. Eiffel is beneath Hilbert because Eiffel is just up here because there is blood in his veins and a heart to pump it.

Again, it all circles back: human life, cells, the body being built slowly and carefully. Eiffel is one of billions. Eiffel is not special.

(Ironically, Eiffel is special. Hilbert will say this: it is because he has the Decima in his system, and it is because it has worked, and it is because Eiffel has fingernails again. What Hilbert means is this: Eiffel is special because he is.)

The issue is that Hilbert belongs above Eiffel. The hierarchy is, of course, more confusing than it seems, because Hilbert talks with Cutter who gives him orders, orders that contradict Minkowski, orders that end with her killed. Hypothetically. Hypothetical murder and death and destruction.

The issue is that Minkowski does not die, and that she lives, and that he lives, and that he ends up handcuffed in an observation deck.

Things start crumbling, quickly, because Lovelace does not fit into the hierarchy, she is dead dead dead, and then she is not, and she is no longer the Captain of the U.S.S. Hephaestus; she is the captain of nothing, of the broken spaceship that could explode at any moment, of a finite amount of emptiness. She is not the Hephaestus’ anymore. She is supposed to be dead.

Hilbert does not wonder like she does. Hera, Rhea, Lambert, Eiffel. He does not see ghosts where people once were, nor does he care about them.

(The secret: he was not lucky enough to get through it all without nightmares. No one is that lucky.)

Lovelace is larger than herself for a split second there: she is a signal, a flicker of doubt in Hilbert's plan, perhaps Cutter does not care about him as much as he supposed. Perhaps Cutter is too big for Hilbert now. Perhaps he really is just stranded in a dying ship with a series of incompetent officers surrounding him, all of whom fail to grasp the reality of anything and everything. 

The good thing is that Hilbert gets to stare out of a window, because this has always been easier than human contact. Humans are confusing, because though there is logic and order in cells, there is none in emotion, and passion, and love.

(Eiffel, scoffing: Yeah, sure, Mr. Spock.)

Things escalate, and then they do not, and then they do again. Here is the thing about Kepler: he realizes rules, and knows them, and understands them.

He brings his merry band of wayward travelers, the socially inept computer mastermind and the sarcastic little ballistics techie. They are made for greater things than being trapped on a dying ship. Hilbert was made for greater things, too.

Hilbert has been saying that the Hephaestus is a dying ship for the past two missions. It was better with Lovelace, for there was life and the beautiful irony of humanity. This time, there is emptiness, and Hilbert has to stab a knife into his commander’s back while looking her in the eye. There is only her, him, and Eiffel. Always “and Eiffel”.

Kepler does many things.What he makes is this: new hierarchy, new order, new system.

Here is how it went: Kepler, Jacobi, Maxwell, Lovelace, Minkowski, Hilbert, and Eiffel.

Here is how it goes: Kepler, Jacobi, Maxwell, Lovelace, Minkowski, Eiffel, and Hilbert.

It is wrong, because Eiffel is toy and Hilbert is a tool and the two do not deserve to be switched, because Eiffel does not and will not care for the details of humanity and inhumanity and science and space as Hilbert does, staring out a window, watching as the world moves around them. Eiffel is not a genius. Eiffel is just what he is: the communications officer. The vessel. The meat bag.

(Beneath this bitterness is something. There is something, because Eiffel may not be a genius but he understands the technical details of communications better than he should, because he is clever and he carries himself with an unstoppable ease, because when there is something urgent and impossible he is there. Always.)

Here is Kepler. Kepler is a problem, Kepler is important, Kepler looms over Minkowski who looms over him. Orders. Systems. The transitive property.

He claims to see potential, claims to care about the outcome, but the gold star is only given if it is what Kepler wants. This must be why Cutter likes him: pushy, progressive, powerful. Jacobi becomes the trophy that Kepler parades about, his pretty little weapons genius, ready to explode worlds at Kepler’s word.

A peculiar kind of romance, maybe.

(Hilbert is not one to talk.)

Funny, how Hilbert, explaining, logical, concrete and grounded with a lab of equipment behind him, says that there is potential in the Decima. There is potential in Eiffel. Funny, how Kepler does not take this potential, cannot mold it into what he wants. Kepler. Annoying.

No, not that: Eiffel is annoying. Kepler is impossible. Hilbert does not want him here. Not his ship.

Now, though, in this space in linear time, they are hovering, too. At first Hilbert is a threat, and then it is Lovelace, and then it is the newer crew, but not quite.

Here is what Hilbert hears: laughter.

He wants to blame it on Eiffel but it is not his fault, not this. There is something between them. The spark. Soon there is Minkowski, and she is grinning, and Lovelace’s laughter is bubbling over and sometimes Eiffel smiles, too, as though the three of them and the others are sharing a joke.

What Hilbert knows: the Urania crew could kill them in an instant. What he believes: the Urania crew would kill them in an instant. He does not know which is supposed to be more terrifying.

Hilbert would never dare get close to them, and a part of him wants to warn what must’ve been his crew at some point. Only a part of him, though. If they cause their own downfall, so be it.

(This is a lie. He says to Eiffel: you have no reason to trust me, he says, but please, do not make the mistake of trusting him, he says, good luck to you, sir, and forces his lips into a little straight line, and looks Eiffel right in the eye. The moment starts and then it stops. They are opposites, again, as they must be.)

Here they are, hovering. In between something. In between two traumatic events that almost end with everyone half dead. Exciting. Terrifying.

Hilbert shares a moment, with Lovelace. He shared some of those with her when he was Selberg, but he is a new man now. A fresher man now. Sometimes he remembers the past and he knows that she does the same, there’s a hardness in her glance, a bite in her voice. He hates her. She hates him. Equilibrium.

Here is Lovelace, and here is Hilbert. The old gang. Same as the new gang.

Lovelace sees the room that must be destined for Hilbert, in the end, and she looks with a hardened awe that comes with suspicion, squinted eyes. This must be what they see in her. Potential, as Kepler would say. Always potential.

Kepler is not here. It is the two of them, and they are discussing things that Lovelace has not thought about for as long as she could. Here is the thing about Lovelace: she is not afraid to hurt.

Here is the thing about Hilbert: he is not afraid to hurt, either.

Because of this, he says that maybe they are in the same boat. He says a lot of things. She scoffs. She always will.

Again, there is the room where Cutter intended to have his brain removed, behind a sign with Russian script, hidden in the bowels of the Hephaestus. Lovelace, horrified, face twisting into a grimace. Hilbert, watching her. He laughs. He finds it funny.

She does not like this answer. She never likes his answers.

Hilbert cannot win with humanity. He survives and he is a cockroach; he is willing to die and he is no longer human. Lovelace gives him a lesson on this. He does not understand, or maybe she does not understand: he is going to save the world.

No virus without a solution, a cure. For a negative, there must be a positive. For this, there must be that. Hilbert is working. Hilbert will get it.

Here is what Lovelace does not understand: Decima will save thousands of lives, even it means sacrificing a few of them. Hilbert does not regret what he has done. What Lovelace also does not understand: it is all a game. It always has been.

Lovelace sees lives as just that: lives. She does not see the bigger picture. Hilbert will not mourn for those lost to his work, because there is no reason to, because they have been sacrificed for the sake of mankind, the greater good.

Lovelace does not agree on what the greater good is. Maybe Hilbert is doing it wrong. No, maybe she is doing it wrong.

Big picture. Politics, space, humanity. Lovelace thinks small: a ship, in a star system, in a galaxy. People dying before her very eyes. People crumbling right in front of her, again and again and again.

Here is the truth about the Hephaestus crew: they are selfish. They hold themselves above their effect on the world, the star system, the galaxy. There are things they could contribute, things they could do, things they could change.

(Hilbert’s instinct is to exclude Eiffel from this idea; his instinct is wrong. Eiffel is just as extraordinary as the rest of them, no matter how much Hilbert hates to admit it.)

(He’ll admit it, one day. Distant future. A hypothetical.)

So Hilbert will give up his brain and life for the safety of the world, for Decima. This makes him inhuman, but everything does. Maybe it is where he belongs. Positions. Always safety in those.

Here is the funny thing: Hilbert is still allowed to join them.

There is a line that must’ve been drawn in the sand, somewhere, when Hilbert was not paying attention and then there they are, huddled in a cold empty room. The four of them. Hilbert, Minkowski, Lovelace, and Eiffel.

(It can still be “and Eiffel” in Hilbert’s head.)

Perhaps he is too dangerous to be able to be weaponized by Kepler. Perhaps he is useful enough to be dragged onto their side. Perhaps they can pretend that Hilbert is one of them for the time being, because there’s no reason not to, because despite what he has done he has been here for too many months like the rest of them and perhaps that’s enough.

Lovelace glares, and Minkowski gives him sidelong glances. And Eiffel, beautiful and terrible and awfully selfish, does not even note him, only glances at him when he makes a comment, only glares when he needs to.

It is symmetry: forces equal, station at a standstill. They are working. They are trying. He supposes that, on a different ship, across a corridor, Kepler could be planning too. Ever the chess player, after all.

They are not a crew, per se, but they are enough.