Blackridge Institute (wlw) - DA 1

Chapter 7

"I want to go."

"You hate the man."

"Hate is a strong word. He's never done anything to me, so I don't see why I should dismiss him like this."

Casandra put on her jacket—from Sol's desperate feedback, she had taken to removing her clothes the regular way instead of just drinking them back into herself—and said, "You were content with dismissing him for research a while ago."

"That's different. I didn't want to connect him." Sol went to hover at Cas's side as the angel picked things up and threw them into her briefcase. "I'm already dressed. Take me with you."

Casandra paused. "What for? Do you have relevant business?"

"I want to see what he's doing. It might give me headway into my own research."

"I wasn't aware you were doing research."

"My studies are broad and varied."

"You're broad and varied," said Casandra, who knew perfectly well how a comeback worked and took pleasure in causing Solomon anguish.

Sol bit back her tongue because she really wanted to go to Harlan Xate's room. For studies, yes, if studies counted snooping around. She didn't understand why Xate gave her the heebie jeebies; if anything, she would love to put this to rest. She was sure that the neurotic human doctor was perfectly normal, but she'd lived her whole life trusting her senses, and Harlan Xate sure was sounding all the alarms.

Casandra made a show of sighing. "Fine. But you will behave and you won't sabotage him."

...

Solomon poked a glass jar, a delicate tap that didn't at all disturb the specimen inside, but Casandra turned around to look at her with hourglass pupils. Sol pouted, but the eyes were no less reprimanding, so she took one last longing look at the wrinkly wad of fat pickling inside the glass and kept her hands to herself.

"Here it is," said Xate, emerging from his pile of books on the floor. Harlan had a room all to himself, for safety, and it looked like what their own room would have looked if Sol didn't regularly make Casandra beat back the ever-growing invasion of her assorted notes and reading material.

The only difference was that Harlan had a lot more computers and mechanical parts. Casandra pretended like she was allergic to anything with a chipset, except for her laptop because she could send emails on it.

Harlan produced an honest to God scroll with the air of a calm professional, which Solomon disapproved of. If this thing was as impressive as he said it was, he ought to be presenting it after a backflip.

He opened it with reverence however, his bare hands shaking as they ghosted over the lines of text. Harlan held the parchment in place as they surveyed it. Solomon couldn't make horn or tail as to what it said, and began to feel out of place as the other two regarded it in academic awe.

Casandra made thoughtful, confident noises and said, "Can you read this, Doctor?"

"No," said Xate, which made Sol feel immensely better. "Not yet. It's been a dead language for centuries, but through cross-referencing its contemporaries our efforts are valiant in restoring their original meaning."

"And what of their context?" Solomon, from the corner of her eye, saw Cas giving her a surprised look that may have had a little bit of pride in it.

"And the context, of course. We can only hope to restore the context." From the look in his eyes, Harlan was far away, transported elsewhere—probably laying bricks for his new Babel.