A knock at the door broke the chief engineer's focus on the unruly mass of papers on her desk. She vaguely remembered being a more organized person when she had been a regular engineer, but that was before the conflict with Zanarkand. War is a hell of paperwork, she mused distractedly.
"Chief, do you have a minute?" a man's voice called from the other side of her office door.
She rubbed the bridge of her nose wearily. "No," she replied, trying not to let her exasperation show, "but come in anyway."
The door opened, and a small, somewhat disheveled-looking man poked his head in. At the woman's impatient beckoning, he stepped inside and shifted a thick folder full of papers to his other hand so he could close the door.
"Those papers better not be for me," the Chief said.
"Um, no, they're my notes on the Vegnagun project," he answered. "I've been going over everything the research team sent over like you asked me to, and I had some, uh, concerns."
"If you've got a problem with the musical control system, take it up with the Prime Minister," the man's boss stated acidly. "He has a niece in the Air Force who was a touring pianist before the war, and you're a smart guy who can figure out the rest."
"Oh. That explains a lot." The engineer paused for a moment, then shook his head. "No, actually, I was worried about the specs for the main cannon. It's more powerful than R&D is predicting."
The Chief snorted. "It's a weapon, it's supposed to be powerful! What's the issue?"
"No, I mean like, way more powerful than it should be! Look," the man started to explain as he pulled out a graph and put it on the woman's desk, "the cannon absorbs atmospheric energy so it doesn't deplete the unit's power reserves, right? Well, I triple-checked the numbers, and if the energy concentration is sufficiently high, the potential output could be...bad."
The manager glanced down at the graph, then looked back up and raised an eyebrow. "Define 'bad'."
"Let me give you an example. Suppose Vegnagun got into, say, the Farplane and spent a few minutes charging up. The resulting blast would destroy all of Spira!"
She blinked. "And?"
The man's mouth hung open for a few seconds, trying to process this reaction. "Chief, Bevelle's on Spira too, you know."
"I understand your concern," the Chief replied as she pushed her chair back and stood up, "but I have too many practical problems right now to worry about abstract theoretical ones. We're in the middle of a war, and the project is so behind schedule that it'll be a miracle if it's finished before the war's over! Besides, how on Spira could anyone get something that massive into the Farplane, while playing a goddamn pipe organ no less?!"
Noticing her subordinate's dumbfounded expression, she took a deep breath and ran a hand through her hair. "Look, I'm glad you brought this to me, but I can't exactly go to the top brass and say that we should reconsider the project because an engineer thinks Vegnagun might blow up the planet if it became a ghost."
Resigned, the man nodded his acquiescence and collected his papers. On his way out, he paused in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder at his superior. "Oh, I almost forgot to mention it. You know those two programmers you put on Vegnagun's AI? Well, one of them had an affair with the other's wife, and then his wife—anyway, they're refusing to work together anymore, and the military police had to confiscate their weapons and put them under 24-hour surveillance. Probably going to impact the schedule a bit."
"Yeah, probably," the Chief responded emotionlessly. "How's it looking now?"
The engineer gave her a weak smile. "The IFF code is a mess. Simulations give it a 47% it blows us up instead of Zanarkand."
"Thanks for the heads-up. Get back to work, and don't bother me unless it's important." Once the man closed the door behind him, she collapsed in her chair and buried her face in her hands. "Why did I have to get put in charge of the stupid giant robot?" she muttered bitterly.