The Expanse

by J. M. Dillard

  Frustration coursed through Archer. He did not like having to believe Silik’s mysterious master, either, but he did not see where they had a choice. “Do they have a better idea of who did this?”

  Forrest didn’t even try to reply.

  Archer turned on Soval. The ambassador was, as always, maddeningly calm and composed in his green Vulcan robes and black cape; there was, in his detachment, a hint of disdain. He, like Forrest, was also silver-haired, but probably a century or two older. There was something in Soval’s polished mannerisms that reminded Archer uncomfortably of Silik. In fact, at the moment, Archer was beginning to think that he liked the Suliban better.

  Soval’s eyes were scarcely open, his hands steepled, as if he were in meditation; he faced serenely forward, meeting no one’s gaze, while Archer paced about.

  “And how about the Vulcans?” the Captain said, less than politely. “I suppose you think I’m hallucinating?”

  Soval did not deny the charge. “Our Science Directorate has determined that time travel is impossible.”

  Archer leaned closer to both men, his manner fiercely intent. “Are you all willing to risk a second attack?”

  Neither replied.

  “All I’m asking is to take Enterprise and find these Xindi. What do we have to lose, a single starship? Seems like a small price to pay if there’s one chance in a million he was right.”

  Soval was unmoved. “Do you know where these coordinates he gave you are?” His tone made it clear that he already knew the answer.

  Archer played along. “At warp five…about a three-month trip.”

  “They’re inside the Delphic Expanse,” Soval said, as if Archer should find this extremely meaningful.

  Archer didn’t. “What’s that?”

  “A region of space nearly a thousand light-years across. Vulcan ships have entered it…but only a few have returned.”

  Now it was Archer’s turn to react with disdain. “You sound like you’re talking about the Bermuda Triangle.” He wondered whether the area still existed after the alien attack.

  “There have been reports of fierce and dangerous species,” Soval continued gravely, “unexplained anomalies…. In some regions, even the laws of physics don’t apply.” He paused and at last, faced Archer and held his gaze. “Twenty years ago, a Klingon vessel emerged from the Expanse. Every crewman on board was anatomically inverted, their bodies splayed open. And they were still alive.”

  Archer could not keep from wincing inwardly at the image—but outwardly, he refused to show that Soval’s words had any effect on him.

  The Vulcan finished. “You’d be more than foolish to pursue this course of action.”

  Archer responded by completely ignoring the Ambassador and turning instead to Forrest. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take…and I imagine most of my crew would be with me.”

  “This is typical of your impulsiveness,” Soval said, his uninflected tone belying the sharply critical nature of his words. “You’d be putting your crew’s lives at stake when you have no evidence that anything you were told was true.”

  Archer kept his gaze fixed on the Admiral. It was clear that Forrest had heard him—and was seriously considering his point of view—but was still unconvinced.

  At last, Forrest sighed, then spoke. “We’ve lost a lot of people already, Jon. Starfleet Command would need…some kind of proof before they’d let you go.”

  “I’m not sure if the person I spoke to was from the future or not,” Archer countered, “but he knew that this would be the reaction I’d get…” he paused. “So he did give me proof.”

  He felt a small glimmer of satisfaction of the look of surprise on Forrest’s—and quite possibly Soval’s—face.

  Admiral Forrest led them both to the hangar where Starfleet had stored the remnants of the alien probe; a nod from the Admiral permitted them to pass two security guards without incident.

  The hangar was shrouded in shadow, save for the bright lights that illuminated the area where the wreckage was heaped, and the small refrigerated unit that housed the alien pilot’s remains.

  Archer stepped up to a large, jagged piece of scorched, twisted metal, adorned with tendrils of alien circuitry. He withdrew a scanner from his pocket and, with a deep intake of breath and a sincere wish that Silik had not once again played him for a fool, touched the controls on the scanner.

  “Jon?” Forrest asked, his tone curious.

  “This is quantum data from the debris.” The scanner beeped; Archer held it so that both he and Forrest could read the results. “Take a look.”

  Forrest did.

  “The principal alloy in this piece was synthesized within the last four years,” Archer said, trying not to be disappointed. He moved to another section of debris and scanned it.

  “This one, about a year earlier…”

  Soval spoke, with less-than-perfect Vulcan patience. “What exactly are you trying to show us, Captain?”

  Archer took pleasure in ignoring him—while at the same time growing more impatient himself. If Silik’s master had been lying after all…He moved to yet another section, and performed yet another scan.

  “Twelve years for this piece…”

  Even Forrest was becoming slightly annoyed. “Your point, Jonathan?”

  “I’m getting to it,” Archer said, a little desperately. He looked around, trying to find a scrap of metal, a piece of debris, clearly different from the rest. He lifted up a chunk of metal and peered underneath.

  And there he saw it: an intact piece of machinery—or perhaps, more accurately, technology—the size of his fist. He took it in his hand and scanned it, then checked the readout.

  He turned to Admiral Forrest with a sense of triumph and held out the scanner. “You might find this interesting.”

  Forrest glanced at the readout—did a beautiful double-take, then stared at it again. “Your scanner’s not working properly.”

  “Why’s that, sir?” Archer was careful to keep any hint of gloating from his tone.

  “The quantum reads minus four-twenty.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” Archer was fishing and enjoying it.

  “Quantum always registers in positive numbers,” Forrest stated, his tone dismissive.

  But Archer had come prepared. He pulled a second scanner from his pocket and held it up to the alien component. “Then I guess this one’s not working, either.” He didn’t show it, but he felt an enormous surge of relief and vindication. Silik’s master had been telling the truth after all. And he would not have intervened if there hadn’t been a good chance that a second attack could be stopped.

  He had contacted Archer—which meant that it was up to the captain to do something about it—and nothing could stop Archer now, not Soval, not Admiral Forrest, not even Starfleet Command. He’d already made up his mind to find a way to stop the Xindi, even if it meant disobeying orders.

  Despite Ambassador Soval’s apparent disinterest, the Vulcan could no longer ignore what was happening. He strode up to Archer, took the scanner, and regarded the readout with distaste.

  “You said he told you this ‘faction from the future’ ”—the ambassador uttered the words with a skepticism that far exceeded T’Pol’s—“could only communicate through time.” He looked up at Archer, his brows lifted slightly, an expression of Vulcan disbelief. “So how do you suggest they got this component to the Xindi?”

  Archer faced him fiercely. Soval seemed to have already made up his mind—regardless of how “logical” the evidence was. “I haven’t the slightest idea. But that doesn’t change what’s on that scanner.” He nodded at the component from the Xindi ship. “That fragment’s from the future. Unless you have another explanation.”

  The Ambassador was unmoved. “The ‘lack of another explanation’ doesn’t make your assumption correct.”

  Archer gave up on him: Clearly, the Vulcans were too deeply mired in their dogma concerning time travel to be persuaded. Instead, the Captain t
urned his focus on Admiral Forrest.

  And in Forrest’s weary eyes, there shone the first stirring of belief. Archer felt a surge of victory, even before the Admiral said quietly:

  “I’ll speak with Command.”

  Soval shook his head in suspiciously humanlike disapproval and frustration.

  Archer took pleasure in ignoring him, and gestured at the morgue unit. If Starfleet gave the Enterprise permission, Archer would need to be able to recognize the enemy he would be dealing with. “I’d like to take a look in there,” he said grimly.

  Forrest nodded to the nearby security guards; one came forward and worked a control console next to the unit.

  The covering slid open, releasing a blast of cold vapor that turned to mist in the warmer air.

  Archer looked down through the white swirls; beneath lay the scorched, battered remains of the probe’s pilot.

  The Captain was not quiet sure what he had expected to see—perhaps a hairless race, sleek and exotic, like the Suliban, futuristic-looking. Instead, what he saw was the charred corpse of a tall biped, dressed in twisted remnants of metallic armor. The creature’s face was so badly scorched its features had caved inward, making any guesses as to its actual appearance impossible.

  The Captain raised his scanner over the alien corpse.

  “Are you suggesting this is a Xindi?” Soval’s tone was still laced with skepticism.

  Archer didn’t even glance up. “I sure as hell would like to find out.”

  Chapter 5

  Archer returned to the Enterprise, still in orbit around Earth, and found a summons from Phlox awaiting him. He proceeded immediately to sickbay, where he found the doctor in the company of a stern-looking Vulcan.

  Phlox’s usual abundantly cheerful manner was subdued—in part because of the tragedy which had occurred on Earth. But at least part of it was due to his visitor; Archer got the strange impression that the Denobulan, who was always avidly friendly and interested in everyone and everything, didn’t much care for the Vulcan.

  Even so, Phlox’s tone was pleasant. “This is Doctor Fer’at.”

  Fer’at was slight, with hair the color of steel and a jumpsuit to match; his eyes were large and probing.

  Archer scowled at him impatiently. “I don’t have a lot of time. What’s up?”

  Phlox answered in Fer’at’s stead. “The Vulcan research team detected traces of pyritic radiation in the alien debris.”

  “Why didn’t Starfleet catch it?” Archer asked.

  “Some of our technology is still more advanced than yours,” Fer’at replied smoothly.

  Archer’s frown deepened; he’d had more than enough of Vulcans and their patronizing attitudes.

  Phlox sensed the Captain’s irritation and leaned forward, his tone mollifying. “We’re going to need to treat anyone who got close to the wreckage. Doctor Fer’at is here to determine the extent of your exposure.”

  Fer’at motioned to a nearby diagnostic bed. “It shouldn’t take long,” he told Archer. “Please sit down.”

  Archer sat grudgingly. The Vulcan produced a type of medical scanner the Captain had never seen before, and began to wave it over Archer’s body. Meanwhile, Phlox moved to a nearby console and continued some work of his own.

  Fer’at assumed a clinical air. “Have you experienced any nausea or dizziness?”

  “No.” Archer was still puzzling over the fact that Starfleet had failed to detect the radiation. He couldn’t afford to have something like this cause problems; certainly, the time traveler would have warned him if the radiation posed a danger…

  “Numbness in your extremeties?” Fer’at queried.

  “I feel fine,” Archer said.

  Fer’at was silent for a moment as he checked his scanner’s readout, then continued working. “I was told you think a piece of the wreckage came from the future.”

  Archer glared at him with frank annoyance. “I know. Vulcans don’t believe in time travel.”

  “Some of us do,” Fer’at replied simply.

  That threw the Captain for a loop; he blinked, disbelieving.

  “Tell me,” Fer’at continued, with sudden interest, “this ‘time traveler’ you met, was he humanoid?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  Fer’at gave a small shrug. “I was briefed before coming here.”

  “He seemed humanoid,” Archer answered, intrigued that a Vulcan might actually be convinced of the truth. “I couldn’t see him that well.”

  “Have you encountered people from the future before?”

  “A number of times,” Archer said. He paused; there was something suspicious about Fer’at and his curiosity, about his whole story. And he had never known a Vulcan so eager to make small talk. “Does this have anything to do with the radiation?”

  “I’m just curious,” Fer’at countered mildly. He stepped behind the Captain and began to scan his back. “It must be difficult to have so many people question your story. Does it upset you?”

  “It doesn’t help.” Archer’s tone was cold.

  “But how does it make you feel?”

  That was it—Archer had had it with Fer’at and his examination. From between gritted teeth, he replied, not at all nicely, “I told you, it doesn’t help.” From his peripheral vision, he could see Phlox stop working and gaze piercingly at the Vulcan; obviously, the doctor was also becoming suspicious. Archer watched as Phlox began to tap some controls.

  Fer’at blinked his large, slightly protruding eyes. “I can sense some anger when you talk about this…”

  Sense? What was there to “sense” when Archer was purposely letting it show? His words clipped, the Captain replied, “It’s kind of strange that a Vulcan would be so interested in my ‘feelings.’”

  “Just curious.” Fer’at echoed his previous statement. He continued to scan, then consulted the readout for a moment before stating, “Your exposure seems minimal…You’ll require very little treatment.” He directed his probing stare back to Archer. “I imagine you must have felt very anxious after meeting someone from the future.”

  Archer’s tone was blatantly sarcastic. “Why would you imagine that?”

  He was on the verge of rising from the bed and ordering the Vulcan out when Phlox intervened. The Denobulan’s voice was filled with outrage; Archer was taken aback by the normally placid doctor’s anger.

  “I’m afraid this ‘examination’ is over.”

  “I’m nearly finished,” Fer’at replied calmly.

  “You are finished,” Phlox said unequivocally. He turned to Archer. “I just checked the Vulcan database. There’s only one Doctor Fer’at listed, and he’s not a pathologist…He’s a psychiatric analyst.”

  Archer pushed himself from the bed. According to T’Pol, Vulcans prided themselves on their honesty—but Soval was just one of the most underhanded, deceitful people Archer’d ever met. He turned on Fer’at with fury. “Soval sure is persistent. What did he want you to do, come back with proof that I’m out of my mind?”

  Phlox was as angry as Archer had ever seen him; the Denobulan’s ridged brow was knit together in an intimidating scowl. “You come to my sickbay under false pretenses! Where are your medical ethics!”

  Fer’at remained calm and uncowed. “I’m just doing what I was told to do.”

  “Well, I’m telling you to get the hell off my ship!” Archer said, with more than a little satisfaction. He turned to the doctor. “If you don’t mind, Phlox, I’d like you to escort our guest to the airlock.”

  “Gladly,” Phlox said, and led the Vulcan away with an air of righteous indignation.

  The pale blue Florida sky was filled with the fat cumulus clouds of summer, some of them edged an ominous charcoal, reminding Trip of the pending afternoon rain-shower. They had time yet, he knew. Give it two, three hours, and the skies would open: for half an hour, sheets of water would slam down, soaking and cooling the heated earth…then it would all be over, and the clouds would disappear, as if noth
ing had happened.

  At the moment, Trip stood beside Reed on a hillside. Florida, of course, had no hills (save for a very few)—the peninsula was unrelentingly flat, allowing an unobstructed view for miles. The first time Trip had visited mountains, he’d felt closed in, claustrophobic, seasick as a landlubber.

  At least, Florida hadn’t had any hillsides—until now.

  Trip stared down dully into the black, miles-wide crater that separated the remaining half of his hometown from the other. Normally, the smell of the sea and the chatter of gulls had a tonic, calming effect on him—but today, the ocean smell was overlaid by the smell of scorched rubble, and the call of birds drowned out by the sound of reconstruction crews. Trip’s insides felt like the wounded land—gouged open, laid bare.

  Across the chasm, tall palms still swayed in the sub-tropical breeze; tiny workers moved in and around the remains, while half-demolished buildings still smoldered. Overhead, shuttlepods sailed beneath the clouds. Looky-loos, Trip thought bitterly, then realized that he was wrong. Starfleet had cordoned off this airspace to all but essential personnel, locals, and family members. Trip had had to prove his next-of-kin status in order to be permitted to visit the restricted area—and it’d been hard enough to get permission for Reed to accompany him.

  Neither he nor Reed spoke for a full minute after setting down; the scene was too horrific, too awesome in scope to permit anything beyond silent contemplation. This was, after all, a vast graveyard, a memorial to the dead. And not just human: every life-form here had perished, both plant and animal, including a great deal of ocean life. Lizzie would have regretted that, too; she loved the sea as much as her brother.

  After a time, Malcolm said softly, “I’m so sorry….”

  Trip couldn’t respond right away. The danger of choking up was too great. Instead, he tried to distract himself by orienting himself to the surroundings, recreating the missing town in his memory.