The Expanse

by J. M. Dillard

  He pointed to a location inside the crater and felt a stab of pain. “The house was over there…less than a kilometer.”

  That prompted an immediate barrage of unuttered questions: Had Lizzie been inside, working, when the horror had occurred? Had she been in town, running errands? Had she run outside at the sound of devastation and seen the blast headed towards her? Had she had time to realize what was happening, or did it—please—happen too quickly for her to know anything, feel anything?

  Or had she been scared? Had she felt pain?

  Stop it, Trip told himself firmly. First off, Lizzie was tough and pragmatic; she would have faced death matter-of-factly, so there was no point in tormenting himself. Yet he couldn’t seem to keep his mind from going over every possible scenario, including the one suggested by the Captain—that Lizzie had gone out of town, that she was okay. But Trip knew his sister too well: she was utterly responsible, and would have contacted him immediately.

  She knew how her big brother worried about her, despite the fact that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

  So Trip had gone through the tedious process of locating a neighbor who knew Lizzie, who might have known whether she’d been in town that day.

  It’d been hell finding someone who was still alive—the list of casualties was heartrending, including scores of families Trip had known from childhood. He’d finally tracked down the owner of the Seafood Shanty, where Liz was a regular, who said he’d thought he’d seen her in town that morning. But the trauma had left his memory uncertain.

  Thought he’d seen her. That would have to do; that, and Lizzie’s silence. So much for closure.

  Trip found himself starting to tear up, and distracted himself again by searching for a landmark. To his delight, he found one—on the other side of the miles-wide swath of destruction. The sight almost made him smile; not everything from his early years had vanished into oblivion.

  “See that building?” He pointed again; Reed’s gaze followed the gesture. “The white one…it was a movie theater…” He let go a short, unhappy laugh. “When we were kids, if I didn’t take my sister with me, she’d scream like a banshee….” He paused, allowing himself a happy memory, of himself and Lizzie munching popcorn in the very first row, heads tilted back so far their necks ached, their eyes saucer-wide. “I can’t tell you how many movies we saw there….”

  Reed nodded. As much as the two men ribbed each other and often argued, Reed had proven himself a true friend. It was he who suggested in the most delicate way that he would be honored to go with Tucker to see the attack site. Best, Reed had said, to see for yourself, to answer your own questions. Sometimes that’s easier than leaving things to your imagination…Malcolm spoke, his tone gentle, tentative.

  “Are you certain she was here when this happened?”

  Trip’s expression and tone darkened. “Someone would’ve heard from her if she wasn’t.” Especially me…

  The sight of the scorched terrain was all Trip would ever have for proof. He forced himself to accept that, but there was one thing he could never accept: the fact that an entire race of beings were evil enough to have done such a thing…and, according to the captain, they planned to do it again.

  Trip’s heart was scarred, blackened by hatred. Maybe these beings had a good reason for what they did; maybe the answer lay in diplomacy, not war.

  But at the moment, he didn’t care. He wanted bloodshed, wanted revenge.

  Someone had to pay for what had happened to Lizzie.

  Captain’s Starlog, supplemental. After days of debate, Starfleet’s finally informed me that we’re to proceed with our new mission.

  Archer was far above the damage site, seated shoulder-to-shoulder beside Admiral Forrest in the cramped cockpit of an inspection pod. The two were maneuvering around the spacedock where the skeleton of a new starship was being constructed.

  The Captain had felt a deep sense of relief on receiving permission to head for the Expanse; he’d been determined to go anyway, and having official sanction made things much easier. At the same time, he felt a sense of exhilaration that was not precisely pleasant. These were far more dangerous circumstances than the ones surrounding the Enterprise’s first sally into space.

  Archer looked on the vessel with admiration and a bit of envy. “The NX-02…”

  “She’ll be ready to launch in fourteen months,” Forrest said, with no small amount of pride.

  “A long time,” Archer said. Currently, he had serious doubts about whether he’d be alive to step aboard her.

  Forrest’s hearty, encouraging tone rang a bit false. “Hopefully, you’ll be back well before then.”

  “Hopefully,” Archer replied, without enthusiasm. He changed the subject. “What kind of armaments will she have?”

  “The same complement of weapons you’ll have when the retrofit is done.” He paused. “Have you told your crew?”

  “This morning.”

  “How many are staying aboard?”

  It wasn’t an easy subject for Archer to consider. On one hand, he wanted and needed each and every crew member; at the same time, he dreaded asking them to accompany him on such a perilous mission. He was all too aware that he bore the responsibility for each of their lives, and so he had been careful not to pressure any of them, but simply to give them the facts and let them come to their own decisions.

  “Some haven’t decided yet,” he answered Forrest at last, “but I don’t think more than eight or nine will be leaving.” After a pause, he added, “I talked to General Casey a few hours ago.”

  The admiral nodded. “His team should be arriving at eighteen hundred hours.” He directed a sidewise glance at Archer, one silver eyebrow lifted. “I’m surprised you asked for them. You think you’ll be comfortable with military on board?”

  Archer shrugged casually, even though he had in fact not been comfortable with the idea at first—but it had seemed the best thing for the mission, and so he had reconciled himself to it. “T’Pol and Phlox have worked out pretty well,” he said. “I don’t have a problem with non-Starfleet personnel.” He turned his face toward Forrest’s. “The General tells me these are the best he has. I’m going to need all the muscle I can get when we cross into the Expanse.”

  The very utterance of the word Expanse made a muscle in the Admiral’s jaw spasm. Archer understood exactly how his superior felt; Forrest bore the same sense of responsibility for the lives of those aboard Enterprise as Archer did. “You weren’t told where in this Expanse you’re supposed to look?”

  “Not even a hint,” Archer answered honestly.

  “And this weapon they’re building…did he say how long it was going to take them?”

  The Captain didn’t answer the question directly. “I don’t think he would’ve warned us if we didn’t have a chance of stopping them.”

  Forrest’s tone suddenly grew heated. “If he knows where these Xindi are, why the hell won’t he tell you?”

  The same notion had occurred to Archer; he couldn’t blame the Admiral for his frustration. He also couldn’t answer his question.

  Forrest drew in an exasperated breath, then said at last, “I guess it’s time to head back.” He glanced at Archer. “You want to join us for dinner?”

  “Thanks,” Archer replied, “but I’ve got plans.” And that was the first and only thing that made him genuinely, inwardly smile, for the first time in days.

  A few hours later, Archer pulled his jacket closed against the chill of the San Francisco night. It was nostalgic to be in the city again, walking down the narrow, brightly lit streets of Chinatown. Only one thing was different: the streets seemed emptier; he passed only a few people on his way to the restaurant.

  At last he found his way to the old-fashioned glass doors of The Lotus Blossom Restaurant; the very sight made him smile faintly. As he opened the door and stepped in, the sight of the maître d’—a diminuitive Asian man, nattily dressed in a business suit and tie—made his smile
grow broader.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Tommy,” Archer said warmly. It’d been a couple of years, but Tommy hadn’t changed an iota.

  “Jonathan.” The maître d’ flashed him a grin.

  Archer looked around. It was the weekend, and normally, there’d have been a line of hungry patrons snaking all the way out the door…but on this night, he counted lots of empty tables. “Slow tonight.”

  Tommy’s grin faded at once. “People are staying home…ever since…”

  He didn’t need to say any more; Archer understood at once. He’d actually allowed himself to view the local news briefly, before coming here; the media were incessant in their coverage of the tragedy, even though they had no more real information to give. Now they were speculating about future attacks—and they didn’t seem to see the connection between that and the other news story Archer had caught, that people were afraid, and staying home with their families.

  He could understand; if he’d had a home and a kitchen, he’d want to be there, too.

  “She here?” he asked Tommy.

  The maître d’ pointed. “Over there.” His tone became at once scolding and teasing. “You’re late.”

  Archer smiled again. “Thanks. Bring me a Scotch.”

  “Right away.”

  Tommy headed for the bar, while Archer moved toward the indicated table.

  He failed to notice his surroundings—failed to notice his own posture, his expression, whether he smiled or not in greeting. All Archer noticed was that he was suddenly seated across from a woman, who delicately swallowed a bit of the half-eaten appetizer in front of her.

  Rebecca. She was wearing her hair differently; it had grown out a bit, and was shoulder-length now, parted on one side, and it seemed to have more of a reddish cast to it. But her eyes were still luminous pale green, her face still handsome. She wore a lowcut lavender shirt that suited her coloring perfectly.

  “I’m really sorry,” Archer said, and she smiled whimsically at that. It was as though he had just left room for a short while, as if he hadn’t been away for a year, as if they had just had dinner together the night before.

  “I can’t remember the last time you weren’t late,” she said with dry good humor. Her tone changed abruptly, became somber. “Did they bring you back because of what happened?”

  Archer looked down at the tablecloth. He didn’t have to answer; Rebecca understood, as she almost always did, without words.

  “For how long?” she asked.

  “I wish it was longer…” Archer said honestly. “I was hoping to spend some time with you.”

  Tommy appeared silently and smoothly, without interrupting the flow of the conversation, set the Scotch in front of him. He took a long drink.

  “How’s Porthos?” she asked. She always inquired after the beagle; it was her mother, after all, who’d given Archer the dog from one of her prize litters. Four fine males; four little Musketeers, she’d called them, and that’d been that. The rowdy little pup had been christened on the spot.

  “He’s great,” Archer said, reminded that despite the horror of the past several days, there were still good things in life. Porthos was one of them—unconnected to the tragedy, unaware of it, always happy to see his master. “Turns out he loves space—if he even realizes he’s out there. He’s a trouper.”

  She smiled faintly at that; another long silence ensued, during which time her expression grew grim.

  “Do they know who did this?” Rebecca asked him.

  “Why they did this?”

  “We know a little bit, but not enough.” He smiled apologetically and shook his head as he picked up his chopsticks and stole a bite of her dinner. “I’ll probably be gone for a long time, Becky.”

  As always, she refused to be sentimental. “You’ve been gone for a long time before.”

  He set down the chopsticks and permitted himself to look at her—really look at her, to memorize her as she was now. And he could see at once that she understood, in typical lightning-Rebecca-fashion, that he was not talking about a typical mission.

  She tried at once to lighten the mood. “If I find out you’ve got a girl in every spaceport…”

  He smiled and reached across the table to take her face in his hands; he had forgotten the warmth, the softness of her skin, and impulsively leaned across the table and kissed her, gently.

  Rebecca was not one to be outdone; she returned the kiss, full force, and when at last they broke from each other, both were breathing audibly.

  “I suppose you expect me to invite you back to my apartment,” she said wryly.

  Archer kept his tone light. “What are my chances?”

  She picked up a fortune cookie from a small plate and opened it with a resounding crack, then pulled out the small strip of paper hidden inside. She read it studiously, puckering her brow, then glanced back up at him.

  “You’re in luck…”

  Chapter 6

  Aboard the Enterprise, T’Pol entered sickbay tentatively.

  It was not her habit to solicit advice from others, or to discuss personal decisions; logic generally dictated an obvious path.

  But in this case, logic failed, and meditation did little to clarify the issue. T’Pol knew what her instincts told her—to remain on board, to continue serving with the crew. She would be needed for the difficult journey ahead.

  Instincts, however, were often tainted with emotion, and T’Pol could not permit feeling to influence such a critical decision. Ethically, she was bound to follow the dictates of the Vulcan High Command, and remain behind. She had an influential career as a diplomat awaiting her; to risk entering the Expanse was to risk years of training. It was not easy for the High Command to locate Vulcans willing to work closely with humans, and T’Pol was not only willing, she had become comfortable in their company. That made her a valuable commodity to the Vulcan government. As willing as she might be to sacrifice her own life because it could possibly help save the human race, she had to think of the impact her choice would have on her own people.

  She entered sickbay in search of clarity.

  The physician Phlox was seated at his work station, peering at the screen. Even in repose, his round, ridged face radiated benevolence. Although she had studied them, T’Pol had never met any other members of his species; she suspected Phlox would be considered somewhat eccentric even by Denobulan standards. He wore no uniform, instead preferring to drape himself in colorful tunics, and his passion for unusual, even bizarre, forms of medical treatment had become legendary throughout Starfleet.

  Despite his unique personality, however, and the fact that Denobulans were at least as emotional as humans, T’Pol had come to find that Phlox was actually quite clear-headed and pragmatic; he had a talent for sifting through a number of complicated factors and making the right choice, perhaps the result of his being a skilled diagnostician. He was also strongly intuitive—a trait T’Pol’s people distrusted, and yet Phlox’s intuition generally resulted in his coming to a sound conclusion.

  Phlox sensed her presence immediately, and looked over at her. “Sub-Commander? Is there something I can do for you?”

  T’Pol wasted no time; there was no point in pretending, for dignity’s sake, that she had come here for anything other than advice. She trusted Phlox’s integrity and discretion utterly; he would not repeat their conversation to any other member of the crew. “Are you confident with your decision, Doctor?”

  He swiveled in his chair to face her fully. “What decision would that be?”

  “To remain on Enterprise,” T’Pol said. To explain how she had deduced the fact, she said, “Crewman Fuller just told me a shuttle is on its way with two hundred snow beetles.”

  The Denobulan’s expression grew coy. “They could be for my replacement.”

  “There isn’t a doctor in Starfleet who would have the slightest idea of what to do with them,” T’Pol countered drily.

  Phlox grinned brightly, acknowledging the
fact with good humor and even a tinge of pride. He grew a bit more somber, then pressed, “And what about you?”

  T’Pol hesitated. Rather than address her conflict directly, she said, “The High Council has made it clear that they don’t want me to enter the Delphic Expanse.”

  Phlox’s manner grew pointed. “I’m more interested in hearing what you want.”

  His words unsettled her; surely he understood that this issue was far too important for personal desires to interfere. “It’s not my place to disobey the High Command.”

  “Nonsense,” the doctor contradicted her flatly. “You’ve done it before.”

  That silenced her. He was correct, of course. But she’d had good reason to do so then….

  “It’s interesting, you and I,” Phlox continued. “The only two aliens on board the vessel. To go, or to stay?” He paused, letting the question hang for a moment in the air. “For me, it was a simple question of loyalty toward the Captain…and the sad realization that he’ll need me more than ever on such a crucial mission.

  “But for you, it’s a more difficult decision. Does your allegiance lie with the High Command, or with Captain Archer?”

  Loyalty, T’Pol realized: that was indeed the crux of the issue. Loyalty, considered next to logic the highest of all Vulcan virtues. Should she remain loyal to the Captain she had served, who needed her now—or loyal to the bureaucracy who had forged her education, who might profit from her future career?

  Once again, Phlox’s insight proved remarkable.

  The moment was interrupted by a crewman, who entered pushing a large, ventilated crate; from within came hundreds of soft chirps.

  Phlox cocked his head and graced T’Pol with one of his impossible Denobulan smiles, the corners of his mouth quirking up sharply, far higher than human or Vulcan facial muscles could ever manage.

  “Thank you,” T’Pol said quietly. It was not her custom to express gratitude lightly; on Vulcan, it was not done at all. She had learned, as a student of diplomacy, that the act was highly important to humans, but she had always felt awkward doing it.