Quite deliberately, she put her fingers into her hair and tousled it. She was a renegade now, no longer bound by tradition. She was a civilian who had cast her lot with humans, and there was no point in maintaining an unnecessary degree of formality.
After breakfast, she’d reported to the command center for duty. To her surprise—she was always early, arriving before anyone else—Lieutenant Reed was already there, as well as Captain Archer. Reed noticed the difference in her appearance at once, and did a mild double take, which he immediately suppressed; Archer did not even notice.
The captain was seated at one of the monitors, his expression almost as grim as the day he had first announced the attack on Earth; his brow was deeply furrowed, making him look older than he was. The strain of the situation was wearing on him; a Vulcan commander would realize the logic of having to endanger those on his ship in order to achieve a greater good, but T’Pol imagined the situation was different for a human. Since she had first met Archer, she had noted his tendency to take the safety of every crew member personally, as if he were responsible for any harm that came to them.
“Good morning, Captain, Lieutenant,” T’Pol said upon entering. Greetings were illogical and unnecessary, but, as a diplomat, T’Pol had been trained in such idle pleasantries.
“Morning, Sub-Commander,” Reed answered.
Archer did not reply, did not even glance up.
T’Pol took her place and set to work.
Time passed before the captain finally spoke; he did not meet her gaze. His tone was uncharacteristically tense. “How long till we get there?”
T’Pol did not need to check the chronometer; she had noticed the time upon her arrival, and made the calculation easily in her head. She also knew, because of her time on Earth, not to answer accurately, another two hours, fifty-one minutes, twenty-four seconds, which humans would find annoying. She rounded the figure up. “Another three hours.”
Lieutenant Reed swiveled in his chair to face Archer. “Did the freighter captain say who we’re supposed to contact?”
The Captain kept his gaze focused on his monitor screen. “The foreman of the north mine…he’s expecting us.”
T’Pol took the opportunity to ask a question, one that Archer had not answered. Of late, he had been reticent concerning details. “What makes this captain so certain one of the miners is Xindi?”
Archer sighed and at last looked up from the screen. “He’s not. He just said he ‘thinks’ there was a Xindi aboard a transport he took there a few years ago.”
“And it’s safe to enter orbit?” Reed’s voice was plainly skeptical. “There are no security considerations?” Security was the Lieutenant’s responsibility, a task he took most seriously; apparently, the Captain and Commander Tucker seemed to think he sometimes took it too seriously, and often joked about the fact.
But Archer’s reply was anything but good-humored; T’Pol heard the undercurrent of anger in his tone. “He didn’t mention any.”
Reed’s expression grew troubled. “With all due respect, sir, we should approach with caution. The freighter captain was of questionable character.”
T’Pol watched as forty-one days of frustration rose in Archer and consumed the last of his patience. The Captain swiveled to face Reed, and addressed him like an angry teacher confronting a particularly dull schoolboy. “Where are we, Malcolm?”
Reed colored slightly. “Sir?”
“This room,” Archer demanded, jerking his head at the surroundings while keeping his gaze fastened on the Lieutenant, “what did it used to be?”
Reed hesitated, clearly at a loss to understand Archer’s questions or the sudden heat in his tone. “It was a storage bay, sir…conduit housings, I believe.”
“But it got retrofitted,” Archer stated flatly. “Starfleet went to a lot of trouble to turn it into our new command center. Why’s that, Malcolm?”
T’Pol thought she understood where the Captain’s hostile interview was leading, but Lieutenant Reed was still hopelessly confused. “Because of our…mission, sir.”
“To find the Xindi, right?”
“Right,” Reed echoed, uncertain.
Archer leaned forward for emphasis. “So this state-of-the-art equipment was put in here to help us gather all the pieces of the puzzle…figure out who’s trying to destroy Earth…”
“Right,” Reed said, but his expression clearly asked, Where’s he going with this?
Archer made a sweeping gesture at the cutting-edge technology surrounding them; at last, he gave his frustration full rein and let his voice rise in anger. “Six weeks!” he exclaimed. “We’ve been in this Expanse for six weeks. What data have we gathered? What pieces of the puzzle have we started to put together? Not a single one! Humanity’s in trouble, Malcolm. We don’t have the luxury of being safe or cautious. And if the only lead we can find comes from a ‘freighter captain of questionable character,’ then that’s good enough for me. Understood?”
Reed straightened and projected the essence of pure military formality and respect. “Understood.”
His answer did nothing to mollify the Captain’s helpless ire. Archer rose, expression still taut, and left the chamber without a word.
Reed shared a look with T’Pol; his expression clearly asked, Is it me, or has the Captain finally gone mad from the responsibility?
It was a good question. T’Pol had come this far because she had trusted Archer not to react rashly to the threat, but to deal with it fairly, logically. It had never occurred to her that Archer might actually break under the strain.
She said nothing to Reed, merely fixed her gaze firmly back on her monitor and returned to her work.
Chapter 10
In the Enterprise mess, Hoshi Sato picked up her tray of tofu Thai curry and gazed out at the crowded room. There was little room left at the tables—which had been her intention. Normally, she took lunch at a later hour, in order to avoid the rush, but she had noticed every day when she arrived that the MACOs—the soldiers belonging to the Military Assault Command Operations—were just leaving.
For the past month and a half, Hoshi had had little to do. She’d managed to finish reading Languages of the Sub-Sahara after all; for some reason, she’d assumed she’d be too busy to get through it. So far, the Expanse hadn’t been dangerous at all…only boring.
It wouldn’t last, she knew…but at the moment, there was nothing for a linguist–cum–communications officer to do, no alien languages to translate, no incoming messages—only a great deal of tension on the bridge while everyone waited.
In the meantime, Hoshi wanted to be helpful. One thing she’d noticed was that the soldiers assigned to help with the mission weren’t mixing at all with the crew; after all this time, she didn’t even know their names, and she figured it might be a good thing to make friends with them. Perhaps she could serve as an unofficial liaison of sorts.
And so she pretended to scan carefully for vacant seats, then to notice that there just happened to be room at the table where the MACOs were sitting.
MACOs. At first she’d mispronounced it “May-co,” and when Malcolm Reed had corrected her, saying, “That’s ‘Mah-co,’ ” she’d retorted, with linguistlike speed:
“What are they, sharks?”
She hadn’t understood then why the normally repressed Reed had burst out laughing—not until she had seen her first soldier, and noticed the insignia on the breast of his gray camouflage jumpsuit: an inverted delta of a blue shark, teeth bared, aswim in a dark sea. The MACO probably had no idea why Hoshi smiled at him so broadly as he passed.
Since then, she had learned all she could about the organization—there’d been little else to do, anyway. She had known little about the military then, but she knew now that the MACOs were regarded as the most elite of all the organizations. Ninety-five percent of all cadets dropped out of the program within the first three months, and those who remained would be further tested until a mere one percent made it, three hard years la
ter, to graduation. Their motto: Ever Invincible. A MACO never surrendered…and did whatever was necessary to win. She’d noticed wryly during her search for information that getting a MACO mad at you was considered tantamount to suicide.
At the same time, the organization’s members were legendary for their courtesy and strict code of honor. That fact had crept into Earth languages, too, producing the expression, “I’d sooner trust a MACO than my own mother.”
Now, Hoshi smiled at the four soldiers who sat, off to themselves, at a table in the corner of the mess hall, and moved over to the table.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked warmly. Being a linguist had its advantages when it came to dealing with people. Being fascinated by others’ speech meant that she found them fascinating, as well; she’d always been outgoing—another good reason for her to serve as liaison. If today’s meeting went well, perhaps she’d mention something to Captain Archer.
The four men rose at once in a display of split-second, well-coordinated courtesy. The oldest of them—the one Hoshi assumed was in charge—nodded to an empty chair beside him.
“Ma’am,” he said politely.
Hoshi was both charmed and a bit taken aback by the combination of chivalry and stiff formality. She sat.
As if they’d been practicing the move for months, the soldiers retook their seats in flawless unison. Whump. None of them picked up their silverware, but instead waited for Hoshi to make the first move. The one who’d spoken appeared to be near forty; the others were much younger, but all of them were fit, chiseled, and flawlessly groomed. The mottled gray camos were spotless.
“I’m Hoshi Sato,” she said.
“We’ve familiarized ourselves with all the bridge officers, Ensign,” the older man replied. “I’m Major Hayes. This is Sergeant Kemper, Corporals Romero and Chang.” He nodded at the different men in turn. Each favored Hoshi with a polite but reserved nod. They seemed friendly enough, but it was clear that they were a bit taken aback by the attempts of a crew member to fraternize with them.
Hoshi tried to think of a topic of conversation, and at last noticed that all the soldiers’ plates were heaped high with food. They’d apparently just sat down, and were getting ready to dig in. She lifted her fork—and immediately the MACOs began shoveling in lunch with a speed and efficiency that was astonishing.
She nodded at Romero’s plate. “Looks like you’ve all gotten your space legs.”
Kemper, a ruddy-faced blond, grinned and shared an amused look with Romero. Spacesickness had definitely been an issue for them, and some kind of running joke. He finished chewing the huge mouthful of food he’d taken and swallowed. “Some of us are still visiting Dr. Phlox every morning.”
Romero rolled his eyes at the memory of more unpleasant moments. “Wonders of modern medicine.”
Hoshi was pleased; the conversational ball was rolling. She turned to the blond MACO. “What do you think of our doctor, Sergeant? I imagine you don’t run into many Denobulans in Canton, Ohio.”
The soldiers all reacted with surprise; at first, Hoshi didn’t understand why. She had such an ear for dialect that she hadn’t even realized she’d mentioned Canton. She wasn’t trying to show off—it was just that she’d written a dissertation on the Midwestern “o”—long and round, with its Scandinavian influence.
“Actually, I’m stationed outside of Atlanta,” Kemper said. He was a little taken aback. “No Denobulans, but we have our fair share of alien visitors.” He paused, forkful of food hovering an inch from his mouth, then said, “You must’ve gone pretty deep into our records. I haven’t lived in Ohio since junior high school.”
Great, Hoshi thought, now they think I’ve been prying. She smiled again and explained, “You may have left Canton, but you’ve still got plenty of Canton left in your inflections.”
Kemper frowned, puzzled. “Excuse me?”
Inflections—not a common term, except for someone in her profession. Hoshi tried to think of an alternative word, and was stumped.
Fortunately, Major Hayes saved the day. Bemused, he paused in his voracious eating long enough to say, “Ensign Sato’s a linguist, Kemper. Give her enough time, she could probably tell you what street you grew up on.”
Kemper’s guarded expression turned into one of respect. Corporal Chang, slender and brown-skinned, with delicate features that no doubt belied his physical strength, asked softly, “Do you have any idea where we’re headed, Ensign?”
Hoshi was now at a true loss. As an ensign, it was not her place to give out such information unless she was ordered to do so. In her best effort at tact, she said, “I’m sure Captain Archer will let us know when he has reason to.”
Major Hayes suddenly became all business. “Let’s hope it’s soon,” he said, his tone flinty. “The quicker you folks find these Xindi, the quicker we can get to work.”
He rose abruptly; Hoshi glanced down and saw, to her astonishment, that his plate was completely empty.
The others rose a mere half-second after their commander—once again, in unison.
“Ma’am,” Hayes said.
The four of them moved swiftly to the door.
Hoshi watched them go with a sense of disappointment: this was not going to be as easy as she anticipated. They were suffering, just like every Enterprise crew member, from a sense of frustration because of the waiting. Even more disturbing, they seemed to think that they were the real ones in charge of the mission; the Enterprise was simply providing the ride.
Hoshi sighed and began to eat her curry—extra hot, the way she liked it. Captain Archer—and Lieutenant Reed, especially—weren’t going to appreciate the MACOs’ attitude. She sensed trouble brewing, but had no idea how to stop it.
* * *
In one of the lower level corridors, Trip Tucker and Captain Archer were on the move.
Trip forced himself to try to attain his usual sense of alertness, of focus on the task at hand. It was impossible, but he did a fairly good job of going through the motions.
He loved his job, he told himself. Loved being in space. Now that the stakes had risen, and they were in the Expanse, he had a chance to truly make a difference, to be a part of saving Earth.
The Earth that was left, anyway. But not the Earth he’d known: Lizzie was gone from it.
So he went through his daily routine, staying busy, but it was like moving through molasses. Doctor Phlox had given him something to help him sleep, but he wanted more of it than the doc was willing to give him: He wanted to blot out every dream, every thought of Lizzie and her cruel death until there was nothing but blackness.
He’d thought, once they’d entered the Expanse, that things would happen quickly: there’d be danger, fighting, a chance to finally wreak revenge on the Xindi, which Trip was convinced would bring him peace. But it hadn’t happened. They’d been hurtling through space forever, until Trip at last grew so exhausted from his grief that he settled into a dull numbness—except when he was alone, when the pain sometimes broke through with breathtaking force.
As he moved through the corridor with Archer, however, Trip was all business. He liked to think that, though the loss of Lizzie accompanied him everywhere, a silent ghost, no one else saw.
“Just Bay Two?” Archer interrupted Trip’s reverie. Like Trip, Archer had kept to himself during these unbearably slow weeks; neither of them had felt up to continuing their habit of socializing with each other. Trip didn’t envy the Captain his responsibility: It was one thing to lose a sister, quite another to bear responsibility for the fate of nearly a hundred people.
“Yes, sir,” Trip answered smartly, proud of his ability to draw himself out of his private thoughts quickly now. He had to do so, if he was going to be any good at helping to bring the Xindi to justice. “Cargo Bays One and Three seem to be unaffected.”
“When did it start?”
“About ten minutes ago,” Trip replied. “Ensign McFarlane got pretty banged up, but he’s gonna be okay.” Trip had been terrifie
d at the sight of McFarlane, helpless, being crushed against the wall by a huge cargo container—terrified not just for the ensign, but also in a selfish way. He couldn’t handle the thought of losing a man under his watch—not now. One death was enough—more than enough—to deal with. He’d rushed McFarlane to sickbay himself, and had been enormously gratified when Doctor Phlox pronounced the injuries minor.
“And you’re sure it’s not a problem with the grav-plating?” Archer glanced at him. Like Trip, the Captain seemed grateful for a distraction, a problem, anything to ease the waiting.
Trip shook his head; the grav-plating had been the first thing he’d checked, but even then he’d known that the sort of poltergeist activities that had injured McFarlane couldn’t be caused by defective grav-plating. Floating containers, yes. But not this…
The two men reached the doors leading to Cargo Bay Two. Trip paused for drama’s sake, then tapped the control.
The doors slid open; Trip and the Captain entered the vast, silent chamber.
Just as Trip knew it would, Archer’s expression grew puzzled as he stared at the empty bay floor. It was, of course, supposed to be loaded with stacked cargo.
Trip watched as Archer gazed, curious, to the left, then to the right—where the cargo was currently glued to the right bulkhead, all the way from floor to ceiling.
Startled by the sight, Archer took a step forward; Trip held up a restraining arm.
“Careful, sir. Stay close to the door.”
Archer stepped back, and shot a questioning look at his engineer.
“Just give it a minute,” Trip said.
They waited. After a beat, a low rumble began to build, growing louder and louder; the deck beneath their feet began to vibrate. With a sudden roar, the cargo containers whipped across the room, then slammed into place on the left-hand wall.
The Expanse Page 10
