The Expanse

by J. M. Dillard

  It was slow going; the surface was a layer of soft, fine grit, like powdery beach sand, and they were walking into the wind. Over its howl, Archer could hear the roar of machinery. As he trudged toward the nearest tower, head ducked to protect his eyes and face, Reed screamed next to him, “We should’ve worn EV suits!”

  Archer faced Reed so he could be heard and shouted back, “The Doctor said it was safe for short periods!” Phlox had explained that trellium (an element Archer’d never heard of) was the main component, fatal when breathed in directly over months or years. But brief, limited exposure required only a simple detox procedure, with no harm done.

  Eyes reduced to slits, face contorted in a grimace, Reed challenged, “Safe? You call this safe? I’ve been in—”

  He broke off, gagging—caught a mouthful of grit, Archer imagined—and started coughing.

  The Captain gave him a quick slap on the back, then ordered, “Try not to talk!”

  Reed nodded, speechless.

  After a long, miserable moment, they reached the first tower. Archer had memorized the foreman’s directions, and found the ladder he’d described—although it was far rustier and more unsteady-looking than the Captain had imagined. He caught hold of it gingerly and began climbing up. Once again, Reed followed, until the two of them made their way to a platform.

  Archer unbolted a metal door, per the foreman’s instructions; it opened onto a dark, spiraling stairwell that led downwards.

  The Captain went first. Getting out of the wind and stinging sand was a relief—but descending the rickety metal staircase was hardly an aesthetic experience. The walls and stairs wore a thick coat of dark blue mineral residue, and the air still bore a noxious chemical stink, mixed now with the odor of the sweat and filth of living bodies. Even here, a deep blue haze hung suspended; Archer was beginning to agree with Reed about those EV suits. A respirator would do nicely, helping to ease the burning that was starting to spread from the Captain’s nose and throat into his lungs.

  Now that the howling wind was no longer in their ears, the relentless churning of machinery was more noticeable; it caused the metal beneath Archer’s soles to vibrate. Hard to tell, given the haze, but it seemed to him even the walls trembled.

  They kept going down…down, down until Archer’s calves began to cramp, until he began to wonder whether he had somehow misunderstood part of what the foreman had told him.

  Finally, he heard Reed’s footsteps behind him stop; Archer turned to regard the Lieutenant, then followed his gaze down the stairwell.

  It descended, apparently, into infinity.

  Archer began moving again, and Reed followed. But the Lieutenant’s brow, coated with fine blue dust, was furrowed with uncertainty. “There has to be at least two hundred—”

  Archer stopped in his tracks as two great, hulking figures—aliens of a sort Archer had never seen before—appeared in the cobalt haze, standing before him. Despite the dim light, he did not miss the fact that they each bore large weapons in the crooks of their arms.

  Archer was, of course, startled, but recovered at once. These were no doubt the assistants the foreman had mentioned. Pretty formidable-looking ones, but Archer wasn’t about to let himself be intimidated. “I’m Captain Archer of the Starship Enterprise,” he announced confidently. “We’ve come to see—”

  One of the guards interrupted him, in the deepest bass Archer’d ever heard. “This way.”

  The aliens turned without pleasantry and abruptly headed down the winding stairs. Archer shot Reed a long-suffering glance.

  There was something about the situation—maybe the fact that the assistants were enormous and armed, as if they were soldiers rather than workers—that set off an instinctive alarm in Archer’s brain. Something didn’t smell right…and it wasn’t just the trellium.

  The quartet descended several more levels before the aliens finally moved away from the stairs, toward a large metal door where three more tall aliens of the same species stood watch—again, all of them armed.

  Archer was growing more distrustful by the minute. Why would a foreman of a bunch of miners need guards? This planet was definitely not in a busy neighborhood; were pirates that much of a problem—or was the situation not what he’d been told?

  He and Reed were led into a grease-and trellium-covered room that was as dismal as the rest of the complex; the guards exited and shut the door behind them with a loud clang.

  It was then Archer noticed the slight, hunch-shouldered foreman, reduced to a dark silhouette in the blue haze. Behind him, a primitive oil-lamp flickered, casting shadows that intermittently hid his face. Archer caught just enough of his sly expression and cold, glittering eyes to think, weasel, and know for certain that his instincts were right: He was dealing with a con artist.

  An uneasy silence passed as the weasel studied the two officers, then drew in air with a rattling in his lungs and let go a single, rasping sound. “Archer.”

  “I’m Jonathan Archer,” the Captain said, without warmth, and stepped forward. He gestured with his chin. “This is Lieutenant Reed.”

  In the dimness, the foreman smiled unctuously and scratched at some nasty boils on his stubbled chin. “I was told you might make it worth my while if I were to arrange a certain introduction.”

  Archer kept his tone hard. “It depends on what you mean by ‘worth your while.’”

  The foreman tilted his long, gaunt face and showed long, yellowed teeth. “I’ve always had a fondness for platinum…specifically in its liquified state.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t carry precious metals on board.”

  “A pity.” The foreman turned dismissively from him, and moved as if to summon the “assistants.” His manner made it clear that negotiation was not an option.

  Archer at once turned mollifying. “I’m sure there’s something else we could offer you…”

  The weasel whirled on him, wheezing with fury. “I don’t make a habit of allowing people to interrupt my workers! Xindi or otherwise!”

  Xindi.

  A thrill ran down Archer’s spine at the very mention of the word. So it wasn’t just a rumor; there was a Xindi here, now. He fought not to let the desperation show on his face. Instead, he sidled closer to Reed and said in the Lieutenant’s ear, “What about the antimatter relays?”

  Reed replied in a voice barely audible above the machinery’s hum. “Their linings are plated with a platinum-cobalt alloy. Trip could probably strip them down and separate the metals.”

  Archer directed his full attention to the foreman; the Captain’s manner was all business. “How much platinum are we talking about?”

  The foreman’s temper cooled immediately; the smirk returned. “I’m a reasonable man. I’m sure you could part with a half liter.”

  “I’ll need to see this man,” Archer said, “scan him…confirm that he’s Xindi.”

  The foreman’s smile widened. He moved to a desk, pulled open a filthy drawer, and removed a darkly stained piece of cloth. He held it up so the other two men could see. “That won’t be necessary.”

  He handed the cloth to Archer—who unwrapped it, and recoiled slightly at the sight of a swollen humanoid finger, severed below the second knuckle. A jagged ivory metatarsal protruded from bloodied purplish flaps of skin.

  Archer glared at the foreman in pure disgust. “Why would you do this?”

  “An unfortunate accident,” the weasel said glibly. His tone turned dismissive. “I’ll expect to see you back tomorrow. Good day.”

  With a wiry arm, he lifted a metal pipe from his desk and rapped against the wall.

  A moment later, one of the vertiginously tall “assistants” opened the door; Archer and Reed followed him out into the blue glow.

  * * *

  It was a bright blue day at the Key West Café—one of those gloriously pleasant days in March, a month before the humidity took hold and the sun grew so hot that every afternoon brought a tropical shower.

  Lizzie was sitting
outside—she always liked to sit outside at the Café, even when it was too warm—reading a book, the way she did when she had to eat alone. She was wearing that blue sundress, the one with the little shoulderstraps, and her blond hair fell straight onto her shoulders. How old was she? Eight…Yeah, eight, the year when she was on the grilled-cheese sandwich kick. It was all she would eat at the Café, Swiss please, not cheddar, with extra pickles on the side. Mom had said if Lizzie didn’t start eating something else, she was going to start sprouting holes.

  Trip was standing across the street, next to the lime grove owned by old man Farley, flanked by two huge, fuschia-colored hibiscus. He was wearing his favorite shirt, a geometric display of rust, gold, and olive. And he was worried—shouting at Lizzie, but for some reason, he couldn’t project his voice, couldn’t yell loud enough to be heard.

  So she just went right on reading her book, blissfully unawares; she frowned, wrinkling her freckled nose in that little-girl way she had, and turned the page as she took another bite of her cheese sandwich. Slowly, pensively, she chewed.

  “Elizabeth!” Trip screamed, waving his arms. “Lizzie!”

  He looked, and the Café was suddenly filled with adults. Only Lizzie sat alone, still reading and chewing her sandwich, still oblivious.

  Trip was gesticulating wildly now, his adolescent voice cracking. “Lizzie! You’ve got to get out of there!”

  And there was Lizzie suddenly in her twenties, still sitting at the same table in the same crowd, eating the same sandwich, reading the same book, still dressed in the blue sundress, her blonde, sun-streaked hair still long and straight.

  “Elizabeth!” Trip yelled, his voice and body now adult, his shirt the same melange of rust, gold, and green. Panic overtook him; despite the sun’s warmth, a cold sweat trickled down his spine, soaking the lightweight shirt. “Please!! Get out of there! YOU’VE GOTTA GET OUT OF THERE!”

  The grown-up Lizzie was abruptly alone, abandoned, but still accompanied by her lunch and book.

  Miracle of miracles, she looked up directly at Trip and smiled dazzlingly.

  Trip screamed, his throat raw from the effort, but no sound came from his mouth.

  “LISTEN TO ME!! YOU’VE GOT TO GET AWAY!!”

  Lizzie smiled and began to wave.

  Behind her, the entire sky had become a swath of flame…moving directly toward her.

  Trip sobbed with horror, trying to scream, trying to be heard, but Lizzie merely continued smiling and waving, happy to see her brother, unmindful of the coming danger.

  The incinerating beam swept closer, closer, until it was on top of her….

  Trip woke gasping with terror, then pressed his palms to his eyes; when he at last drew his hands away, they were damp, shaking.

  It’s all right, his mind chattered inanely. Just a dream. Just a dream…It’s probably just because you know the Captain and Reed are on the trail of the Xindi….

  But it wasn’t all right. Trip had roughly the same dream every night, though the circumstances varied. One night, Lizzie would be eating at her favorite restaurant, the next, working in her office, and even once watching a film at the old movie theater.

  Grief was a strange thing: Trip was beginning to understand what Reed had been trying to say about closure, about a way of saying good-bye—but the Xindi had taken that away.

  Because even if the Xindi were stopped, even if Trip managed to feel that some measure of justice had been done, there would always be one fact that would forever haunt him: He would never know exactly how Lizzie had died.

  Chapter 12

  In sickbay, Phlox was presenting the results of his findings to Captain Archer.

  Humans were curious creatures; Phlox found them fascinating, especially in terms of their complex emotional reactions to events. He found that he had to temper his enthusiasm for science when around them, especially the Captain, who of late only wanted to hear the information he needed that would help him locate the Xindi. Then there was Lieutenant Trip, of course, and his difficulties concerning the loss of his sister. While Denobulans grieved the loss of a loved one, they did not discriminate between different types of grief, the way humans did: For example, Phlox would mourn the peaceful passing of an elderly relative in precisely the same manner he would mourn the traumatic death of a younger one: dying was dying.

  And the doctor was just beginning to wonder whether he should be concerned about the state of Archer’s mental health: the Captain was beginning to hyperfocus on the Xindi. This was necessary—to an extent. But he had noted that Archer had entirely given up socializing with other crew members, and was no longer checking out books from the ship’s library. While the success of the mission was extremely critical, so was the Captain’s mental health.

  As Archer stood nearby, watching Phlox manipulate the microscope’s controls, the doctor reminded himself to keep things brief.

  Even so, as he brought up the display of alien cells on the monitor so the Captain could view them, Phlox couldn’t help making at wry face at the severed finger. It sat exposed on a tray beside the delicate scalpels used to obtain micrometer-thin slices.

  “A blood sample would’ve been sufficient,” the doctor remarked. “Some saliva…”

  Archer, ever intense, demanded, “Is it Xindi?”

  Phlox wanted to be direct, but he first had to be honest. “Yes…and no.”

  The Captain scowled. “I need something a little more concrete, Doctor.”

  Phlox explained. “The genetic profile is nearly identical to the tissue samples taken from the corpse found on Earth…. Their base-pair sequencing is far closer than, say, humans and chimpanzees. Nearly identical, but not quite.”

  Archer contemplated this. “Like humans and Neanderthals?”

  “A reasonable analogy.” Phlox moved to a nearby monitor and pressed a control, causing a three-dimensional model of an alien humanoid to rotate slowly on the screen.

  “After analyzing the skeletal remains of the Xindi corpse,” he said, “and the tissue samples I was given, I was able to provide the computer with enough data to create this rendering.” He nodded at the alien face displayed before them, with its slit-like nostrils and fine, gleaming scales. “However, this humanoid is reptilian…that finger”—he inclined his head toward the tray—“is not. It’s covered with skin, not unlike yours or mine. But it’s Xindi all the same.”

  Archer’s expression grew pensive; at the same time, Phlox noted a slight glimmer of fascination, an echo of the excitement he, the doctor, had felt upon making such a discovery. On most of the planets discovered so far, the mammals had been the ones to evolve intelligence; more rarely, the reptilians had succeeded. But he had never heard before of a world where both groups had achieved ascendancy at the same time.

  “I wish I could be more helpful, Captain,” Phlox said, just as Commander Tucker entered the room. The doctor had no doubt as to the Commander’s purpose here.

  Archer gave a distracted nod, then turned to Tucker. “How’s it coming?”

  Tucker released the sigh of an engineer who had been ordered to do something not in the best interests of his engines. “We’re gonna end up stripping more than two hundred relays to get half a liter of liquified platinum, but you’ll have it by this afternoon.”

  “Let me know when it’s ready,” Archer said, already preoccupied with other matters. He headed for the door—then stopped, emerging from his reverie long enough to realize that his commander had just walked into sickbay.

  “You okay?” he asked Tucker.

  Tucker nodded and gave a dismissive little shrug; Phlox suspected he was too embarrassed to discuss the matter with Archer. “Yeah, fine.”

  The Captain did not press; he gave a nod, then left the Commander alone with Phlox.

  The instant Archer was out of earshot, Tucker said, “I think I’m gonna need something to help me sleep tonight, Doc.”

  Phlox feigned a moment of contemplation, then said, “Very well. Come by at around twen
ty-two hundred hours. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks,” Trip said. Phlox detected the undercurrent of weariness in his tone; the pigmentation beneath his eyes had darkened slightly over the past few days. Clearly, he’d had some difficult nights.

  The doctor watched him go. As difficult as the situation might be for T’Pol, Phlox knew her to be possessed of great compassion, and an unusual intuitive capacity, for a Vulcan, to understand humans. He had faith that she would be able to overcome her cultural reluctance and help Commander Tucker.

  If a human ever needed a Vulcan’s help, the Commander needed it now.

  * * *

  Inside the dim, hazy foreman’s office, Archer stood beside the weaselly little man and watched as Trip Tucker placed a large metallic suitcase on the filthy wasteland of a desk and snapped it open.

  Archer did not like the acrid, toxic blue surroundings, or the muscular alien giants who waited just outside the door, weapons in hand, nor did he like the growing sense that he was at a disadvantage here. Most of all, he disliked the foreman, who scratched unconsciously at his chin and neck, now so covered with boils so inflamed the redness could be detected beneath the veil of blue soot he wore.

  Trip had insisted on coming. He was, after all, the most experienced engineer and had designed the container for holding the ultra-unstable precious metal; but Archer figured he had the most right anyway. There was a Xindi involved—and the Captain realized how desperate Trip must be to do something, anything, to help prevent another attack on Earth.

  On the way down in the shuttlepod, Tucker had fallen grimly silent; his reticent mood persisted until they finally arrived at their destination, at which point he became suddenly animated, relieved that something was finally happening after all these weeks.

  Now, bent over the foreman’s desk, Trip removed a thickly insulated container with consummate delicacy, set it down, then gently released a locking mechanism. Using one hand to hold the container steady, he used the other to open the top, revealing what lay inside: a crystal vial filled with a glowing substance.