The Expanse

by J. M. Dillard

  Quicksilver, Archer thought, but this was far more intense a substance; it was painfully, metallically white, so dazzling that when the Captain looked away, he saw the afterimage, superimposed against dull blue.

  Trip glanced over his shoulder at the foreman, who was leering with pure greed at the contents of the suitcase. “I suppose you’re aware this stuff is very volatile above thirty degrees Celsius.”

  The foreman was not interested in making eye contact with Trip; he continued to stare, mesmerized by the contents of the vial. “I’m very familiar with the properties of liquified platinum.”

  Trip gently replaced the top, then turned. “I’ve insulated the outer container…it should keep everything pretty stable.”

  Archer directed a pointed look at the wiry little foreman. “There’s a little more than half a liter in there.”

  A real weasel, the Captain thought, looking at him. The man was actually rubbing his trellium-caked hands together; any minute now, and he’d begin to drool. “What exactly is it you want with our Xindi friend?” the foreman asked; his tone turned lascivious. “He’s not very attractive…especially after his recent…surgery.”

  Archer regarded the man with unmasked disgust. His instincts about the weasel had been right. Not only was the man untrustworthy, he couldn’t imagine someone else being capable of anything but the basest intentions. He kept his tone short, clipped. “I have something I need to discuss with him.”

  “And what might that be?” Curious, the weasel leaned closer; Archer recoiled at the man’s stench. Clearly, regular bathing wasn’t one of his priorities.

  None of your damned business, Archer wanted to say, but instead, he allowed himself an impatient: “You got what you asked for, now let me see the Xindi.”

  The foreman studied him for a half-second, as if considering whether to comply, then walked over to one of the dust-covered monitors. He ran a grimy hand over it, clearing away some of the blue grit but leaving behind oily fingerprints. He squinted at the readout for a moment.

  “His work group should be awake in about an hour’s time.” He drew in a rattling breath and turned toward Archer and Tucker, his tone wheedling, smarmy. “Perhaps you’d like something to eat in the meanwhile?”

  Archer let the flare of anger he felt come through in his tone. “It took six of my men half the night to extract that platinum. I think you could wake him up an hour early.”

  For the briefest instant, the weasel’s glittering eyes flashed with equal ire. It faded swiftly, though, in a way that let Archer know he was at last about to set eyes on his first live Xindi.

  They headed deep into the belly of the mines; the foreman led the way, accompanied, as always, by two armed guards.

  When they finally made it into the miners’ area, Archer’s sense of foreboding increased. The passageways were narrow, the walls thickly caked with trellium residue, the tunnels filled with the thick blue murk that made Archer’s eyes and throat burn; the smell was nauseating. What troubled him most were not the conditions, but the sight of the miners themselves—what Archer could see of them. They represented many different species, all of them dressed in tatters, all of them with faces wrapped in rags—save for the eyes.

  The guards had elaborate breathing apparatuses, even though their exposure to trellium particulate matter was far less. Why would the miners tolerate such unsafe conditions?

  And everywhere—everywhere Archer looked—there were armed guards.

  They arrived at last in the miners’ area—a labyrinth of tunnels and alcoves. The guards pushed open a thick metal door and led them all into the most primitive of living areas. Blue-tinged miners slept on the floor; some sat at rusty tables on uneven, rickety benches and ate. Even here, there were armed, musclebound aliens standing watch, as though a riot might suddenly break out.

  Most remarkably, there was not a single sound—not the low murmur of voices, the lull of normal conversation. There was no social interaction at all, not even between members of the same species.

  Trip sensed something was wrong, too. As the foreman led them deeper back into the dimly lit, haze-filled workers’ quarters, he shared a look with the Captain.

  After a long pause, Trip finally asked, “Is trellium the only thing you mine here?”

  “The only thing,” the foreman responded, his tone cursory, his mind apparently on other things. “Trellium.”

  “I’m not familiar with it,” Trip said. “What’s it used for?”

  “Insulation. Mostly for interstellar vessels.” Inspiration suddenly struck the weasel; he turned to Archer, his expression sly. “What sort of insulation does your ship use, Captain?”

  Archer thought, and could see no possible harm in replying. “Our outer hull is lined with duranium.”

  The foreman’s thin, blue lips began to curve in a coy little grin. “I imagine you have a very large crew.”

  Archer’s tone turned sharp. “Why would you imagine that?” he asked, though he was beginning to suspect. No matter; he’d deal with that problem when it surfaced. In the interim, he had a Xindi to interview…assuming the foreman kept that much of his word.

  Indeed, before the weasel managed to concoct another lie, one of the gargantuan aliens returned, his large paw gripping a human-sized miner. With a single thrust, he sent the miner hurtling forward; the humanoid collided with the nearest wall, sending up a fresh cloud of trellium dust, then sank to the floor.

  The foreman, utterly unmoved by this display of brutality, told Archer casually, “Take your time.” He headed, guards in tow, to the door.

  Archer waited until he heard the metal door clang shut.

  The instant it did, Trip bent down and helped the miner to his feet—a gesture not lost on Archer.

  The miner—male, his body very humanoid in appearance, though his face was masked by rags—pulled angrily away from Trip. He held up a thickly bandaged hand.

  His voice was deep and grating, though not as damaged as the foreman’s. “Do I have you to thank for this?!” His words were muffled by the layer of rags that covered his nose and mouth.

  It was not what Archer had expected of that first encounter: A Xindi angry at him. Mildly, he replied, “The foreman said it was an accident.”

  “Did he?” the alien answered snidely. He paused, eyeing the two humans with suspicion, then demanded, “What do you want?”

  He did not, of course, know of the attack by his people on Earth: He had been in the mines too long, Archer realized. “You’re Xindi?” the Captain asked.

  “A nine-fingered Xindi,” the humanoid allowed, with more than a little derision. “What do you want?”

  “Where’s your homeworld?”

  The Xindi began pacing back and forth in front of Archer and Trip, sizing the Captain up. “You came all the way to this hideous planet…bribed the foreman to see me…for what, directions to my planet? I find that hard to believe.”

  “We have important business with your people.” It was an honest enough answer.

  The alien leaned forward, intrigued. “But you don’t know where to find them.” He considered this an instant, and apparently made a decision to trust Archer. Slowly, he unwound the cloths that covered mouth and nose, and at last revealed his face.

  Archer heard Trip draw in a low breath beside him; it could not have been an easy moment for the engineer.

  The Xindi was startlingly human in appearance. It would have been easier, Archer reflected, to hate him if he had looked radically different—but his appearance brought up an uncomfortable thought.

  If we knew aliens were going to destroy Earth in the future, would we launch a weapon to destroy them first?

  “If you want information,” the Xindi said, “You’re going to have to help me escape from this place.”

  “What do you mean escape?” Archer asked. He had already guessed the answer, but he wanted it verified.

  The Xindi gestured at the pathetic, blue-stained creatures surrounding them. “Do these
look like volunteers? We’re captives—slaves!”

  Archer exchanged a knowing look with Trip. To the Xindi, the Captain said, “A simple set of coordinates. That’s all I want. I’m prepared to pay you.”

  There was an arrogance in the alien’s voice that belied his desperate circumstance. “The only payment I’m interested in is my freedom. If you can’t provide me with that, then stop wasting my time!”

  Archer drew in a breath to reply, but stopped. Beside him came the softest sound: a low growl, emanating from deep within Trip Tucker’s chest. In the space of less than a heartbeat, Archer watched as Trip struggled with a sudden burst of rage, then abruptly lost the battle.

  The engineer surged forward and pegged the startled Xindi to the wall by the throat. In an instant, the two were nose-to-nose. Archer stood ready to intervene—but at the moment, he decided, a little shaking up might do the Xindi some good.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing in this place, and I don’t particularly care!” Trip proclaimed, with deadly heat. “But we didn’t come here to stage a prison break, so why don’t you just give us the coordinates and we’ll all stop wasting each other’s time!”

  The Xindi glared at him, defiant. “Not until you get me off this planet!”

  Face contorted in a sneer, Trip pulled the miner forward by the collar, then shoved him roughly back against the wall. “You know, I’m not sure why, but I’m just itching to kick the hell out of you.”

  Archer finally moved in and put a hand on his engineer’s shoulder. “Trip, take it easy.”

  Tucker reluctantly loosened his grip, just as the Captain’s communicator beeped.

  Archer stepped aside and flipped it open. “Archer.”

  T’Pol’s voice filtered through the grid. “Captain, there are three warships approaching at warp. Their hull alloys match the mining towers on the surface.”

  So, the weasel had been making plans all along, counting on a fresh supply of miners to replace those dying or dead from trellium exposure. “How long before they get here?” Archer asked.

  The Vulcan’s voice was replaced by Mayweather’s. “Two hours, sir.”

  Archer pondered it for a second. “Go to Tactical Alert. We’re heading back to the shuttlepod.”

  “Understood,” T’Pol’s disembodied voice replied.

  Archer flipped his communicator closed.

  “Shuttlepod?” the Xindi demanded. “You have a starship in orbit?”

  Archer remained silent as he headed for the metal door. Trip and the Xindi followed.

  “You’ve made it so easy for them!” the miner said, with a cruel delight that made it easy for Archer to believe his species thought nothing of genocide. “Usually, they have to go out and find ships to replenish their labor force!”

  Archer reached the door, pulled the handle—and reacted as the door remained firmly in position. It had been locked. Out of futile frustration, he lifted his fists and pommeled the thick, unyielding metal.

  The Xindi laughed—not at all kindly. “You flew right into their trap!”

  Archer ignored him and instead reached for his communicator and flipped it open. “Archer to Enterprise.”

  Static, nothing more. Yet only a moment ago, he had been speaking with T’Pol.

  “Enterprise, respond,” Archer demanded, though he knew it would do no good.

  More static. Archer snapped the communicator closed.

  The Xindi spoke again; this time, the derision had fled his tone. Apparently, he’d done some fast thinking. “Under normal circumstances, you might consider waiting for your colleagues to rescue you. But it sounds like they’re about to become quite busy….” His expression intent, he took a step toward Archer. “If you have a shuttlepod on the surface, I can get you to it…but you’ll have to take me with you.”

  Archer shared a glance with Trip. The Captain had been assuming that the Xindi was what he appeared to be—a prisoner, not a plant by those on his planet who might have learned of Enterprise and wanted to destroy it. There was also a chance that even if the Xindi was nothing more than a prisoner, he was capable of treachery.

  Even so, Trip’s gaze reflected what Archer already knew: They had no choice but to trust him.

  On the Enterprise bridge, T’Pol had made a few deductions of her own concerning the foreman’s lack of honesty. While a slight possibility remained that the warships had some mission other than attacking Enterprise, it was most doubtful. A likely conclusion was that mines were fueled by slave labor, and that the foreman was most eager to add to his workforce. She was somewhat annoyed with herself that the idea had not occurred to her earlier, before the Captain and Commander Tucker had gone down. Now there was the possibility they might be held as hostages.

  She turned as Ensign Sato’s console beeped. Sato pressed a control, listened, then reported, “There’s an audio message coming in from the mine foreman.”

  T’Pol gave a nod. Sato understood the tactit command perfectly, and within a few seconds, the image of the foreman appeared on the main viewscreen.

  T’Pol found his appearance less than impressive. It was impossible to determine the true color of the humanoid’s skin, as it was covered by a layer of grime, body oils, and trellium dust.

  The foreman shot her a lecherous look, then adopted an attitude of poorly feigned politeness. “I’m afraid your Captain and his associate are going to be slightly delayed. We have three cargo vessels approaching, and we’ve had to begin de-ionizing our landing decks.”

  T’Pol suspected this to be a complete lie, but decided that it was time to gather information first, before making accusations. “How long a delay?” she asked.

  “No more than an hour.”

  T’Pol considered this, then stated, “We’ve detected your ‘cargo ships.’ They’re heavily armed.” So armed, in fact, they had very little room for cargo.

  “Trellium is a highly valued substance,” the foreman persisted, “and I’m certain you’ve noticed that this is not one of the friendlier regions of space.”

  T’Pol remained skeptical, but did not challenge the statement. “Can I talk to Captain Archer?”

  The foreman blinked several times, obviously searching for an appropriate dishonest reply, and finally said, “Not at the moment. He requested to speak to one of our miners who resides on Level Twenty-two.”

  “I spoke with him a few minutes ago,” T’Pol countered.

  The humanoid shifted his weight. “Unfortunately, the de-ionizing process prevents us from communicating with the lower levels.” He paused, apparently pleased with his swiftness in coming up with yet another fabrication. “I’ll have him contact you as soon as he returns.”

  T’Pol had a choice: to tell the foreman that she failed to believe his falsehoods, or to say nothing and instead take action to foil his plot. She opted for the second, as it was more efficient and less likely to provoke extra resistance.

  “Please do,” she told him, then had Ensign Sato end the transmission.

  She turned toward the Ensign. “Keep trying to reach the Captain.” She was obliged to do so, though she doubted the effort would be successful; she was nearly convinced now that her hypothesis was correct: The Captain and Tucker were now hostages.

  At his station, Lieutenant Reed spoke up. “Something doesn’t smell right.”

  T’Pol understood the idiom and did not waste time pretending to take it literally; she agreed with Reed’s assessment. She faced him. “I want you to come up with a plan to recover the Captain and Commander Tucker. Have it in place in one hour.” T’Pol paused. She knew that Lieutenant Reed had proprietary feelings about his security responsibilities, and might be reluctant to bring in the MACOs, but this was precisely the type of situation the soldiers were trained for. “Consult Major Hayes if you feel it’s necessary.”

  Reed nodded, showing no sign of professional jealousy, and headed for the turbolift.

  T’Pol turned back to her console. With its upgraded weaponry, Enterprise
might just be able to hold off three warships; however, since she had no idea of the situation on the planet surface, she could not be as certain about their chances of rescuing Archer and the Commander.

  Deep in the bowels of the mining complex, the Xindi led Archer and Trip through a dank, narrow passageway filled with thick gray-brown sludge, tinged with the ubiquitous blue.

  Archer could not remember the last time he had been exposed to so many different varieties of noxious smells. The trellium had given off a sharp, eye-watering chemical smell, the miners and foreman their own pungent aromas of long-unbathed flesh; but Archer had never before breathed in an odor so vile as that of the waist-deep sludge. As he and Trip waded behind the Xindi, their hands held high lest they touch the disgusting mess, the Captain remarked, “Sewage takes on a whole different meaning when it comes from a dozen different species.”

  The Xindi—who had introduced himself as something that sounded to Archer like Kessick—was not without a sense of humor. He gave a wry little grimace and stated, “Thirty-one, to be exact.”

  His manner had changed abruptly from hostile and scathing to cooperative; from what Archer had seen, he could understand how years in the mines could harden anyone. Given that the Xindi had been tortured and lost a finger, the Captain could understand his initial distrust.

  Once he found Kessick’s people, there had to be a way to start a dialog, a way to bring about peace, to change the future.

  Kessick paused; Archer followed the Xindi’s gaze to a hatch resting at chest level.

  “Help me with this,” the Xindi said.

  Archer took one end of the wheel, Kessick the other; they began to turn. Despite the desperate circumstances, Archer found it mildly amusing that, so many light-years from Earth, alien hands had designed the hatch to open and close using the old “righty-tighty-lefty-loosey” principle.

  It was far from easy work; Archer gritted his teeth and strained as hard as he could; Kessick seemed equally matched in terms of strength, and struggled as well until the wheel began to loosen with a high-pitched squeal.