STAR TREK: Enterprise - The Expanse

by J. M. Dillard (Novelization)

  Archer had awakened, pulse pounding, the image of Enterprise being blown to bits in his mind.

  If they truly were going to find the Xindi homeworld, he’d worried, how would he protect his people? The Xindi were clearly technologically advanced; how close dared Enterprise come to their planet without putting her crew in danger?

  How did Archer know an entire army wasn’t waiting?

  There was, of course, no way to know what awaited them. He’d known going into this mission that there were no guarantees, only hope.

  The ship went to Tactical Alert; Archer turned to Reed again. “Any indications that we’re being scanned?”

  Reed manipulated several controls on his console, then consulted the readout; his eyebrows lifted in surprise, he gazed back up at the Captain. “No, sir. No vessels, no signs of technology ... nothing.”

  This was becoming uncomfortably like one of his dreams; Archer turned toward T’Pol, who was leaning over her viewer.

  “How many inhabited planets?” he asked.

  She did not look up, but continued to study the readout. “I’m not detecting any planets, inhabited or otherwise.”

  Archer felt a flare of pure rage. “That son of a bitch lied to us ...”

  Trip’s voice revealed both disappointment and denial. “Phlox said the Xindi used his dying breath to give us these coordinates. Why would he lie?”

  Out of sheer meanness, Archer thought, but he held his tongue out of a desire not to add to Trip’s hurt.

  “Sir,” Mayweather announced suddenly, his gaze fixed on his console, “I’m picking up a debris field.”

  “A ship?” Archer asked.

  “It’s a lot bigger than that,” the helmsman replied.

  “Put it up,” Archer told Hoshi.

  She complied. On the viewscreen, the image of the solitary star shifted, then enlarged to reveal a vast ellipsoid of debris partially encircling it.

  Attention still focused on her scanner, T’Pol reported, “It’s nearly eighty million kilometers long ...” She delicately fingered a few controls, then looked up at Archer, her gaze pointed. “It was a planet.”

  Her words charged the bridge with excitement. Archer kept his tone even and did not permit himself to look at Tucker as he said, “Move us in closer.”

  He hadn’t known what to expect; he had certainly not expected this.

  Mayweather worked the helm; Enterprise responded, and sailed slowly toward the mysterious rubble.

  Minutes later, Archer was still intently studying the viewscreen, which now revealed drifting debris: scorched chunks of rock, shards of metal, the remnants of what appeared to have been a civilized world.

  He dared not let himself believe the obvious. There was something wrong: the debris was too scattered, over too broad an area, to be what he—and everyone else aboard the bridge—hoped. Still standing, gazing up at the screen, he addressed T’Pol. “How long ago did this happen?”

  The Vulcan answered quickly; apparently, she too had sensed a discrepancy, and had already done the calculations. “Judging by the field dispersion, approximately one hundred and twenty years.”

  Trip was bent over a console, his tone still hopeful, despite T’Pol’s pronouncement. “I’m pretty sure there was a population here, Captain.” He frowned slightly at his readout. “I’m picking up refined metals and traces of alloys ...” He met Archer’s gaze with a pointed look. “Some of them match the hull of the Xindi probe.”

  The Captain looked back at the viewscreen, his mood abruptly grim. Whatever this was, it wasn’t the Xindi homeworld; or at least, it hadn’t been for more than a century. Kessick’s last words had been nothing more than another lie. The Xindi had only been on the mining colony a few years, and it was highly doubtful he’d been more than one hundred twenty years old.

  This world—whether some Xindi had lived here or not—had been destroyed suddenly, violently. Speculation about what had happened here was pointless; they would only know the truth when they found those responsible for launching the probe.

  “They’re building a weapon,” Archer said somberly, “planning to annihilate Earth because they think we’re going to destroy their world in four hundred years. ... How’s that possible if their world doesn’t exist anymore ... hasn’t existed for decades?”

  “We know the probe that attacked Earth was built somewhere in this Expanse,” T’Pol remarked, “and it was built recently. It’s logical to assume the new weapon is being developed at the same location.”

  “But if it’s not here ...” Trip trailed off, his tone one of frank disappointment.

  “Prepare to go to warp four,” the Captain told Mayweather.

  The helmsman looked over his shoulder. “What course, sir?”

  Archer let go a breath. “We have no choice but to go deeper into the Expanse.”

  Reed spoke up; in his voice was a note of concern. “Long-range sensors are showing increasing numbers of spatial distortions ...”

  Archer was unmoved. “You heard me, Travis.”

  Enterprise turned away from the remnants of the ruined world and trembled slightly as she jumped to warp.

  In the Inner Sanctum, the primate-Xindi Degra sat at the great round table with the rest of the members and listened as the reptilian, Guruk, reported the most recent findings concerning the Earth ship.

  “They scanned the debris and left,” Guruk said, his forked tongue lingering on each sibilant, “nearly three hours ago.”

  As usual, Degra let his aide, Mallora, do most of the talking. “Their heading?” Mallora asked, his tone reflecting the concern Degra also felt. These humans, as they called themselves, were disconcertingly resilient; he had been certain that they would remain captives, mining trellium for the rest of their shortened lives, and was amazed by their escape. Their persistence was most troubling.

  “Toward the Orassin distortion fields.”

  Guruk’s answer brought sounds and gestures of approval from all ten members. The Orassin fields had great teeth, the ancient saying went, that longed to chew on ships before it spit them out.

  The old marsupial Narsanyala nodded his furry gray head, pleased. “Then it’s unlikely they’ll survive.”

  Shresht, with typically insectoid agitation, released a series of trilling chirps in such rapid succession that it took Degra a moment to mentally translate. We can’t assume that! I’m sending vessels to destroy them!

  Mallora immediately tried to calm the insectoid. “If they are the first wave of an invasion, it would be best for us to remain hidden ... let them keep searching.”

  As expected, Narsanyala nodded once more in approval.

  The aquatic, Qoh—or was it Qam—pressed his face against the transparent tank and loosed a series of mournful whistles that caused everyone to face him at once, since aquatics rarely spoke. He’s correct, Qoh articulated, in the only language he was capable of producing. Since his pacing was much slower than Shresht’s, Degra had no trouble translating this time. They won’t find what they’re looking for ... Let them keep searching.

  His statement caused an outburst of defiant chatter from the insectoids.

  We’re growing tired of your excuses! Shresht complained. Dark, slender limbs flailing, wings fluttering, he turned to Degra in subtle acknowledgment of what none of them would openly admit—that the primate had the most influence of them all.

  Finish the weapon ... quickly! Shresht threatened. Or we’ll destroy the Earth ship, whether this council approves or not!

  Degra said nothing; he was used to Shresht’s temperament, and any efforts on his part to reassure the insectoid would be ignored or brushed aside. The weapon would be done when it was done—and that would be soon enough.

  In the meantime, Degra was counting on the fact that even human persistence could not overcome the dangers of the Orassin distortion fields.

  “Is this seat taken?” Reed asked.

  He stood in the Enterprise mess, tray in hand; at the table before him, Ma
jor Hayes and a few of his officers were having lunch.

  They rose, to the sound of chairs skittering rapidly backward, and stood at full attention as if ready for review.

  “Sir,” Hayes said.

  Only one open place remained, between Corporals Chang and Romero; Reed settled into it. At once, the others retook their seats with admirable military precision. Romero did so with a twinge of difficulty; he’d taken a blast in the thigh back on the mining planet.

  Reed directed a faint smile at them all—but the MACOs remained still, poker-faced, hands in their laps. “As you were,” the lieutenant said.

  He expected them to continue eating—but everyone stayed motionless. With a sigh, Reed picked up his own fork, and stabbed the piece of chicken on his plate; only then did the others pick up their utensils and recommence their meals.

  Reed remembered Chang and Romero, both of whom had volunteered for the rescue operation, but there was a face at the table he didn’t recognize—a decidedly feminine one. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said.

  Hayes remedied the situation at once. “Lieutenant Reed,” he said. “Corporal McKenzie.” Once again, no first names were involved. Reed was beginning to think that in order to become a MACO, one had to surrender one’s given name.

  “Corporal,” Reed said, extending his hand. McKenzie was a small, slight woman, sharp-chinned and lean, but she returned Reed’s grip with impressive strength.

  “Sir,” she said.

  He felt he should say something more—pleasure, or charmed—but the MACOs would probably deem it inappropriate, too civilian. He broke off contact, then turned to the dark-haired Romero, who was making swift work of a nicely British meat-and-potatoes lunch. “Good to see you up and about, Corporal.”

  Romero shrugged. “Wasn’t that serious, sir.”

  Ah, yes, Reed thought, “Ever Invincible.” Can’t admit we’re human ... Even so, he was grateful to the young man for his bravery under fire.

  Romero continued. “Anyway, your CMO’s very good at his job. A little strange—but pretty good.”

  “Doctor Phlox, yes.” Reed smiled. “I must agree with you on both accounts there.”

  An awkward silence passed. Finally, Major Hayes asked, “What’s our heading now, sir? I understand the coordinates the Xindi gave us didn’t exactly pan out.”

  Interesting, Reed thought, that Hayes managed to stay so informed about what was happening aboard Enterprise. Technically, there was no liaison other than the Captain with the authority to share this kind of information with the MACOs—a situation which would need to be remedied. “No,” he admitted glumly. “We’re heading further into the Expanse.” He paused. “You might want to prepare your people, Major. We’re headed into an area of spatial distortion.”

  Hayes lifted his eyebrows questioningly.

  “It means we’re in for a bit of a bumpy ride,” Reed explained. He paused, then lowered his voice. If he and Hayes were to work together for an indefinite length of time, a level of detente had to be established. “Look, I just wanted to commend you”—he glanced around the table—“all of you, for your performance down on the planet surface. Well done.”

  Hayes regarded him silently for a moment; the major’s expression relaxed only slightly as he registered and appreciated the compliment, then grew guarded again. “We were just doing our jobs, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Reed stared back at him. Hayes was a rock: implacable, immutable, incapable of giving an inch. No matter what Reed said or did, the major would always challenge his authority, would always want to be in charge of every away mission. It was in his nature.

  And, Reed reflected, if their positions were reversed, he, Reed, would do exactly the same thing.

  “Even so,” Reed said, “I still commend you.” He surrendered all further attempts at conversation and began sawing on his chicken.

  Perhaps all competition with Hayes could not be avoided, but Reed would do his best in the future to ease whatever tensions existed between his security team and the MACOs.

  In the meantime ... he and a couple of his men had located some old, unused bearings ... nice and round and slippery, like marbles. He’d learned that the MACOs had set up some ropes in a makeshift gym area, to practice scaling walls. It might be interesting to surreptitiously place a few bearings under the ropes. ...

  A little healthy rivalry was, after all, traditional.

  “Thank you,” Trip Tucker said, standing in the doorway to T’Pol’s quarters. The Commander seemed considerably more relaxed than he had the previous night, when he’d had his first session of Vulcan neuropressure.

  “I’m pleased to be of help,” T’Pol said, which was quite true. Because Tucker’s muscles had been less tense this evening, she’d been able to do deeper work without harming him, which would allow the treatment to be even more successful.

  “How many more ... ?” Tucker asked, lingering. It seemed to T’Pol that he was reluctant to leave; perhaps he was, as humans often were, in the mood for conversation. She wondered whether it would be appropriate to ask whether he wanted a cup of tea—then, remembering how he’d reacted to the question the night before, decided against it.

  “One,” T’Pol replied. “From what you’ve told me, you seem to be responding quite well.”

  Perhaps she misinterpreted his expression, but she thought she caught a fleeting look of disappointment cross his features. “Oh,” he said, then gave a little half-grin. “Well, thanks again.”

  “Sleep well,” T’Pol said, and retreated inside so that the door would close.

  Once inside, she removed her civilian clothing, then reached in her closet for her pajamas.

  Next to them hung the diplomat’s uniform.

  The sight of it made T’Pol consider her current situation. The last time she had gazed upon the uniform, she had seen it as a silent rebuke, a reminder that she had given up a career, a family, perhaps even a world.

  She no longer felt the same. The barriers between her species and that of Earth no longer seemed so important; these humans were now her family, her world. And her decision to send the MACOs to the mining world—a decision she had feared was rash, impatient—had saved the Captains and Commander Tucker’s lives. She was in fact critically needed aboard Enterprise; her choice to abandon her diplomatic career in order to follow Archer into the Expanse had already proven useful.

  And, despite the initial uncomfortable misunderstanding, she was glad to be of help to Commander Tucker. While he was definitely prone to strong emotions, he was also intelligent and considerate, capable of a great deal more compassion than he openly displayed. She was glad that she had not refused Phlox’s request to give him neuropressure.

  T’Pol stared for a moment at the diplomat’s uniform in her closet, and a strangely human simile surfaced in her thoughts.

  Like shedding old clothes ...

  She carefully removed the uniform from the hanger, dropped it into the recycler, and pressed the control.

  It disappeared with a soft whoosh.

  Moments later, Archer was propped up on his bed, as usual squinting at a monitor screen on a portable arm; the split display showed Phlox’s representation of a reptilian-looking Xindi, a scan of Kessick’s corpse, and a schematic of what they’d already mapped of the Expanse. Porthos was beside him, chin resting on his thigh as Archer slowly stroked the beagle’s smooth head.

  It was hard not to feel hatred for Kessick; it was as though the Xindi taunted him from beyond the grave—only adding another layer to the mystery. Did Kessick even know his world had attacked Earth? If not, why had he been so desperate, why had he struggled so painfully, to gasp out the coordinates as he was dying? Had he been a cleverly planted spy, in touch with those who had launched the probe? Or was he merely what he seemed to be, one of the weasel’s captives?

  The more he thought about it, the more frustrated Archer became; when his door chimed, he jumped slightly, causing Porthos to lift hi
s head and shoot him a baleful look.

  “Come,” Archer said.

  To his surprise, Trip Tucker entered, holding a small, gilded portfolio and a bottle of Scotch.

  “Turn that damn thing off,” Tucker said amiably, with a nod at the monitor. “You’ll get eyestrain.” He settled into a nearby chair without invitation and set the bottle and portfolio down on a table. “You got a couple of glasses?”

  “Sure,” Archer said, still taken aback. He rose, pushed the monitor arm out of his way, procured the glasses, and handed one to Trip.

  Trip generously filled the one in the Captain’s hand first, then put less than a finger’s breadth in his own.

  “I hate to spoil a good party,” Archer remarked as he settled back on the bed, “but ... you sure that’s good for you? It can disrupt your sleep patterns, you know.”

  “Phlox been tattling on me? Whatever happened to doctor-patient privilege?”

  “No,” the Captain said. “You were the one crabbing about having trouble sleeping.”

  Trip’s good humor remained undeterred. “My sleep patterns are just fine, thank you—compliments of T’Pol. The Scotch is strictly for social enhancement.”

  Archer’s eyebrows levitated at once. “T’Pol? Is there something I should know?”

  Trip drew out the suspense; he took a long sip of his drink and let it linger a moment on his tongue before replying. “She’s giving me Vulcan neuropressure. It enhances the body’s own ability to normalize its sleep patterns. Much more effective than drugs. One more treatment, and I’m done. Just came from her quarters.”

  “You mean,” Archer teased, “you’ve been stopping by a certain young woman’s quarters every night, and you didn’t tell me?” Secretly, he was pleased to see Trip here, looking and sounding so much like his old self; whatever T’Pol was doing, it was working just fine. “You know, I always suspected you’d taken a little shine to her ...”

  Was it his imagination, or did Trip blush? The engineer ducked his head to take another sip, then leaned forward to scratch Porthos’s rump; the dog’s hind leg clawed in response at the empty air.