The Expanse

by J. M. Dillard

  Now, she did not feel awkward at all; she was sincerely grateful to the doctor for helping her make what would no doubt prove to be the most important decision of her life.

  She exited sickbay, leaving Phlox behind to chirp happily at his new tenants.

  Inside her quarters, Hoshi Sato was busy packing. That act filled her with a strange nostalgia: there were a lot of things she was leaving behind, a lot of things she would no longer need.

  On her bed lay a pile of civvies, neatly folded and ready to be packed into a nearby container—her mother had chided her over the fact that they were not only worn out, but out of style, so they were going back to be recycled. At the moment, she was going through her bookshelves, trying to decide which ones she could bear to part with. It wasn’t easy, but she decided to be tough.

  She ran her hand over a volume: An Introduction to Farsi, Volumes I–III. It was well written, with wonderful tidbits about the culture; she hated to leave it, but she’d already read through it twice, and had a working knowledge of the language.

  Into the crate it went.

  She picked up another one: Advanced Attic Greek. A bit pedantic, but still a good read. She sighed; it would have to go, too. Into the crate.

  The door chimed; she turned to face it. “Come in.”

  Archer entered, looking a bit more rested, a bit less tense than he’d been in previous days.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” Hoshi said.

  Archer smiled. “How’d it go with your folks?” There was something sad, poignant in the smile that made Hoshi want to make him feel better. They’d all been moved by the tragedy, but now it was time to get on with the mission. Hoshi herself felt the need to streamline her cabin, to get rid of everything extraneous. Besides, it helped ease her nervous anticipation until the mission got under way.

  Her tone was light, teasing. “I think I might need to brush up on my Japanese.”

  Archer sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the containers, and let go a barely audible snicker. “I doubt it.”

  Hoshi continued to pack, comfortable in the Captain’s presence, although uncertain as to why he had come.

  “We got new upgrades for the Universal Translator,” Archer said.

  She was pleased. “That ought to make life a lot easier.” She’d been more than a little concerned about the types of alien languages they were going to encounter.

  “It’ll never replace a linguist with a magical ear,” Archer said.

  Was it her imagination, or was his voice a bit husky? She smiled. “Not so magical.” She went back to her packing, pulling another book from the shelf.

  “That’s a matter of opinion.” The Captain paused.

  “You’ve been invaluable to this mission…to me…ever since we left spacedock. You were a little shaky at first…but who wasn’t?”

  Hoshi was touched; rather than reply—she didn’t quite know what to say to such kind words—she glanced down at the open book in her hands, closed it, and put it back on the shelf.

  Curious, Archer retrieved it, and peered at the cover.

  “Languages of the Sub-Sahara,” he read, then said, with humor, “I’m surprised you’re leaving this one here.”

  Hoshi didn’t get the joke. She looked at him blankly and said, “I haven’t read it yet.”

  It was Archer’s turn to be puzzled. “So why not take it with you?”

  Hoshi stared at him for an instant—and suddenly understood. Archer was sad, and telling her what she’d meant to him, because he thought she was packing to leave. He thought he had been saying good-bye.

  “Captain…” She pointed to the half-filled container.

  “I’m sending these books home to my mother. That’ll give me more shelf space. There’s been a lot written about alien languages since we’ve been gone.”

  Archer’s expression was one of dawning relief. “And the clothes are going to…”

  “…to my mother.” Hoshi gave a wry little grimace. “I thought it might be time to ‘upgrade’ my civvies.”

  A beat, then Archer admitted, “I thought you were leaving?”

  Her tone was gently scolding. “Why would you think that?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know…You’re a teacher, an academic…”

  “And that means I’m not capable of handling myself on the new mission?”

  “That’s not what I meant…”

  She stopped packing and faced him, her manner adamant. “I don’t know what’s inside this Expanse, sir, but I think I’ve proven that I can handle myself in difficult situations…and even provide a little help along the way.” She paused, searching his face. “I assume you have no problem with my remaining on board.”

  Archer smiled faintly; in his expression, she saw both sincere gladness that she was coming along—and deep concern over her safety.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.

  With Commander Tucker beside him, Malcolm Reed watched with keen interest as a quartet of crewmen wheeled in a weighed-down cart bearing four sleek, shining, and incalculably deadly torpedoes. The sight made Reed swell with an odd pride: Enterprise would now be better able to defend herself, no matter what she encountered.

  The four crewmen were met by others, who helped lift the first of the heavy weapons and carefully insert them into the aperture of a freshly installed launch tube.

  Reed felt a surge of satisfaction at the metallic sound of the torpedo sliding neatly into firing position. He turned to Trip Tucker.

  “Photonic torpedoes,” he said by way of explanation. Tucker had missed the briefing on the new weapons—understandably, of course. “Their range is over fifty times greater than our conventional torpedoes.”

  Normally, Tucker would have been drooling over the sight of any new technology added to engineering or tactical. In fact, he would have been all over the torpedoes, asking rapid-fire, excited questions, insisting on helping the others to load them into the launch tubes, just so he could put his hands on him—but today, he merely stared with disinterest at the weapons and said nothing.

  Concerned, Reed tried to provoke a reaction by providing further tempting details. “And they have variable yield. They can knock the com array off a shuttlepod without scratching the hull…or put a three-kilometer crater into an asteroid.”

  Tucker released a silent sigh and gazed briefly away, distracted. “How long’s it gonna take to reconfigure the tubes?” Instead of being excited about the refit, he seemed bored and rather irritated by the fact that this would only waste more time. Reed understood; no doubt the Commander was eager to be under way, after so much time on Earth having nothing to do but think about the tragedy.

  “We’ve got three teams working on it,” Reed offered quickly. “They promise me it’ll be done well before we leave spacedock. But I’m going to have to start integrating them into the power grid.”

  Tucker digested this in silence, then said curtly, “Let’s go.”

  They moved out into the corridor, stepping around the occasional crew member refitting a circuitry panel or bringing in new equipment.

  Reed waited until they were out of anyone’s earshot before bringing up a tender subject. It was one that had been troubling him for some weeks; he was beginning to worry that perhaps his friend needed help in dealing with his loss. Reed wanted to do something, but he had been lucky enough not to have experienced real grief; he had no idea what Trip might be going through, only that it was terribly difficult.

  But he did know that it was best for a survivor to commemorate the death, to acknowledge it. Save for the single visit to Florida—a visit that had lasted only minutes before an overwhelmed Trip had to return to the ship—the Commander hadn’t so much as mentioned his sister’s name. And that, Reed knew, was not good.

  He cleared his throat, then said delicately, “Is there going to be some kind of…service?”

  Trip reacted swiftly, turning toward Reed as though he were a wasp who had just stung
him. “For Lizzie?”

  Reed nodded, silent.

  Trip looked away and started walking faster; his lips pressed together so tightly they paled, and then he said, with barely restrained anger, “If you’re talking about a funeral…it’s kinda pointless when there’s nothing left.”

  For his friend’s sake, Reed persisted gently. “I guess I’m talking about a memorial.”

  Trip let go a dismissive huff of air. “My sister wasn’t big on memorials.”

  “I read there was a day of remembrance for all the victims a couple of months ago…. I’m sorry you missedit.” There; he’d said it. He had been worried about Tucker ever since the attack. The Commander had changed; instead of admitting his grief, and dealing with it, he instead refused to discuss it. But Reed could see the fury simmering inside him, growing stronger each day. At some point, the man was going to break.

  In fact, Reed’s words made Tucker furious; his tone rose. “Why are you so obsessed with memorials?”

  “I’m not obsessed,” Reed said mildly.

  “She’s dead.” Tucker’s voice was hoarse, flat, bitter. “So are seven million others. She was no more important than any of them.”

  Reed wasn’t about to let him get away with such a statement. “She was more important to you. There’s nothing wrong with admitting that.”

  He’d gone too far; it was more than Tucker could bear. He whirled about to face Reed, letting the rage show at last in his voice, his expression. “I’m getting real tired of you telling me what I can and can’t do!” he shouted. “And while we’re at it, I don’t need you to remind me that Elizabeth was killed! So just let it alone!”

  He paused, his face contorted, apparently waiting for a response; Reed, stunned into silence, gave him none.

  “Maybe you should pay more attention to upgrading your weapons,” Tucker snapped at last, “so you can blow the hell out of these bastards when we find them!”

  He stalked off.

  After a short pause, Reed drew a deep breath, then followed.

  Inside Admiral Forrest’s office, Archer sat at a conference table beside T’Pol across from Forrest and Soval. The summons had been evasive; Forrest’s cryptic message had merely said that the Vulcan High Council wished to provide more information about the Expanse, and requested that both Archer and T’Pol come to Headquarters to view an entry from a ship’s log.

  Forrest seemed reluctant; obviously, the Vulcans had pressured him into this, without any regard for the fact that it was the middle of Earth’s night.

  Archer addressed his superior first. “With all due respect, Admiral, what’s the point of me watching this?” He turned to the Vulcan Ambassador, who stood by with that damnably serene, superior manner of his. “Is it supposed to frighten me, make me change my mind about commanding this mission?”

  As always, Soval didn’t directly answer his question. “It’s important for you to see what you’ll be facing.” The Vulcan turned toward a large wall monitor. “The Vaankara was in the Delphic Expanse for less than two days before we received a distress call.” He paused. “This transmission arrived six hours later.”

  He tapped a control, causing the room to darken—then tapped another, and the screen brightened.

  Clearly, the recording had been damaged: all the color had faded from it, registering the Vulcans on the bridge in black, white, and shades of gray. The images were jumpy, laced with static—but compelling nonetheless.

  There came the sounds of a madhouse: of moans and screams, obscene utterances. The bridge was in chaos; bodies were in continuous motion. At first, Archer could make no sense of what was happening…and then he realized: the crew was killing each other bare-handed.

  He stared, wanting to look away, as the second-in-command leapt for the elderly captain and clasped hands around his throat; there came the sound of bones crunching as the older man coughed up blood. Others at the helm wrestled each other to the floor.

  At one point, the science officer viciously attacked another Vulcan, gouging his victim’s eye out with a finger…then smearing the blood contentedly on his own cheek.

  Archer looked away at last.

  Blessedly, the screen dissolved into static; the lights came on.

  “Less than an hour later,” Soval said calmly, “the Vaankara was destroyed. There was no indication of a malfunction, or an attack.”

  “Are you suggesting the crew was responsible?” Archer asked.

  Once again, Soval gave no direct answer. “I’m suggesting you reconsider this mission.”

  Archer let go a soft sound of pure exasperation. He had a job to do, and Soval no longer had any right to try to interfere. “That’s not my decision to make,” he said coldly, then turned and said, with respect, to Forrest, “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Forrest shook his head. He seemed reluctant to have yielded to Soval’s pressure; at the same time, Archer understood why the Admiral had done it. It was only fair to let Archer know what he was getting into.

  Flanked by T’Pol, Archer rose and moved to leave the room.

  Behind them, Soval called, “I need to speak with you, T’Pol.”

  Archer swore silently at that. T’Pol was, quite simply, one of his most valuable crew members…and he had no doubt that Soval would do everything in his power to pressure her to stay. She would, of course; there was no reason for her to risk her life on behalf of Earth, and she had been put on Enterprise at the Ambassador’s request, to keep the Vulcans informed of the mischief the humans were getting into.

  That didn’t make losing her any easier.

  Outside the Fleet Operations Center, the night air was damp and chill. T’Pol found it bracing; she’d become accustomed to San Francisco weather during her time in the city as an intern. In addition, she had long ago adapted to the cooler temperatures aboard Enterprise. She supposed that if she returned to Vulcan, she’d have to reacclimate herself to the heat.

  At the moment, she walked away from the Center past the large metal sculpture of Earth. Beside her was Soval, who wore his traditional heavy cloak to ward off the cold. T’Pol had yet to tell him of her desire to remain aboard Enterprise. She knew he would disapprove; she would have to word her case most carefully.

  So she said nothing at first—merely listened, like a good diplomat.

  Soval, of course, had already made plans without consulting her. T’Pol did not take offense; as her superior, he had a right.

  “If all goes right,” the Ambassador was saying, “you should be able to return to your duties on Earth within a year…that is, if you’re still interested.”

  They made their way down the steps in front of the building.

  If all goes well. What, precisely, was Soval saying? If the taint of being around humans has sufficiently worn off…? If you conduct yourself in an appropriate “Vulcan” manner for a long enough time…? She forced herself to censor the line of thought. Perhaps she was misinterpreting the Ambassador; to be fair, she remained silent and listened further.

  “You haven’t been back to Vulcan for some time,” Soval continued. “You may find your assignment at the Ministry of Information refreshing.”

  T’Pol had serious doubts about that. Serving at the Ministry was tantamount to a demotion. She’d be greeting tourists, giving out directions and maps, suggesting sites of interest to visitors. It would scarcely be challenging.

  It seemed ridiculous to waste her time performing such trivial duties, when she was so critically needed aboard Enterprise.

  Still, she did not bring up that subject quite yet; she knew Soval too well. Instead, she pursued a different issue. “I don’t understand why I can’t remain in San Francisco.”

  They moved away from the sidewalk, into a landscaped park.

  “You’ve spent far too much time with humans,” Soval answered swiftly. “It would be best if you return home for a while.”

  T’Pol now knew her suspicion had been correct. After spending time with the ship’s crew
, T’Pol had begun to formulate a hypothesis: Much of what Vulcans thought about humans was based on ignorance and prejudice. Vulcans remembered the extreme violence of their own past, and assumed humans were exactly the same, in need of the major transformation brought about by Surak, the pursuit of total nonemotion.

  True, humans were still quite capable of violence, but they were far from the savagery that had marked ancient Vulcan history. In fact, humans were capable of much that was good, and they were remarkably adaptable, learning quickly from their mistakes. Their culture was making remarkable strides toward peace. T’Pol had learned they were loyal, well-meaning, and deserving of trust—something Soval would never give them.

  Normally, she would have accepted Soval’s pronouncement without question; now—having been “tainted” by her time amongst humans—she pressed. “You thought it was crucial to place a Vulcan on Enterprise during its first mission…. Why not now?”

  Soval scrutinized her carefully. “You were there to provide logic to a crew of humans who insisted on leaving before they were ready.” He paused. “But logic can’t help them inside the Delphic Expanse.”

  T’Pol lifted her chin, mildly defiant. “Can you be certain of that?”

  It was an impudent question; Soval did not answer it. Instead, his tone grew firm. “The High Command was quite specific. You’re to return to Vulcan.”

  “I believe that should be my decision,” T’Pol countered, her tone just as steely. There was strong inflection in her voice; she heard it, and realized that to a Vulcan who spent no time around humans, it would have sounded like an emotional outburst.

  Soval stopped moving and turned to face her, his manner colder than the night air. “This is not a matter of choice. Defying the High Command would mean immediate dismissal. You know that.”

  T’Pol realized there was no point in bringing up her wish to remain on Enterprise; Soval had already made his position clear. He had anticipated her request, and was now supplying her with the answer: If she remained loyal to Captain Archer, she would do so at the cost of her diplomatic career.