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.
Gasping, Kessick nodded at Trip. “There’s a lever below your knees. Pull it up.”
The corners of Trip’s mouth melted downward in pure disgust; nevertheless, he plunged an arm down into the viscous, malodorous waste and began groping. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils widened until Archer thought he would retch—but Trip keep resolutely feeling about until he caught hold of something, and pulled.
With a slight rumble, the hatch swung open, revealing a blessedly dry shaft, with rungs that led both upward and downward.
“This is Plasma Duct Thirteen,” Kessick explained. “It hasn’t been used since I’ve been here.”
Trip seemed suspicious. “Why is there a hatch here?”
“It’s a maintenance port,” the Xindi said, so matter-of-factly that Archer believed him. “There’s one every eight levels.”
Immediately, Kessick reached overhead, where a ratchet hung in a cradle. Without hesitating, he clamped it onto a gear in the hatch and began ratcheting with all his strength.
“What’re you doing?” Archer demanded.
Once again, Kessick explained honestly as he worked; after all, Archer reflected, the Xindi wanted out of here as badly as he and Trip did. “Opening the emergency baffle ...” He pointed upward inside the shaft. “... up there. It’s a steel plate that locks into place during maintenance cycles.”
Trip and Archer stood in the sewage—the Captain doing his best to ignore the nauseating smell—while Kessick finished his work. The last two ratchets were difficult, but the Xindi put his all into it, dropped the ratchet, then turned to the humans.
“Follow me.”
He crawled up into the shaft, headed for the surface. With a nod of his chin, Archer signaled for Trip to follow next; the Captain went last of all.
Anywhere, Archer thought, to get away from that smell ...
Chapter 13
In the Enterprise armory, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed stood next to Major Hayes, staring at the large multicolored tactical display that included several views of the mining complex: overhead angles of the towers on the planet surface and cross-sections of the underground tunnels, living quarters, and offices, all with detailed overlays giving the specifics of each area.
Reed had disliked Hayes instantly. For one thing, the man had failed to introduce himself properly, giving only his title and surname; for another, he radiated an aura of arrogance that his overly polite demeanor could not hide.
Reed was aware that he himself was not coming into the situation unprejudiced. He and Hayes represented a long-standing tradition of animosity that had its roots in centuries-old British naval tradition, and the times when humans sailed across the sea rather than the deep reaches of space. Long ago, sailors were not allowed to bear arms aboard ship; it fell to others to carry arms; others who came to believe themselves superior in training and courage to those in the Navy: the Marines.
The Marines carried weapons while at sea, and derided the lowly, unarmed sailors.
In response, the sailors made sure the Marines’ time as “guests” aboard Navy vessels was as miserable as possible. Reed, an inveterate student of military history, had read stories of how the sailors repaid the Marines’ elitist attitude with practical jokes: his favorite remained one about a group of Navy men who liked to arrange dozens of marbles at the bottom of the ladders connecting the different decks.
The MACOs were the distant heirs of the Marines. And no doubt Hayes was up on his military history, as well, and knew that, a century ago, only the captain of a vessel could issue a direct command to a Marine.
But these were different times, and different circumstances—and Reed was determined to make it very, very clear to Hayes that the past had no bearing on the present. Reed was in charge of security, and Hayes therefore answered to him.
He’d tried to establish the fact right off, and already Hayes was politely—but firmly—challenging the Lieutenant’s authority. The two had been in the midst of a “discussion” when Sub-Commander T’Pol entered the armory.
Hayes responded with a formal, “at attention” posture, though he eyed her with surreptitious curiosity; apparently, he had never worked with a Vulcan before. Reed, consciously more relaxed, faced her at once. “Have you heard from the Captain?” It was hard for him to read the Vulcan; he couldn’t tell from her expression or posture whether she brought good news or bad.
It turned out to be the latter. “Not yet,” T’Pol responded. “And the foreman isn’t responding to our hails.”
“The ships?”
“Less than an hour away,” the Vulcan told him. She took in the sight of Hayes—no longer at rigorous attention, but still standing ramrod straight, hands folded formally behind his back—and the tactical display. “Are you ready?”
“They’re armed to the teeth down there, but it’s doable,” Reed said, by way of reply. Although he remained cool, Hayes’s condescension irked him sufficiently enough for him to bring up the matter to T’Pol. As Archer’s second-in-command, she could certainly set the Major straight about proper hierarchy aboard a starship. “We only have one bone of contention. The Major here thinks my security team is too ‘valuable’ to bring down and put in the line of fire. He wants to take his men.”
Hayes could not resist presenting his side of the argument. “It’s a simple matter of priorities,” he said, his tone carefully neutral, professional. “If those warships get here before we return from the surface, you could find yourselves dealing with a boarding party. You’d be in far better hands with a security force who knows Enterprise inside and out.”
Reed didn’t believe Hayes was sincere for an instant; in fact, he believed the Major had been primed, even before he ever set foot in the armory, to reject whatever Reed said.
Reed looked to T’Pol for support. Precedent had to be established here and now, since Hayes clearly felt he owned the Xindi mission. If it wasn’t made clear that Reed was in charge, control would slip away from him, and Hayes would soon start giving him orders. Reed knew the type: Give a man like Hayes a foot in the door, and he’d soon claim the whole castle and kingdom as his own.
The logo of the shark he wore on his breast somehow seemed appropriate.
“I plan to have my men back on board, with the Captain and Trip, well before those ships arrive,” Reed stated firmly, for the sake of both Reed and T’Pol.
Hayes turned a flinty, skeptical gaze on Reed, even as his tone remained polite. “With all due respect, sir, we can’t be certain of that.”
Reed knew no respect was involved. Hayes’s air of superiority was damnably irritating; after all, as a MACO he considered himself invincible, and probably looked on Enterprise security as a joke.
Reed longed to show him otherwise. A wave of hostility washed over him, b
ut he subdued it as best he could and turned toward T’Pol, waiting.
“The decision is yours, Lieutenant,” she said—exactly the words Reed wanted to hear. And then she added what Reed did not want to hear. “But I agree with Major Hayes. ... Your team may not be back in time.” Unaware of the power struggle, the Vulcan had accepted Hayes’s objection at face value.
Reed yielded—partially. T’Pol was forcing him into brutal self-honesty: there was some merit to what Hayes what saying, and Reed could not let his intense personal dislike of the Major interfere with what was best for the ship.
At the same time, he knew perfectly well Hayes was using a valid point for the ulterior purpose of establishing power aboard Enterprise.
Reed came up with a reasonable compromise and turned to the Major. “Select six of your men and meet me in Launch Bay One. I’ll be commanding the mission.”
Deep beneath the Major’s cool exterior, something flared—but his manner remained controlled, his speech precise. “Very good, sir.”
He strode from the room. Reed watched him go and permitted himself a small, bitter smile. As he opened a weapons locker, then began to arm a phase-pistol with a charge, he said to T’Pol, “Coming from a military family, I’ve seen men like Hayes all my life.”
“Lieutenant?” she asked. She clearly did not understand; Reed wondered what it was like to come from a world where personal politics were unknown. He explained; this situation would no doubt come up again in the future, and it was best that the Sub-Commander be aware.
“That had nothing to do with who knows Enterprise inside and out ... it had to do with who the Major thinks is more capable of carrying out this rescue.”
He locked and loaded the phase-charge; it whined with power. Gripping it, he left the armory, annoyed at himself. He had let himself be rolled over—for the sake of the ship, but rolled over, nonetheless—and he did not like it. Did not like it at all ...
Trip Tucker moved up the vertiginous, narrow passageway and tried to distract himself from the sheer physical unpleasantness of the situation. The climb had grown arduous; the metal rungs had disappeared, leaving only indentations to be used as hand and footholds. Most of them were filled with thick blue residue that Trip had to scrape out with his fingers or toes; he figured he looked as blue as a miner by now.
The trellium haze wasn’t so bad in the shaft, but the eye-watering smell of sewage clung to his uniform, damp from the waist down, and of course, after reaching down in the sludge for the lever, Trip had had to remind himself several times not to scratch his nose.
The Xindi above him didn’t smell so sweet, either. The miner was barefoot, dressed in the remnants of a tunic and trousers so filth-covered, Trip could not even guess at their original color. Beneath the drying layer of sewage and the trellium dust, the Xindi’s legs were covered with boils.
Kessick hadn’t had an easy time of it, Trip reminded himself, listening to the miner’s rattling breath, audible even above the constant loud hum of machinery. It was hard to associate this distrustful, abused creature with Lizzie’s death. The guy didn’t seem to know about the attack—and even if he did, that didn’t make him personally responsible, or mean that he had approved. He was an individual, separate from his government.
He doesn’t know, Trip kept repeating to himself. It helped to calm him, to soothe the anger that had welled up in him when the Xindi had challenged them with scathing comments. Trip had almost lost it then. It had been so easy to let grief come out as anger, to pound on the nearest scapegoat. ... Fortunately, the Captain had been there to intervene.
And then, when Kessick realized they weren’t there to hurt him, but might actually be able to help him, his entire attitude had shifted. He’d removed his rags, then later introduced himself.
It was harder to hate a person with a face and a name. Trip wondered if Kessick had any brothers or sisters.
He doesn’t know. ...
But what if he did?
Beneath him, Archer called a question up to the Xindi, who led the way.
“If this leads to the surface,” Archer asked, “why didn’t you use it before?”
Kessick lowered his unnervingly humanlike face so it was visible between his arms and legs, and answered, “If you’re lucky enough to reach the top, you’ll meet some foolish corpses who can answer that question.”
Trip frowned. He could manage to keep his fury under control—but Kessick’s sarcasm tested him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The residue in the atmosphere is thirty times more toxic than it is down here. This is the first time I’ve had the luxury of a ship waiting for me.”
As he spoke, he scraped a thick clump of blue grime from a handhold and nicked it downward; it struck Trip square on the side of his face. Disgust overwhelmed him to the point of carelessness; he let go his grip with one arm to wipe it off. ...
Immediately, he lost his balance. His other hand slipped free, and the sudden unequal distribution of weight forced his boots from their toeholds.
He fell downward, clawing at the slime-covered walls. His desperation was born not of fear, but of a single panicked thought.
I can’t fall, I can’t die, I have to see this thing through for Lizzie. ...
He caught a swift glimpse of Archer, bracing himself lengthwise across the passageway with his feet and back. Beneath him was a dark drop down into infinity. ...
Trip flailed, grasping at Archer’s chest as he slid downward, but just missed.
Abruptly, he felt the sudden, solid grip of the Captain’s hand, catching his forearm. He gave a small gasp of pain; it felt as though his shoulder was being pulled straight out of the socket, but at least he was alive.
But Archer was himself being gradually dragged down the tube by his burden.
Trip gazed up, unable to help, and watched as Archer, teeth gritted with agonizing effort, pressed his legs and back hard, harder, against the walls. At last, the two came to a full stop.
Slowly, carefully, Archer began to pull him up.
“Easy ...” the Captain breathed. Even in the dimness, Trip could see the sweat trickling down his face.
They both managed to find handholds; Trip paused, panting, trying to gather his strength.
From high above, Kessick scolded them. “It’s very slippery—you have to be more careful!”
Trip looked up at him with a fresh welling of hatred: Kessick had done nothing to help them, and now merely sounded annoyed that they were slowing down his progress. Were all Xindi so self-centered, so lacking in compassion?
“Thanks a lot,” Trip said, his voice thick with disgust.
Once again, he began to climb.
The foreman sat at his desk, sucking on his inhaler and, with his free hand, busily working an outdated adding machine.
His superiors paid him a percentage for each new head he brought into the mining complex—and today was a happy one for him. He was about to bring in the largest number of heads ever. With that kind of profit, he’d be able to retire earlier than planned, and maybe even live long enough to enjoy his freedom.
He was in the midst of his calculations when the door banged open and the head guard tromped in.
“They’re gone!” The guards shout was muffled by his rebreather, but it was loud nonetheless. “All three of them.”
The foreman know who they were without asking. He stood, chair skittering backward on the metal floor. “That’s impossible.” At least, he willed it to be so. He would not be that close to that kind of money and permit it to slip away.
Despite his bulk and size, the head guard seemed suddenly deflated, helpless. “We searched the entire cell perimeter.”
The foreman’s tone grew hard, threatening. “Post guards at their landing craft. If they get back to their starship, I’ll lose nearly a hundred new workers!”
If the guard valued his life, he would not let such a thing happen.
Shuttlepod Two descended into the turbulent blue murk ob
scuring its destination.
Reed sat beside Hayes at the forward stations. Travis Mayweather had the helm; behind them in the jumpseats sat the MACOs, facing each other in two groups of three each.
Privately, Reed was impressed by the gear the MACOs had brought, all of it reflecting the very latest advances in technology: pulse rifles, scanners, ammo.
Reed turned to address the troops, and steadied himself as the craft experienced mild turbulence from the raging clouds.
“The lower levels are hypersaturated with ionized particles,” Reed said, “so you’ll have to get within a hundred meters to pick up their bio-signs.”
Mayweather glanced over his shoulder at them, his expression concerned. “And we’ve got a little less than half an hour to do it.”
The troops looked tense, but ready for action; as for Hayes, he was slightly less cocky than he’d been in front of T’Pol, but Reed still detected a look of condescension in his eyes. ...
Coated with grit and sweat, Archer climbed up the narrow duct behind the Xindi, Kessick. Beneath them, Trip Tucker followed.
The effort of stopping Trip in mid-fall had left the Captain in a state beyond exhaustion; it had required a strength he hadn’t possessed, yet had forced from his body through a desperate act of will.
And if saving a solitary soul had been nearly impossible ...
Archer refused to finish the thought, and instead replaced it with another. Don’t give up; we’re nearly there.
Once they got there—the planet surface, then the shuttlepod, then the safety of Enterprise, the question remained: Could the crew of a single starship and a group of MACOs stand up against an entire world?
That question now haunted Archer’s waking hours and dreams. Trip, he knew, had been almost shattered by the death of one close to him: but Archer lived each moment with not just the potential deaths of his entire crew, but of billions. It was the reason he had forced his body beyond its limits; he was responsible for bringing Trip into the Expanse, and was damned if he was going to lose him.
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