Last Full Measure - Michael A. Martin [5]
Degra fixed his gaze first upon Shresht, then upon the hard, amber-eyed predator’s glare of Guruk. “Very well. I have a contingency plan that just might allay your concerns.”
Shresht clacked his mandibles loudly. Guruk nodded curtly in Degra’s direction, baring rows of needle-sharp teeth. “Tell us.”
Degra cleared his throat. “All right. I propose that we let the Earth vessel find what it seeks—”
Degra was interrupted by roars and chitters and mournful wails. Both Shresht and Guruk appeared ready to draw and quarter him right here on the Council table. Narsanyala seemed to have narrowly avoided falling out of his chair, and even Mallora looked surprised.
Degra raised his hands and patiently waited for the tumultuous reaction to die down. Then, very slowly and patiently, he began laying out his plan, explaining precisely what he had in mind….
Two
From Ensign Travis Mayweather’s
Personal Correspondence File:
Dear Mom,
Tell Paul his big brother is having a ball at summer camp.
Just kidding. It’s been eighty-four days since we entered the Delphic Expanse. There’s nothing new to report, unfortunately; we’ve still found neither hide nor hair (nor scales) of the Xindi, or the large-scale particle-beam weapon they’re preparing to deploy against Earth. Everyone aboard Enterprise is getting good and cranky about the lack of results so far in our search.
If we succeed, you and Paul will eventually get to read all of these entries in order. (But I’ll certainly understand if you’re tempted to skip forward to the end, where we finally catch up to the alien killers we’ve been chasing.)
If we fail, you’ll find that out when the Horizon receives word that the entire planet Earth has been blown to rubble by a hidden weapon built by those very same aliens.
As always, I am hoping for the best while preparing for the worst.
Your loving son,
Travis
Friday, September 7, 2153,
Enterprise NX-01
Yet another alpha shift passed uneventfully, almost like a milk run aboard the freighter where he was born and raised.
But that’s not a good thing, Ensign Travis Mayweather thought as he left his post following the shift change and headed for the bridge turbolift. Boredom always exhausted him far more than vigorous activity did.
And he knew that boredom was the last thing the crew of Enterprise needed right now. It was the last thing humanity needed at the moment.
Because it meant that the search for the aggressive aliens known as the Xindi, the mysterious race whose unprovoked attack on Earth had killed more than seven million human beings, was very quickly going nowhere.
Mayweather stopped the turbolift on E deck, then trudged from the turboshaft toward the port-side rim, where his quarters awaited him.
He hesitated for a moment outside the door, not exactly afraid to go inside, but not quite eager to do so either. I could go to the gym instead, he thought. Work off some of this energy.
But he’d need his workout clothes. And to get them, he’d have to go into his quarters. Chang might be there, and Mayweather simply wasn’t in the mood to deal with his MACO roommate at the moment.
Dammit, these are my quarters, he thought as he slammed his palm against the reader mounted on the bulkhead beside the door. Chang is only a guest here.
The door slid open obediently and Mayweather entered the cramped room. He eyed with suspicion the alien presence that had taken it over these past few hectic months.
Corporal Chang sat cross-legged on the bed—My bed! Mayweather thought indignantly—dressed in the khaki fatigues that many of the Military Assault Command Operations personnel wore when they weren’t on duty. His eyes were closed as though he were lost in meditation. The corporal’s relaxed yet formal posture reminded Mayweather of the stoic Sub-Commander T’Pol.
Only Chang made the fastidious T’Pol look almost slovenly by comparison. Although he was wearing what amounted to casual exercise clothing, it was neatly pressed and pleated, all spit and polish, as though a MACO