Last Full Measure - Michael A. Martin [65]
Archer nodded, then pointed toward the steadily expanding point of light that lay in their flight path. “Can you get us a better visual than what we can see through the windows?” Though it remained small and indistinct, it was already plainly identifiable as an artificially constructed object, rather than a naturally occurring chunk of space debris. But Trahve’s vessel was still far enough away from it that no specifics of the design were clearly evident.
Reed looked up at Archer, then over at Trahve. The smuggler squirmed under the tactical officer’s probing gaze.
“My long-range visual sensor pickups are all down at the moment,” Trahve said, his faintly apologetic voice translated by the linguistics matrix Reed carried. “I was supposed to get those systems repaired while I was ashore on Kaletoo. But I was…otherwise detained before I could get around to it.” He offered a weak smile.
Hayes released a snort of air from his nose, and Archer thought he could actually hear the MACO officer’s teeth grinding. “This is what I mean, Captain. This little slug is giving us just enough rope to hang ourselves with, and he’s doing everything he can not to tip his hand. He’s playing us.”
Reed looked up at Archer. “I’m afraid I have to agree with Major Hayes, Captain. And as long as the major is using Wild West metaphors, I think it would be in our best interests to get the hell out of Dodge, as you Yanks used to say.”
Archer glared at the two men, then at Trahve. The officers weren’t being insubordinate, but he didn’t appreciate the lack of support he was feeling from them both at the moment.
“Don’t look to me for advice,” Trahve said, turning slightly from his console in order to hold up his bloody, manacled hands, as though for inspection. “Whatever I say only seems to encourage more threats and violence from you people.”
“Let me see the scans,” Archer said gruffly, putting his hand on Reed’s shoulder. The young officer quickly stood up from the chair, allowing Archer to sit in it.
As he studied the data in front of him, and glanced at the quickly approaching Xindi construct, Archer realized that the hairs on the back of his neck had been raised for at least the last thirty minutes, and not merely because of the tension of the mission or the disagreements that had been slowly coming to a head between himself and Reed and the MACOs. Maybe they’re right, he thought, recalling with some embarrassment how he’d carelessly allowed himself to be captured by the Tellarite bounty hunter Skalaar shortly before the Xindi attack on Earth. Maybe this is just another trap. And no matter how much I want to get back at the Xindi, maybe there’s just no way I can manage it in a courier ship captured from some low-life smuggler.
On the other hand, Archer couldn’t dismiss the possibility that this facility was precisely what he hoped it was: something indispensable to the Xindi plan for genocide.
He suddenly noticed something odd about the scan data he was viewing. “Malcolm, did you say that the density of the Xindi facility was significantly less than it should be for its mass and size?”
Reed leaned over his shoulder, pointing at some of the instruments and gauges on the control board. “Yes. See the readings here and here.”
“So why aren’t we seeing a stronger titanium signature? Or duranium? And regardless of the local sensor interference, if we can read some Xindi life signs, shouldn’t there be a lot more of them than what we’re seeing here?”
“It’s a trap,” Hayes repeated, his head just behind Archer’s as he, too leaned over to look at the instruments. “The whole thing’s a trap.”
Despite his growing misgivings, Archer still wasn’t completely convinced. Gritting his teeth, his mind raced as his anger neared its boiling point. If you don’t have anything new to contribute, Major, kindly keep your mouth shut, he thought as he cast a silent glower that could have chewed straight through Enterprise’s polarized hull plating.
Hayes backed