The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [19]
The very utterance of the word Expanse made a muscle in the Admiral’s jaw spasm. Archer understood exactly how his superior felt; Forrest bore the same sense of responsibility for the lives of those aboard Enterprise as Archer did. “You weren’t told where in this Expanse you’re supposed to look?”
“Not even a hint,” Archer answered honestly.
“And this weapon they’re building ... did he say how long it was going to take them?”
The Captain didn’t answer the question directly. “I don’t think he would’ve warned us if we didn’t have a chance of stopping them.”
Forrest’s tone suddenly grew heated. “If he knows where these Xindi are, why the hell won’t he tell you?”
The same notion had occurred to Archer; he couldn’t blame the Admiral for his frustration. He also couldn’t answer his question.
Forrest drew in an exasperated breath, then said at last, “I guess it’s time to head back.” He glanced at Archer. “You want to join us for dinner?”
“Thanks,” Archer replied, “but I’ve got plans.” And that was the first and only thing that made him genuinely, inwardly smile, for the first time in days.
A few hours later, Archer pulled his jacket closed against the chill of the San Francisco night. It was nostalgic to be in the city again, walking down the narrow, brightly lit streets of Chinatown. Only one thing was different: the streets seemed emptier; he passed only a few people on his way to the restaurant.
At last he found his way to the old-fashioned glass doors of The Lotus Blossom Restaurant; the very sight made him smile faintly. As he opened the door and stepped in, the sight of the maître d’—a diminutive Asian man, nattily dressed in a business suit and tie—made his smile grow broader.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Tommy,” Archer said warmly. It’d been a couple of years, but Tommy hadn’t changed an iota.
“Jonathan.” The maître d’ flashed him a grin.
Archer looked around. It was the weekend, and normally, there’d have been a line of hungry patrons snaking all the way out the door ... but on this night, he counted lots of empty tables. “Slow tonight.”
Tommy’s grin faded at once. “People are staying home ... ever since ...”
He didn’t need to say any more; Archer understood at once. He’d actually allowed himself to view the local news briefly, before coming here; the media were incessant in their coverage of the tragedy, even though they had no more real information to give. Now they were speculating about future attacks—and they didn’t seem to see the connection between that and the other news story Archer had caught, that people were afraid, and staying home with their families.
He could understand; if he’d had a home and a kitchen, he’d want to be there, too.
“She here?” he asked Tommy.
The maître d’ pointed. “Over there.” His tone became at once scolding and teasing. “You’re late.”
Archer smiled again. “Thanks. Bring me a Scotch.”
“Right away.”
Tommy headed for the bar, while Archer moved toward the indicated table.
He failed to notice his surroundings—failed to notice his own posture, his expression, whether he smiled or not in greeting. All Archer noticed was that he was suddenly seated across from a woman, who delicately swallowed a bit of the half-eaten appetizer in front of her.
Rebecca. She was wearing her hair differently; it had grown out a bit, and was shoulder-length now, parted on one side, and it seemed to have more of a reddish cast to it. But her eyes were still luminous pale green, her face still handsome. She wore a lowcut lavender shirt that suited her coloring perfectly.
“I’m really sorry,” Archer said, and she smiled whimsically at that. It was as though he had just left room for a short while, as if he hadn’t been