The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [24]
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,