The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [27]
Duras issued an order, even though he knew his tactical officer would already be fulfilling it. “Charge weapons and prepare to bring them online!”
He sat, gaze wide, focused intently on the starlit viewscreen before him.
It was late, and the dimly lit Enterprise mess hall was empty, save for three denizens: Archer, Trip Tucker, and a half-empty bottle of Scotch. The Scotch, of course, belonged to Archer; he’d taken advantage of his time in San Francisco to pick up a few delicacies to brighten the long journey. He’d arrived first and procured a glass; Trip had followed soon after.
The Captain couldn’t help wondering just how many others aboard the ship were finding it difficult to sleep. He was grateful that so far, only Trip had found his way to the mess hall. With Trip, at least, Archer could relax and let down his hair.
Unlike most days, the Captain sat with his back to the windows. They were going to be at warp for a long, long time; he’d have his chance to get his fill of streaming warp stars.
He freshened his glass and peered over at Trip, whose dark blond hair was disheveled, no doubt the result of too much tossing and turning. “It’s bad enough that one of us is up in the middle of the night,” Archer groaned. He didn’t mention, of course, that Trip had more reason than any of them to be up: losing someone you loved was tough enough, but to lose someone in such a catastrophic event, one that was constantly referred to, constantly in the news ... How could Trip ever take his mind off it? Their mission was the direct result of the attack.
Even so, Archer did his best to treat Trip no differently than ever. It was what Archer had appreciated most when his dad had died: those people who acknowledged the fact, but treated him normally, the same as they always had.
“How’s Porthos holding up?” Trip asked easily, his tone languid, faintly humorous—more like the old Trip than it had been in a long time. “If no people have returned from the Delphic Expanse, I doubt any dogs have.”
Archer almost grinned at the image of a brave, all-canine crew ... “He must be doing better than we are ... He’s fast asleep.”
Each took a sip of his respective glass of Scotch.
Finally, Trip said, “Have you picked a new science officer?”
“No.” Maybe he was in denial, but Archer had told himself that his subconscious could work on the choice, that he had too many things on his mind at present to contemplate a replacement. When the time came, he would know who to promote from within the crew.
Trip nodded. “You’re gonna miss her, aren’t you?”
Archer sighed; a corner of his lip twisted wryly. “When they first assigned her, I felt like strangling Soval ...”
“She does kinda grow on you,” Trip said.
Archer glanced up at him sharply, though not without humor. “I would think you’d be the first one to show her to the airlock.”
Trip shrugged, cavalier. Another long, exhausted silence ensued, and then the engineer raised his glass. “To Henry Archer.”
Archer lifted his eyebrows, puzzled.
By way of explanation, Trip said, “I wonder what he would’ve thought if he knew his engine was gonna help save the human race.”
Archer, frankly, was glad his father wasn’t there to see the attack, to feel the panic that afflicted everyone on Earth. His dad would have let him go into the Expanse, of course—but he would have been worried right into a coronary.
Archer swallowed a stiff belt of Scotch. It was single-malt, complexly fragrant, so smooth that he didn’t even feel the urge to cough, though his eyes watered slightly at the alcoholic fumes.
“When I first got this job,” he admitted softly, “commanding the first warp five ship was about as big a responsibility as I could’ve imagined. Then we began running into so many bad guys, I had to start thinking more about the safety of eighty-three people.”
Trip leaned forward on his elbows, drink cupped in one hand, and gave a faint nod. “And now the stakes have gotten a lot bigger. ...”
Archer looked down at his glass,