The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [29]
Once again, he was forced to call off the chase: But only for a little while, he promised himself. Only for a little while, and when the time was right, he would take the most savage possible revenge.
On Enterprise, Archer’s adrenaline level was finally beginning to lower at the realization that the constant barrage had stopped, and the Klingon ship was slowing.
“They’re dropping to impulse,” Mayweather reported.
Archer turned to T’Pol. “How long will it take them to repair their engines?”
She looked up at him. “Impossible to determine ...”
“Give me an educated guess,” Archer said sharply. He was in no mood for Vulcan literalness at the moment.
She hesitated, clearly reluctant to rely on what she considered insufficient data. “Three hours ... possibly more.”
The Captain glanced back at Mayweather. “What’s our speed?”
“Warp three, sir.”
“Go to four-five,” Archer ordered, then once again addressed T’Pol. “If we can make it to Vulcan space before they get their engines back .... they’ll think twice about giving us any trouble.”
He took his chair, both determined ... and deeply relieved that the battle was, for the time being, over.
At the same time, he definitely was not looking forward to arriving at Vulcan.
Archer was in the ready room, gazing pensively out at the streaming stars, when the door chimed.
“Come in.”
T’Pol entered. She was not an easy read: most humans would never have noticed anything different about her behavior, but after spending a good deal of time with her in close quarters, Archer had begun to pick up on the subtler nuances of her manner. Right now, her tone and expression were subdued. She wanted to discuss a serious subject, and was not altogether comfortable doing so.
Oddly, Archer realized he was completely comfortable in her presence. It certainly hadn’t started out that way: she’d been an interloper, a spy for the Vulcans, cool and full of veiled verbal barbs at human frailty.
It hadn’t helped either, that she’d been strikingly, exotically beautiful. Normally, Archer wouldn’t have given her a second glance—he was accustomed to working with females, beautiful or not, and had no problem maintaining a professional attitude. So he didn’t understand why he noticed T’Pol’s attractiveness, and was uncomfortable around it; he decided, finally, that it was the fact that, unlike human women, she was utterly unaware of her beauty. It must have been the innocence; and in time, the effect wore off (or at least, the Captain convinced himself that it did).
Archer had gotten used to her, at the same time that she had gotten used to him and the rest of the crew. Either her attitude had done a one-eighty, or his had—but the fact was, despite the cultural differences, they had each come to respect each other.
“Ensign Mayweather says we’re two days from Vulcan,” she began.
She was unhappy about leaving Enterprise, Archer assumed; or maybe he was simply projecting his own feelings onto her. He wanted to do what he could to make things easier for her. He smiled warmly, and gestured. “Why don’t you sit down?”
She sat, lean, long hands on her knees, her spine as always ramrod-straight, on the couch; Archer sat across from her.
“Just think,” he said, meaning to cheer her up. “In two days, you’ll be eating real Vulcan food.”
The statement failed to have the effect he desired; she glanced down and away, an indication that his words only made what she had come to say more difficult. “Chef has done an adequate job of approximating Vulcan cuisine,” she replied noncommittally.
“Well,” Archer said with a heartiness he did not feel, “you never did care for the way we smell. ... At least you won’t have to put up with that anymore.”
She looked up at him at last. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
“How about all those emotions we bombard you with every day?” Archer was reaching desperately for something positive about T’Pol’s departure, but she didn’t seem to want to cooperate.
“I’ve grown