The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [43]
The Earth that was left, anyway. But not the Earth he’d known: Lizzie was gone from it.
So he went through his daily routine, staying busy, but it was like moving through molasses. Doctor Phlox had given him something to help him sleep, but he wanted more of it than the doc was willing to give him: He wanted to blot out every dream, every thought of Lizzie and her cruel death until there was nothing but blackness.
He’d thought, once they’d entered the Expanse, that things would happen quickly: there’d be danger, fighting, a chance to finally wreak revenge on the Xindi, which Trip was convinced would bring him peace. But it hadn’t happened. They’d been hurtling through space forever, until Trip at last grew so exhausted from his grief that he settled into a dull numbness—except when he was alone, when the pain sometimes broke through with breathtaking force.
As he moved through the corridor with Archer, however, Trip was all business. He liked to think that, though the loss of Lizzie accompanied him everywhere, a silent ghost, no one else saw.
“Just Bay Two?” Archer interrupted Trip’s reverie. Like Trip, Archer had kept to himself during these unbearably slow weeks; neither of them had felt up to continuing their habit of socializing with each other. Trip didn’t envy the Captain his responsibility: It was one thing to lose a sister, quite another to bear responsibility for the fate of nearly a hundred people.
“Yes, sir,” Trip answered smartly, proud of his ability to draw himself out of his private thoughts quickly now. He had to do so, if he was going to be any good at helping to bring the Xindi to justice. “Cargo Bays One and Three seem to be unaffected.”
“When did it start?”
“About ten minutes ago,” Trip replied. “Ensign McFarlane got pretty banged up, but he’s gonna be okay.” Trip had been terrified at the sight of McFarlane, helpless, being crushed against the wall by a huge cargo container—terrified not just for the ensign, but also in a selfish way. He couldn’t handle the thought of losing a man under his watch—not now. One death was enough—more than enough—to deal with. He’d rushed McFarlane to sickbay himself, and had been enormously gratified when Doctor Phlox pronounced the injuries minor.
“And you’re sure it’s not a problem with the grav-plating?” Archer glanced at him. Like Trip, the Captain seemed grateful for a distraction, a problem, anything to ease the waiting.
Trip shook his head; the grav-plating had been the first thing he’d checked, but even then he’d known that the sort of poltergeist activities that had injured McFarlane couldn’t be caused by defective grav-plating. Floating containers, yes. But not this ...
The two men reached the doors leading to Cargo Bay Two. Trip paused for drama’s sake, then tapped the control.
The doors slid open; Trip and the Captain entered the vast, silent chamber.
Just as Trip knew it would, Archer’s expression grew puzzled as he stared at the empty bay floor. It was, of course, supposed to be loaded with stacked cargo.
Trip watched as Archer gazed, curious, to the left, then to the right—where the cargo was currently glued to the right bulkhead, all the way from floor to ceiling.
Startled by the sight, Archer took a step forward; Trip held up a restraining arm.
“Careful, sir. Stay close to the door.”
Archer stepped back, and shot a questioning look at his engineer.
“Just give it a minute,” Trip said.
They waited. After a beat, a low rumble began to build, growing louder and louder; the deck beneath their feet began to vibrate. With a sudden roar, the cargo containers whipped across the room, then slammed into place on the left-hand wall.
In a matter of seconds, the entire load of cargo had shifted to the opposite bulkhead. Abruptly, the deck ceased shaking, and all fell silent.
Archer drew back, suitably impressed. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s not the grav-plating.” A note of concern crept into his tone. “Is there any volatile material in