The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [49]
Archer stopped in his tracks as two great, hulking figures—aliens of a sort Archer had never seen before—appeared in the cobalt haze, standing before him. Despite the dim light, he did not miss the fact that they each bore large weapons in the crooks of their arms.
Archer was, of course, startled, but recovered at once. These were no doubt the assistants the foreman had mentioned. Pretty formidable-looking ones, but Archer wasn’t about to let himself be intimidated. “I’m Captain Archer of the Starship Enterprise,” he announced confidently. “We’ve come to see—”
One of the guards interrupted him, in the deepest bass Archer’d ever heard. “This way.”
The aliens turned without pleasantry and abruptly headed down the winding stairs. Archer shot Reed a long-suffering glance.
There was something about the situation—maybe the fact that the assistants were enormous and armed, as if they were soldiers rather than workers—that set off an instinctive alarm in Archer’s brain. Something didn’t smell right ... and it wasn’t just the trellium.
The quartet descended several more levels before the aliens finally moved away from the stairs, toward a large metal door where three more tall aliens of the same species stood watch—again, all of them armed.
Archer was growing more distrustful by the minute. Why would a foreman of a bunch of miners need guards? This planet was definitely not in a busy neighborhood; were pirates that much of a problem—or was the situation not what he’d been told?
He and Reed were led into a grease- and trellium-covered room that was as dismal as the rest of the complex; the guards exited and shut the door behind them with a loud clang.
It was then Archer noticed the slight, hunch-shouldered foreman, reduced to a dark silhouette in the blue haze. Behind him, a primitive oil-lamp flickered, casting shadows that intermittently hid his face. Archer caught just enough of his sly expression and cold, glittering eyes to think, weasel, and know for certain that his instincts were right: He was dealing with a con artist.
An uneasy silence passed as the weasel studied the two officers, then drew in air with a rattling in his lungs and let go a single, rasping sound. “Archer.”
“I’m Jonathan Archer,” the Captain said, without warmth, and stepped forward. He gestured with his chin. “This is Lieutenant Reed.”
In the dimness, the foreman smiled unctuously and scratched at some nasty boils on his stubbled chin. “I was told you might make it worth my while if I were to arrange a certain introduction.”
Archer kept his tone hard. “It depends on what you mean by ‘worth your while.’ ”
The foreman tilted his long, gaunt face and showed long, yellowed teeth. “I’ve always had a fondness for platinum ... specifically in its liquefied state.”
“I’m afraid we don’t carry precious metals on board.”
“A pity.” The foreman turned dismissively from him, and moved as if to summon the “assistants.” His manner made it clear that negotiation was not an option.
Archer at once turned mollifying. “I’m sure there’s something else we could offer you ...”
The weasel whirled on him, wheezing with fury. “I don’t make a habit of allowing people to interrupt my workers! Xindi or otherwise!”
Xindi.
A thrill ran down Archer’s spine at the very mention of the word. So it wasn’t just a rumor; there was a Xindi here, now. He fought not to let the desperation show on his face. Instead, he sidled closer to Reed and said in the Lieutenant’s ear, “What about the antimatter relays?”
Reed replied in a voice barely audible above the machinery’s hum. “Their linings are plated with a platinum-cobalt alloy. Trip could probably strip them down and separate the metals.”
Archer directed his full attention to the foreman; the Captain’s manner was all business. “How much platinum are we talking about?”
The foreman’s temper cooled immediately; the smirk returned. “I’m a reasonable man. I’m sure you could part with a half liter.