The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [52]
Archer gave a distracted nod, then turned to Tucker. “How’s it coming?”
Tucker released the sigh of an engineer who had been ordered to do something not in the best interests of his engines. “We’re gonna end up stripping more than two hundred relays to get half a liter of liquefied platinum, but you’ll have it by this afternoon.”
“Let me know when it’s ready,” Archer said, already preoccupied with other matters. He headed for the door—then stopped, emerging from his reverie long enough to realize that his commander had just walked into sickbay.
“You okay?” he asked Tucker.
Tucker nodded and gave a dismissive little shrug; Phlox suspected he was too embarrassed to discuss the matter with Archer. “Yeah, fine.”
The Captain did not press; he gave a nod, then left the Commander alone with Phlox.
The instant Archer was out of earshot, Tucker said, “I think I’m gonna need something to help me sleep tonight, Doc.”
Phlox feigned a moment of contemplation, then said, “Very well. Come by at around twenty-two hundred hours. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks,” Trip said. Phlox detected the undercurrent of weariness in his tone; the pigmentation beneath his eyes had darkened slightly over the past few days. Clearly, he’d had some difficult nights.
The doctor watched him go. As difficult as the situation might be for T’Pol, Phlox knew her to be possessed of great compassion, and an unusual intuitive capacity, for a Vulcan, to understand humans. He had faith that she would be able- to overcome her cultural reluctance and help Commander Tucker.
If a human ever needed a Vulcan’s help, the Commander needed it now.
* * *
Inside the dim, hazy foreman’s office, Archer stood beside the weaselly little man and watched as Trip Tucker placed a large metallic suitcase on the filthy wasteland of a desk and snapped it open.
Archer did not like the acrid, toxic blue surroundings, or the muscular alien giants who waited just outside the door, weapons in hand, nor did he like the growing sense that he was at a disadvantage here. Most of all, he disliked the foreman, who scratched unconsciously at his chin and neck, now so covered with boils so inflamed the redness could be detected beneath the veil of blue soot he wore.
Trip had insisted on coming. He was, after all, the most experienced engineer and had designed the container for holding the ultra-unstable precious metal; but Archer figured he had the most right anyway. There was a Xindi involved—and the Captain realized how desperate Trip must be to do something, anything, to help prevent another attack on Earth.
On the way down in the shuttlepod, Tucker had fallen grimly silent; his reticent mood persisted until they finally arrived at their destination, at which point he became suddenly animated, relieved that something was finally happening after all these weeks.
Now, bent over the foreman’s desk, Trip removed a thickly insulated container with consummate delicacy, set it down, then gently released a locking mechanism. Using one hand to hold the container steady, he used the other to open the top, revealing what lay inside: a crystal vial filled with a glowing substance.
Quicksilver, Archer thought, but this was far more intense a substance; it was painfully, metallically white, so dazzling that when the Captain looked away, he saw the afterimage, superimposed against dull blue.
Trip glanced over his shoulder at the foreman, who was leering with pure greed at the contents of the suitcase. “I suppose you’re aware this stuff is very volatile above thirty degrees Celsius.”
The foreman was not interested in making eye contact with Trip; he continued to stare, mesmerized by the contents of the vial. “I’m very familiar with the properties of liquified platinum.”
Trip gently replaced the top, then turned. “I’ve insulated the outer container ... it should keep everything pretty stable.”
Archer directed a pointed look at the wiry little foreman. “There’s a little more than half a liter in there.”
A real weasel, the Captain thought, looking at him. The man was actually rubbing his trellium-caked