The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [53]
Archer regarded the man with unmasked disgust. His instincts about the weasel had been right. Not only was the man untrustworthy, he couldn’t imagine someone else being capable of anything but the basest intentions. He kept his tone short, clipped. “I have something I need to discuss with him.”
“And what might that be?” Curious, the weasel leaned closer; Archer recoiled at the man’s stench. Clearly, regular bathing wasn’t one of his priorities.
None of your damned business, Archer wanted to say, but instead, he allowed himself an impatient: “You got what you asked for, now let me see the Xindi.”
The foreman studied him for a half-second, as if considering whether to comply, then walked over to one of the dust-covered monitors. He ran a grimy hand over it, clearing away some of the blue grit but leaving behind oily fingerprints. He squinted at the readout for a moment.
“His work group should be awake in about an hour’s time.” He drew in a rattling breath and turned toward Archer and Tucker, his tone wheedling, smarmy. “Perhaps you’d like something to eat in the meanwhile?”
Archer let the flare of anger he felt come through in his tone. “It took six of my men half the night to extract that platinum. I think you could wake him up an hour early.”
For the briefest instant, the weasel’s glittering eyes flashed with equal ire. It faded swiftly, though, in a way that let Archer know he was at last about to set eyes on his first live Xindi.
They headed deep into the belly of the mines; the foreman led the way, accompanied, as always, by two armed guards.
When they finally made it into the miners’ area, Archer’s sense of foreboding increased. The passageways were narrow, the walls thickly caked with trellium residue, the tunnels filled with the thick blue murk that made Archer’s eyes and throat burn; the smell was nauseating. What troubled him most were not the conditions, but the sight of the miners themselves—what Archer could see of them. They represented many different species, all of them dressed in tatters, all of them with faces wrapped in rags—save for the eyes.
The guards had elaborate breathing apparatuses, even though their exposure to trellium particulate matter was far less. Why would the miners tolerate such unsafe conditions?
And everywhere—everywhere Archer looked—there were armed guards.
They arrived at last in the miners’ area—a labyrinth of tunnels and alcoves. The guards pushed open a thick metal door and led them all into the most primitive of living areas. Blue-tinged miners slept on the floor; some sat at rusty tables on uneven, rickety benches and ate. Even here, there were armed, muscle-bound aliens standing watch, as though a riot might suddenly break out.
Most remarkably, there was not a single sound—not the low murmur of voices, the lull of normal conversation. There was no social interaction at all, not even between members of the same species.
Trip sensed something was wrong, too. As the foreman led them deeper back into the dimly lit, haze-filled workers’ quarters, he shared a look with the Captain.
After a long pause, Trip finally asked, “Is trellium the only thing you mine here?”
“The only thing,” the foreman responded, his tone cursory, his mind apparently on other things. “Trellium.”
“I’m not familiar with it,” Trip said. “What’s it used for?”
“Insulation. Mostly for interstellar vessels.” Inspiration suddenly struck the weasel; he turned to Archer, his expression sly. “What sort of insulation does your ship use, Captain?”
Archer thought, and could see no possible harm in replying. “Our outer hull is lined with duranium.”
The foreman’s thin, blue lips began to curve in a coy little grin. “I imagine you have a very large crew.”
Archer’s tone turned sharp. “Why would you imagine that?” he asked, though he was beginning to suspect. No matter; he’d deal