The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [57]
“Help me with this,” the Xindi said.
Archer took one end of the wheel, Kessick the other; they began to turn. Despite the desperate circumstances, Archer found it mildly amusing that, so many light-years from Earth, alien hands had designed the hatch to open and close using the old “righty-tighty-lefty-loosey” principle.
It was far from easy work; Archer gritted his teeth and strained as hard as he could; Kessick seemed equally matched in terms of strength, and struggled as well until the wheel began to loosen with a high-pitched squeal.
Gasping, Kessick nodded at Trip. “There’s a lever below your knees. Pull it up.”
The corners of Trip’s mouth melted downward in pure disgust; nevertheless, he plunged an arm down into the viscous, malodorous waste and began groping. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils widened until Archer thought he would retch—but Trip keep resolutely feeling about until he caught hold of something, and pulled.
With a slight rumble, the hatch swung open, revealing a blessedly dry shaft, with rungs that led both upward and downward.
“This is Plasma Duct Thirteen,” Kessick explained. “It hasn’t been used since I’ve been here.”
Trip seemed suspicious. “Why is there a hatch here?”
“It’s a maintenance port,” the Xindi said, so matter-of-factly that Archer believed him. “There’s one every eight levels.”
Immediately, Kessick reached overhead, where a ratchet hung in a cradle. Without hesitating, he clamped it onto a gear in the hatch and began ratcheting with all his strength.
“What’re you doing?” Archer demanded.
Once again, Kessick explained honestly as he worked; after all, Archer reflected, the Xindi wanted out of here as badly as he and Trip did. “Opening the emergency baffle ...” He pointed upward inside the shaft. “... up there. It’s a steel plate that locks into place during maintenance cycles.”
Trip and Archer stood in the sewage—the Captain doing his best to ignore the nauseating smell—while Kessick finished his work. The last two ratchets were difficult, but the Xindi put his all into it, dropped the ratchet, then turned to the humans.
“Follow me.”
He crawled up into the shaft, headed for the surface. With a nod of his chin, Archer signaled for Trip to follow next; the Captain went last of all.
Anywhere, Archer thought, to get away from that smell ...
Chapter 13
In the Enterprise armory, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed stood next to Major Hayes, staring at the large multicolored tactical display that included several views of the mining complex: overhead angles of the towers on the planet surface and cross-sections of the underground tunnels, living quarters, and offices, all with detailed overlays giving the specifics of each area.
Reed had disliked Hayes instantly. For one thing, the man had failed to introduce himself properly, giving only his title and surname; for another, he radiated an aura of arrogance that his overly polite demeanor could not hide.
Reed was aware that he himself was not coming into the situation unprejudiced. He and Hayes represented a long-standing tradition of animosity that had its roots in centuries-old British naval tradition, and the times when humans sailed across the sea rather than the deep reaches of space. Long ago, sailors were not allowed to bear arms aboard ship; it fell to others to carry arms; others who came to believe themselves superior in training and courage to those in the Navy: the Marines.
The Marines carried weapons while at sea, and derided the lowly, unarmed sailors.
In response, the sailors made sure the Marines’ time as “guests” aboard Navy vessels was as miserable as possible. Reed, an inveterate student of military history, had read stories of how the sailors repaid the Marines’ elitist attitude with practical jokes: his favorite remained one about a group of Navy men who liked to arrange dozens of marbles at the bottom of the ladders connecting the different decks.
The MACOs were the distant heirs of the Marines. And no doubt Hayes was up on his military