The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [59]
Deep beneath the Major’s cool exterior, something flared—but his manner remained controlled, his speech precise. “Very good, sir.”
He strode from the room. Reed watched him go and permitted himself a small, bitter smile. As he opened a weapons locker, then began to arm a phase-pistol with a charge, he said to T’Pol, “Coming from a military family, I’ve seen men like Hayes all my life.”
“Lieutenant?” she asked. She clearly did not understand; Reed wondered what it was like to come from a world where personal politics were unknown. He explained; this situation would no doubt come up again in the future, and it was best that the Sub-Commander be aware.
“That had nothing to do with who knows Enterprise inside and out ... it had to do with who the Major thinks is more capable of carrying out this rescue.”
He locked and loaded the phase-charge; it whined with power. Gripping it, he left the armory, annoyed at himself. He had let himself be rolled over—for the sake of the ship, but rolled over, nonetheless—and he did not like it. Did not like it at all ...
Trip Tucker moved up the vertiginous, narrow passageway and tried to distract himself from the sheer physical unpleasantness of the situation. The climb had grown arduous; the metal rungs had disappeared, leaving only indentations to be used as hand and footholds. Most of them were filled with thick blue residue that Trip had to scrape out with his fingers or toes; he figured he looked as blue as a miner by now.
The trellium haze wasn’t so bad in the shaft, but the eye-watering smell of sewage clung to his uniform, damp from the waist down, and of course, after reaching down in the sludge for the lever, Trip had had to remind himself several times not to scratch his nose.
The Xindi above him didn’t smell so sweet, either. The miner was barefoot, dressed in the remnants of a tunic and trousers so filth-covered, Trip could not even guess at their original color. Beneath the drying layer of sewage and the trellium dust, the Xindi’s legs were covered with boils.
Kessick hadn’t had an easy time of it, Trip reminded himself, listening to the miner’s rattling breath, audible even above the constant loud hum of machinery. It was hard to associate this distrustful, abused creature with Lizzie’s death. The guy didn’t seem to know about the attack—and even if he did, that didn’t make him personally responsible, or mean that he had approved. He was an individual, separate from his government.
He doesn’t know, Trip kept repeating to himself. It helped to calm him, to soothe the anger that had welled up in him when the Xindi had challenged them with scathing comments. Trip had almost lost it then. It had been so easy to let grief come out as anger, to pound on the nearest scapegoat. ... Fortunately, the Captain had been there to intervene.
And then, when Kessick realized they weren’t there to hurt him, but might actually be able to help him, his entire attitude had shifted. He’d removed his rags, then later introduced himself.
It was harder to hate a person with a face and a name. Trip wondered if Kessick had any brothers or sisters.
He doesn’t know. ...
But what if he did?
Beneath him, Archer called a question up to the Xindi, who led the way.
“If this leads to the surface,” Archer asked, “why didn’t you use it before?”
Kessick lowered his unnervingly humanlike face so it was visible between his arms and legs, and answered, “If you’re lucky enough to reach the top, you’ll meet some foolish corpses who can answer that question.”
Trip frowned. He could manage to keep his fury under control—but Kessick’s sarcasm tested him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The residue in the atmosphere is thirty times more toxic than it is down here. This is the first time I’ve had the luxury of a ship waiting for me.”
As he spoke, he scraped a thick clump of blue grime from a handhold and nicked it downward; it struck Trip square on the side of his face.