The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [6]
The Captain was clearly struggling not to be stunned himself by the news he relayed. “A probe ... They don’t know where it came from. It fired a weapon that cut a swath ... four thousand meters long ... from Florida to Venezuela.” He drew in a breath, then added, “There may have been a million casualties.”
The word Florida pierced Trip like a dagger; he could not keep his jaw from dropping. “A million?” he heard Reed reiterate in disbelief. Lizzie, he thought, and the image of her kissing fifteen-year-old Carlo, her blond hair falling forward onto the boy’s shoulders, surfaced again in his mind. No, of course she’s okay, don’t even think about it. There are millions and millions of people in Florida; chances are she’s okay. Of course she’s okay.
He had to force himself to follow the rest of the conversation. It was difficult; numbness started to creep over him.
“We’ve been recalled,” Archer continued.
“Did they say why?” The words came out of Trip without his thinking about them; his mind was still repeating the mantra, She’s okay ...
Yet he knew, with dreadful, inexplicable certainty, that she was not.
“I didn’t ask.”
Ensign Travis Mayweather, the helmsman and one of the youngest members of the crew—but the one with the most hours logged in space—spoke up. “It’ll take a while to get back, sir.”
A voice filtered through the companel. Trip was too dazed even to recognize it. “Bridge to Captain Archer.”
Archer tapped the companel. “Go ahead.”
“It’s Admiral Forrest.”
“Understood.” Archer turned and headed for the door. As he moved, he glanced over his shoulder back at Mayweather. “Set a course, Travis. Warp five.”
He left behind a silent crew.
Inside the ready room, Jonathan Archer stood, arms folded tightly across his chest as if he could somehow hold in the emotions warring within him, and stared out the window at the stars streaming past. Normally, the sight never failed to thrill him—warp speed, achieved at last—but now he saw nothing but Admiral Forrest’s lined face, pale against the dark blue-black of his uniform, as he tried to describe the destruction.
The land, the sea, scorched and gouged beyond recognition; ugly craters miles deep. The devastation was so vast, so complete, that it was impossible to know the full extent yet.
And if there can be one attack, Archer knew, there can be many. Perhaps this is only the first.
It would be a hell of thing if humanity finally managed to avoid destroying itself, only to be destroyed by another species. It wouldn’t be fair. Just as we were finding our way ...
His father, Henry Archer, had devoted his entire career to building a ship that would house Zefram Cochrane’s warp drive. Enterprise was Henry’s baby; he had waited a lifetime to see it launch ... only to be disappointed. The Vulcans had claimed humans weren’t “ready,” weren’t “mature” enough to interact safely with other species. They had delayed the launch. ... until finally, the son, Jonathan Archer, now her captain, had insisted that Enterprise be allowed into space.
By that time, his dad had already died. But the way he saw it, Jon figured he owed it—to his dad, to the human race, to make sure Enterprise did what she had been designed to do.
Now everything—the mission, Earth itself—was in jeopardy.
Archer’s door chimed. Without turning from the window, he called, “Come in.”
He heard the footsteps, heard Trip Tucker’s Southern-accented tenor behind him.
“Excuse me, Captain ...”
“Trip,” he said, still without turning.
“When you spoke to Admiral Forrest ...”
“Yes?” The stars were still streaming dizzyingly past. Archer wondered if, after their return to Earth, he would ever be able to see them at warp speed again. If there was an even larger attack against Earth, the Enterprise might need to be used in combat against alien vessels.
“Did he say what part of Florida was hit?” Tucker pressed.
Archer was still too caught up in his own thoughts to register the personal import of Trip’s question. “No, I’m sorry.”
“She may have been away.” There was a catch in Tucker’s