The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [61]
The effort of stopping Trip in mid-fall had left the Captain in a state beyond exhaustion; it had required a strength he hadn’t possessed, yet had forced from his body through a desperate act of will.
And if saving a solitary soul had been nearly impossible ...
Archer refused to finish the thought, and instead replaced it with another. Don’t give up; we’re nearly there.
Once they got there—the planet surface, then the shuttlepod, then the safety of Enterprise, the question remained: Could the crew of a single starship and a group of MACOs stand up against an entire world?
That question now haunted Archer’s waking hours and dreams. Trip, he knew, had been almost shattered by the death of one close to him: but Archer lived each moment with not just the potential deaths of his entire crew, but of billions. It was the reason he had forced his body beyond its limits; he was responsible for bringing Trip into the Expanse, and was damned if he was going to lose him.
Over the past six weeks, the Captain had devoted himself more and more to the gathering of data concerning his mission, to rumination on possible strategy, once they found the Xindi homeworld. He’d eventually abandoned all recreation and small pleasures, all the things psychiatrists claimed were vital to the mental health of those isolated in the far reaches of space.
Mental health was no longer one of Archer’s priorities. He and Trip had given up what they called their “social hour” by unspoken mutual agreement. He now spent each evening with the terminal pulled alongside his bed, reading, studying, obsessing, Porthos curled up on his feet.
The dog hadn’t been allowed on the bed—at least, not regularly, and not without Archer’s special invitation. Now Porthos slept there every night. The simple, warm presence of another breathing soul, one untainted by Earth’s tragedy, one unaware of the staggering gravity of Enterprise’s mission, gave Archer comfort. In fact, before the attack, Archer had been careful to bathe Porthos daily; it seemed inappropriate for the captain’s quarters to reek of dog.
But Archer had since given the practice up: The scent of unwashed beagle smelled reassuring—of Earth, of home. The Captain fell asleep each night to the glow of the terminal, and woke early each morning lying on his side, Porthos tucked against his master’s chest and stomach, a warm, snoring crescent.
Even so, Archer missed human company: He’d always enjoyed discussing the events of the day with his engineer and friend—but now, the only events left to discuss were too grim, and certainly too painful for Trip. The Captain had no desire to saddle someone else with his own burden ... so he kept to himself, maintained a professional distance from his officers.
Such barriers weren’t good, he knew, but they wouldn’t last forever. They would succeed at their mission—Archer clung stubbornly to that belief—and things would return to normal, no matter how horribly surreal they were now.
We’re nearly there.
Archer stared up at the silhouette of the Xindi—a symbol of both doom and hope, his skin and sparse hair stained such a deep shade of blue it was impossible to guess at his natural coloration.
Meeting Kessick face to face hadn’t been easy for Trip, Archer realized: Clearly, the engineer’s emotions warred within him. As much as he wanted to be fair to the Xindi, wanted not to prejudge him, the rage over his sister’s death spilled out at times. Admittedly, Kessick had been far from gracious to his rescuers—a fact that had left Tucker in a sour, sullen silence.
Even so, Archer was glad he’d brought Trip: The engineer had as much, if not more, resolve than anyone else to see the Xindi safely aboard Enterprise.
Abruptly, Kessick stopped his ascent. Archer peered past him and saw the source of the delay: a solid metal ceiling.
The Xindi was clearly surprised and disappointed. “It’s another emergency baffle.”
Archer scanned the tunnel walls, careful to maintain his balance. “Then