The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [65]
Archer applauded mentally as one of the guards struck Kessick’s head with his rifle butt; the Xindi fell backwards, dazed.
“Pick him up,” the tallest of the guards ordered Archer and Trip.
The two humans complied.
The guard, clearly in command of the others, motioned for them to carry Kessick back across the catwalk. Wheezing with the effort, Archer stared grimly across the Xindi’s limp form at Trip Tucker. Things weren’t looking too good for them right now; the Captain silently cursed the fact that he could no longer communicate with the ship, no longer ask for backup. He could do nothing now except trust T’Pol to get Enterprise out of harm’s way before the warships arrived, even though he knew she would be powerfully drawn to stay and wait for the Captain and Trip to return on the shuttlepod.
They stepped from the catwalk onto a landing; abruptly, the head guard came to a stop, and motioned for the others to do the same.
Out of the indigo haze, the foreman emerged, flanked by three more guards.
Archer looked on the weasel with undisguised loathing.
All unctuous pretense gone, the grimy little man stepped forward, clearly annoyed. “I would’ve preferred having the two of you join your fellow crew members as new additions to my workforce,” he told Archer, “but you’ve turned out to be more trouble than you’re worth.” He turned and gazed up at the head guard. “Select a detail and take them to the surface.” He gave Kessick, who now stood unsteadily on his feet, a disgusted look, then once more addressed the guard. “Shoot all three of them.”
The words caused Archer’s stomach to knot; they were not what he’d anticipated. He’d expected the weasel to order them back down to the workers’ area, where Archer and Trip would have been free to plot another escape attempt.
Now time was running out. The Captain gazed up at the burly, towering aliens with their glowing rifles and tried to come up with a plan to overpower them—in vain.
Meanwhile, the head guard nodded to two of his men, who then motioned for their prisoners to head for an iron stairwell. Archer paused, reluctant.
He couldn’t let it end quickly, like this. He didn’t mind dying—in fact, it had always been his hope that he would die on an adventure, out in space—but right now, his mission was far too important. Death would be too much like surrendering. He had to think of something. Maybe if he signaled Trip, pretended to faint, allowing Trip to come over to him and distract the guards ... It was a long shot, but he couldn’t just give up without fighting.
T’Pol, I hope you’ve quit waiting and gotten my ship the hell out of here. ...
At last, slowly, he turned as directed, catching a final glimpse of the remaining guards with the foreman, who stood, blue-stained fists on his hips, watching the proceedings with satisfaction.
Archer caught a glimpse, as well, of a fast-moving shadows overhead. His initial instinct was to glance up; fortunately, his second instinct, to pretend he’d seen nothing, allowed him to suppress the first in time. Once again, he prayed to a particular Vulcan.
T’Pol. Damned if she doesn’t have one of the strongest human intuitions I’ve ever encountered. ...
Archer kept moving forward until he heard the blast of a pulse weapon behind him.
He whirled, just in time to see one of the foreman’s guards lurching backward, midsection lit up by a brilliant volley of pulses.
Between Archer and the foreman stood three MACOs in silvery-gray camouflage, each letting loose rapid streams of dazzling pulses from pulse rifles even more fearsome-looking than the guards’. The scene possessed a surrealistic beauty as the weapons’ fire intermittently lit up the faintly