The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [77]
Hayes lifted his eyebrows questioningly.
“It means we’re in for a bit of a bumpy ride,” Reed explained. He paused, then lowered his voice. If he and Hayes were to work together for an indefinite length of time, a level of detente had to be established. “Look, I just wanted to commend you”—he glanced around the table—“all of you, for your performance down on the planet surface. Well done.”
Hayes regarded him silently for a moment; the major’s expression relaxed only slightly as he registered and appreciated the compliment, then grew guarded again. “We were just doing our jobs, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Reed stared back at him. Hayes was a rock: implacable, immutable, incapable of giving an inch. No matter what Reed said or did, the major would always challenge his authority, would always want to be in charge of every away mission. It was in his nature.
And, Reed reflected, if their positions were reversed, he, Reed, would do exactly the same thing.
“Even so,” Reed said, “I still commend you.” He surrendered all further attempts at conversation and began sawing on his chicken.
Perhaps all competition with Hayes could not be avoided, but Reed would do his best in the future to ease whatever tensions existed between his security team and the MACOs.
In the meantime ... he and a couple of his men had located some old, unused bearings ... nice and round and slippery, like marbles. He’d learned that the MACOs had set up some ropes in a makeshift gym area, to practice scaling walls. It might be interesting to surreptitiously place a few bearings under the ropes. ...
A little healthy rivalry was, after all, traditional.
“Thank you,” Trip Tucker said, standing in the doorway to T’Pol’s quarters. The Commander seemed considerably more relaxed than he had the previous night, when he’d had his first session of Vulcan neuropressure.
“I’m pleased to be of help,” T’Pol said, which was quite true. Because Tucker’s muscles had been less tense this evening, she’d been able to do deeper work without harming him, which would allow the treatment to be even more successful.
“How many more ... ?” Tucker asked, lingering. It seemed to T’Pol that he was reluctant to leave; perhaps he was, as humans often were, in the mood for conversation. She wondered whether it would be appropriate to ask whether he wanted a cup of tea—then, remembering how he’d reacted to the question the night before, decided against it.
“One,” T’Pol replied. “From what you’ve told me, you seem to be responding quite well.”
Perhaps she misinterpreted his expression, but she thought she caught a fleeting look of disappointment cross his features. “Oh,” he said, then gave a little half-grin. “Well, thanks again.”
“Sleep well,” T’Pol said, and retreated inside so that the door would close.
Once inside, she removed her civilian clothing, then reached in her closet for her pajamas.
Next to them hung the diplomat’s uniform.
The sight of it made T’Pol consider her current situation. The last time she had gazed upon the uniform, she had seen it as a silent rebuke, a reminder that she had given up a career, a family, perhaps even a world.
She no longer felt the same. The barriers between her species and that of Earth no longer seemed so important; these humans were now her family, her world. And her decision to send the MACOs to the mining world—a decision she had feared was rash, impatient—had saved the Captains and Commander Tucker’s lives. She was in fact critically needed aboard Enterprise; her choice to abandon her diplomatic career in order to follow Archer into the Expanse had already proven useful.
And, despite the initial uncomfortable misunderstanding, she was glad to be of help to Commander Tucker. While he was definitely prone to strong emotions, he was also intelligent and considerate, capable of a great deal more compassion than he openly displayed. She was glad that she had not refused Phlox’s request to give him neuropressure.
T’Pol stared for a moment at the diplomat’s