The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [78]
Like shedding old clothes ...
She carefully removed the uniform from the hanger, dropped it into the recycler, and pressed the control.
It disappeared with a soft whoosh.
Moments later, Archer was propped up on his bed, as usual squinting at a monitor screen on a portable arm; the split display showed Phlox’s representation of a reptilian-looking Xindi, a scan of Kessick’s corpse, and a schematic of what they’d already mapped of the Expanse. Porthos was beside him, chin resting on his thigh as Archer slowly stroked the beagle’s smooth head.
It was hard not to feel hatred for Kessick; it was as though the Xindi taunted him from beyond the grave—only adding another layer to the mystery. Did Kessick even know his world had attacked Earth? If not, why had he been so desperate, why had he struggled so painfully, to gasp out the coordinates as he was dying? Had he been a cleverly planted spy, in touch with those who had launched the probe? Or was he merely what he seemed to be, one of the weasel’s captives?
The more he thought about it, the more frustrated Archer became; when his door chimed, he jumped slightly, causing Porthos to lift his head and shoot him a baleful look.
“Come,” Archer said.
To his surprise, Trip Tucker entered, holding a small, gilded portfolio and a bottle of Scotch.
“Turn that damn thing off,” Tucker said amiably, with a nod at the monitor. “You’ll get eyestrain.” He settled into a nearby chair without invitation and set the bottle and portfolio down on a table. “You got a couple of glasses?”
“Sure,” Archer said, still taken aback. He rose, pushed the monitor arm out of his way, procured the glasses, and handed one to Trip.
Trip generously filled the one in the Captain’s hand first, then put less than a finger’s breadth in his own.
“I hate to spoil a good party,” Archer remarked as he settled back on the bed, “but ... you sure that’s good for you? It can disrupt your sleep patterns, you know.”
“Phlox been tattling on me? Whatever happened to doctor-patient privilege?”
“No,” the Captain said. “You were the one crabbing about having trouble sleeping.”
Trip’s good humor remained undeterred. “My sleep patterns are just fine, thank you—compliments of T’Pol. The Scotch is strictly for social enhancement.”
Archer’s eyebrows levitated at once. “T’Pol? Is there something I should know?”
Trip drew out the suspense; he took a long sip of his drink and let it linger a moment on his tongue before replying. “She’s giving me Vulcan neuropressure. It enhances the body’s own ability to normalize its sleep patterns. Much more effective than drugs. One more treatment, and I’m done. Just came from her quarters.”
“You mean,” Archer teased, “you’ve been stopping by a certain young woman’s quarters every night, and you didn’t tell me?” Secretly, he was pleased to see Trip here, looking and sounding so much like his old self; whatever T’Pol was doing, it was working just fine. “You know, I always suspected you’d taken a little shine to her ...”
Was it his imagination, or did Trip blush? The engineer ducked his head to take another sip, then leaned forward to scratch Porthos’s rump; the dog’s hind leg clawed in response at the empty air.
“Phew.” Trip’s nose crinkled. “No offense, old buddy, but I think you could use a bath.”
Point well taken; Archer made a mental note to wash the dog. With sudden intensity, he realized just how badly he had missed his talks with Trip; maybe it had been a mistake, after all, to give up the socializing, the pleasantries. Maybe he needed all those things to make this experience bearable. He took a gulp of the Scotch, winced slightly at the alcoholic fumes that rose in his nose and gullet, then said what he’d been wanting to tell Trip ever since they’d discovered the destroyed planet. “I’m sorry, Trip. We failed this time around.”
“What’re you apologizing to me for? Besides, we haven’t failed.” Tucker set down his glass. “We simply haven’t gotten where we’re going yet.”
“That’s one way to look at it.