Entangled Alliances

by Sheri Ann

Disclaimer: This is an amateur work meant in no way to infringe upon the rights of Amblin Entertainment or the Sci-Fi Channel. Lucas Wolenczak, Nathan Bridger, seaQuest, etc., are all the sole property of Amblin Entertainment and its cohorts in Hollywood. The Non-Allied Powers are the products of this author's own deranged mind . . .

A Note of Caution: some elements are AU Alternative Universe, though not heavily. For example, Lucas Wolenczak graduated from Stanford with an M.S. in Artificial Intelligence, as well as a subject concentration in physics/mathematics. Some dates may appear suspiciously outside canon. In addition, because of the Non-Allied Powers (situated in a place called "Dominia," another element outside the seaQuest canon), this work can be seen as an Alternative Universe piece.

Sequel: This is a sequel, so keep in mind that there will be references to the previous story. The story was "Entanglements” . . .

Rating: PG-13, rated as such because of some adult themes and language.

Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn

Now that the boring stuff is over, let the games continue!


Entangled Alliances
by Sheri Ann

Buzz.

“Wha--?” Lucas mumbled, face planted firmly within his pillows. Tiredly, he moved his arm once, then again, before finally allowing it to just crash to his side on the floor.

Buzzzzz.

“Uhhh . . .” Lucas moaned. Groggily, he slid one eye open. After a second’s silent contemplation, Lucas simply pulled his pillow over his head and decided to ignore whatever was making the noise.

He was drifting back into his favorite dream, a skiing trip mysteriously populated by seven bikini-wearing snow bunnies, when he heard it again: Buzzzzzzz.

With a low growl, he slammed his hand down on the offending device—his much-abused alarm clock—then sighed. Well, he supposed there wasn’t any use trying to slip back into his dream right now. Besides, if he were late today, Westphalen would have a conniption fit. He’d been late for the past three days; Westphalen wasn’t planning on letting him break his all-time record of five days late straight in a row.

8:45 a.m. That gave him about fifteen minutes to hustle down to the mess, grab a carton of juice, and, ignoring the amused glances shot his way by his friends, scramble right on over to the lab. That way, at least, he wouldn’t earn the express displeasure of hearing them chortle over his impending doom: Dr. Kristin Westphalen, upset, as usual, because he was barely on time.

As he swung his feet out of bed, Lucas stared at his room. Ah, just great. He’d certainly outdone himself *this* time. Mess--chaos running rampant through his tiny cubicle of a room--met his eyes from every angle. Books, notes, pens, paper, somewhat clean clothing, boxes, wires, keyboards, a black desk lamp, dirty clothes, computer parts of every shape and size, dirty silverware, tattered paper napkins, and a half-eaten orange and its resultant peelings scattered across his floor in wild disarray. However, the only things distinctly missing from the picture were his shoes.

Sourly, Lucas wondered where on earth he was supposed to find his shoes in all this mess. It wasn’t like he could just go traipsing down the *seaQuest’s* halls barefoot. Yeah, Dr. Westphalen would really appreciate that. No doubt about it.

Of course, it might be just saving Lucas all the trouble of getting his shoes soaked for the twentieth time in two days. In fact, maybe it was a good idea, after all. At least, without his shoes, when his vortex finally decided to blow up all over the science lab, as it inevitably would, he wouldn’t have to stomp back to his quarters in squeaking shoes.

Yeah, not a bad idea. He just didn’t think Dr. Westphalen would buy it.

Groaning, Lucas fell back against his unkempt bed, staring up at the ceiling as he thought over the past few days. He’d done nothing but work: reading one treatise on gravity and vortices and anti-matter after another, consulting one book after another, scratching one note after another—and usually throwing all of the above into a useless heap at the end of the day, aggravation teeming through his exhausted mind. Several times he’d wondered if hanging upside down and staring at his diagrams for the vortex might help him understand it better; hell, he’d even tried it.

That hadn’t helped, though. The only thing he’d earned out of that was *The Bridger Look*: in Bridger had waltzed (out of nowhere, as usual, somehow knowing Lucas was having a bad day) . . . and then he’d just stood there staring at Lucas, his eyebrows nearly rising smack through the ceiling, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the hatch, until Lucas had finally realized he was being stared at. Yep, it had been *The Look*. No doubt about it: The Look that threatened a long string of unanswerable and/or embarrassing questions.

With a sigh, Lucas grudgingly forced his body back up. 8:54. Great. Just dandy. Westphalen was probably preparing her “Why are you late, young man” speech even now, much like a dragon waiting in its lair for its unsuspecting victim.

With a shake of the head, Lucas realized that image wasn’t going to help get him anywhere. He could just picture it now: Westphalen confronting him about his tardiness, and him just . . . well, mentally picturing the fiery doctor literally breathing fire out her mouth . . . and, with his luck, the image would start him laughing uncontrollably, which would quickly deteriorate into Westphalen banishing him from the lab (or, even worse, forcing him to chart specimen samples). He shivered. *Yeah, that was definitely a bad image this early in the morning.*

Grumbling, Lucas eyed his room: he needed clothing, marginally presentable, preferably with as few stains as possible. After a second’s perusal, Lucas hopped over several books and bundles of wire, finally stooping to dig out a pair of jeans from a pile of miscellaneous junk. With a few more seconds’ worth of searching, he also found a relatively clean shirt on the back of his chair. He then stood wondering where, in all this mess, his sneakers could be.

Hmmm . . . maybe there was something in being somewhat cleanly and orderly, after all. He knew Bridger could find *his* shoes in a second or two. However, he quickly dismissed the idea of cleanliness when he spotted the sole of one sneaker sticking up from his pile of physics and chemistry texts. He snorted. He knew there was an order to all his chaos . . . he just had to find it.

*Now where could its partner be?* Lucas wondered as he dubiously eyed his room. Well, at least he could say with a good degree of certainty that it was somewhere on this boat. As long as Krieg hadn’t decided the shoes had to go and burned them, that is. His eye then fell on the sneaker, and he laughed softly. His teddy bear was wearing it. Who would have guessed?

As he quickly dressed, Lucas realized that he was missing socks. Just great. Finding a sock in this mess would be like looking for a specific speck of sand in a galaxy of stars: impossible. But he suddenly remembered using a pair of socks to hold a few wires together. That’d fill the bill. They were somewhat hole-infested, as if a rat had been busy snacking on them for some time, but they did the job.

Okay, so he was ready to face Dr. Westphalen. That was good, because by the clock’s hands, it looked to be 9:11. He was late.


********
Five hours later found Lucas hunched over a set of diagrams, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. His day had gone pretty much as expected. Westphalen had given him her Standard Lecture on timeliness. He’d then gone to work on his vortex. However, unfortunately, his vortex seemed quite temperamental lately. He’d already been soaked once today when the vortex had, as usual, spun out of control and whipped water across the lab instead of into a tunnel capable of increasing a shuttle’s speed.

For a second, he wondered if it were possibly Monday But it wasn’t. It was actually Wednesday, so . . . no, he couldn’t just blame it on the day.

With a last glance at his equations, Lucas hastily redrew a portion of his diagrams; well, perhaps if he tried moving one of the lasers over by a centimeter, it might help. At this point, Lucas would take anything: anything that didn’t involve a bath of cold water smack in the middle of the science lab. He’d planned to present some positive results to Captain Bridger before the end of the week, and he sure didn’t plan on breaking that deadline. He would come up with something. It just took time, not to mention lots of patience.

Sighing, Lucas trudged over to his computer, then entered the data. He watched as the lasers slowly began to charge, their heat generating a fine mist that clung to the skin. Several drops of water dripped to the floor. Lucas watched them, noting inwardly that there weren’t as many drops as normal. Hmmm. That could be good news; of course, it could also be bad news, but he preferred to think optimistically about it.

A soft alarm sounded in his program. Quickly, Lucas glanced over at the screen, relaxing as he saw the routine DANGER message flashing at him. Because he had the lasers powered down to their lowest settings, he didn’t need to worry about the danger sign. It wasn’t as if he were whipping up a level nine vortex, after all.

The computer clicked silent momentarily, and Lucas smiled. Here was the test. He stared at his watch, nerves tickling within his stomach. Softly, Lucas began counting down the seconds remaining until official vortex formation: “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .”

Silence.

Slowly, the funnel formed, drawing water from the moonpool into its center. More water joined the process, whirling into a larger, more powerful vortex. Lucas held his breath. It was almost at its crucial stage: when the vortex would run out of new water to feed itself. It would then either remain stable, as he hoped it would . . . or it would fall all over the floor in a sudden rush of laser-heated, boiling water.

Almost . . . almost . . . one second more . . .

The vortex continued spinning. Lucas watched, heart pounding so hard he feared everyone on *seaQuest* could hear it. Oh, Lord . . . just a second more. It was holding. It had run out of water completely.

*Steady, steady . . .* he whispered to the vortex, fingers crossed. Just a second more . . .

But just as the thought escaped, scalding water splashed across the floor. Lucas jumped away, hopping from foot to foot, as the waster soaked through his sneakers. Steam floated across half the science lab, water trickling quietly into the intake valves recently set into the lab’s floors. Damn. Annoyed, Lucas refused to look at any of the glances directed his way. Damn, damn, *damn*!

And he’d been so close . . . he’d almost had it.

But *almost* just didn’t count when it came to this stupid project of his. Lucas wondered why he’d invented it in the first place. No one else in the scientific community seemed to want to tackle vortex engineering with a hundred-foot pole.

Of course, that was probably one very good reason why he’d decided he just *had* to pursue it.

*Insanity, Thy Name is Lucas,* he thought drearily, pulling out the ever-handy mop. Yeah, it was “ever-handy” because he forever needed it to clean up his vortex spills.

Grumbling softly, Lucas started to mop his mess for the hundredth time in one week . . . or, at least, what felt like it. He just couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. He’d run and re-run and re-re-run the calculations. He’d had Bridger, Westphalen, and Katie look over his diagrams. He’d even had Bridger check his math. For the life of him, Lucas just couldn’t see where he could have gone wrong. It seemed so simple when placed on paper, but trying to get the practical result was more like getting his teeth pulled than working on the vocorder had even approximated. He kicked his foot against a chair. Perhaps he should just dump the project and return to the vocorder. At least he’d gotten *that* project to work without blowing any major holes through a ship’s sides, even if those holes had been on purpose. As he thought this, Lucas slapped the mop against the floor, angrily shaking his head. The last thing he wanted to do was blow some holes into the *seaQuest.* He’d had to do it on the *Ulysses ,* but he couldn’t do it here. He couldn’t be stupid enough to do it here.

Usually, Lucas knew he was anything but stupid. Right now, though, he was feeling well below imbecile level. He’d *only* been working on this project for, what? A year? And he still didn’t have anything to show for it but a rickety boat docked in New Cape Quest harbor, its sides leaking and its walls crumbling within, because he’d released a level nine renegade vortex against its hijackers. He sometimes wondered if, had it been necessary to save their lives, he could have produced a stable vortex. Currently, he doubted it.

“Lucas?” A voice muttered at his side. Lucas looked up, startled. It was Captain Bridger. He tried to replace the almost fierce frown on his face with a shaky smile, but Bridger wasn’t fooled. Lucas knew the Captain too well to suspect he’d fooled him—or, more to the point, the Captain knew Lucas too well to be fooled. Bridger looked him over, then pulled the mop right out his hands and led him to a chair. After a second, Bridger sat down beside him. “Having a rough day?”

Lucas simply looked at him, wishing Bridger would just . . . go away. He respected the Captain—in fact, he respected him more than anyone he’d ever met—but that was just the problem. He didn’t want the Captain to see what a screw up he’d made.

Bridger glanced at the wet floor, then at the tired teenager-physicist-computer scientist beside him. He sighed. “Looks like you’ve been at it for awhile, Lucas. I’d say it’s time for a break, anyway.”

Lucas’s foot tapped up-and-down, up-and-down. Bridger was tempted to glue that foot to the floor as the teen started chewing at his fingernails.

“C’mon, Lucas. Give yourself a break. You’ve been at this all week . . .” Bridger could have shot himself in the foot for that one the second it slipped past his mouth. He felt Lucas bristle, then watched as the young man glared at him.

“I *know* I’ve been at it all week. That’s just the problem!” Annoyed, Lucas stood up. He started to pace. Bridger felt like he was watching an ongoing tennis match as Lucas darted back-and-forth across the lab. Lucas looked at him. “Why is it I can blow up the *Ulysses* with no problem, but when I want to get this stupid thing to do the simplest thing . . . just form for three seconds without smashing apart, just *three lousy seconds* . . . I can’t do it! Captain, I *can’t do it*!”

Bridger watched for a moment longer as Lucas marched across the floor. After a second, he sighed. “Look, Lucas, this is ridiculous . . .”

“You’re telling me. It *is* ridiculous. Like some huge moron, I can’t even . . .”

“No, that’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Bridger quickly interrupted. Lucas was about the furthest thing from *huge moron,* a fact he usually was more than happy to share with anyone willing to listen; that the boy was calling himself such a thing was, without doubt, a bad sign. Bridger figured the “bad sign,” though, was going to get much worse when he told Lucas why he was really in the science lab in the first place. “Just take a second to think about this, Lucas. Here, look at me.”

Bridger waited silently, arms crossing his chest, until Lucas finally looked at him. The boy’s angry frown was painful to see. “Think for a moment, kiddo: is there anyone else doing the same work you’re doing?”

Lucas frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. “Yeah. Stanford, Harvard, Baylor, MIT . . .”

“Um-huh,” Bridger nodded. It was the exact answer he’d been expecting. “And of those several prestigious institutions, how many of them have created a working vortex?”

Lucas paused for a moment before softly replying, “None of them.”

“Um-huh. How many of them have drafted diagrams for a vortex?”

“None of them. MIT is close, though.”

“Ah.” Bridger was silent a moment. “How many of them have designed and used a renegade vortex?”

Lucas scowled at Bridger, looking down at the floor. “None. But none of them have almost blown a ship to the high heavens, either.”

“Humph.” Bridger nodded, walking over near the moonpool and picking up a loose laser housing. He looked back at Lucas, shrugging. “Yeah, Lucas, but how many of them have purposefully almost blown a ship to the high heavens?”

Lucas ducked his head, once more staring at the floor.

Bridger sighed, shaking his head. “Look, Lucas, your renegade vortex saved our lives. I, personally, am very grateful for that.”

Lucas inhaled quickly, muttering something Bridger couldn’t hear before he grumpily resumed his stare at the floor.

Well, Bridger supposed it was time for a new strategy. Nathan placed the laser housing on a cluttered desk (Lucas’s, he knew, simply by the clutter). “Lucas, whether or not you want to accept it, you saved the lives of several of our crew. Without that vortex, we’d probably be dead. I doubt we could have stopped NAP from taking us and the *Ulysses* to Dominia.” For a second, Bridger ran a hand over his chin. He smiled slightly as he saw Lucas looking about ready to hide under the nearest bunk. The kid never could accept a compliment, it seemed.

At last, Bridger dropped the bombshell, hoping it would quickly take Lucas’s mind off his self-proclaimed incompetence: “And . . . there are a few people who want to thank you for that service.”

Wide blue eyes instantly flew up towards his face. Bridger smiled somewhat mischievously. “I’m glad I finally managed to get your full attention,” he teased lightly. Seeing Kristin Westphalen hovering behind Lucas, Nathan waved her over. She knew what he was about to say, but she’d want to be near when Nathan told Lucas the extremely interesting news he’d just received.

“You, my boy, will be the honored and highly spoiled guest of the Pentagon in . . .” Nathan glanced at his watch, smiling slightly at the wide-eyed expression on Lucas’s face “. . . ah . . . well, according to my watch, that would be in approximately ten hours.”

As Lucas simply stared at him, clearly perplexed with this news, Nathan grinned over at Kristin. She smiled back, then looked at her somewhat-tardy scientist. Nathan clapped Lucas on the back, beginning to direct his feet towards the door. “And we’ll be going with you.”

The trio marched down the hall towards Lucas’s quarters, planning to swing in and (hopefully) find enough clean clothes to quickly pack and be on their way.

Lucas looked up as they reached his quarters, his frown once more appearing. “But . . . what do they want? Why do they want us?”

“Oh . . . just a chat session, from what I gather. And maybe an award or two.” Bridger grinned mischievously at the panic-stricken look on Lucas’s face, then ushered the young man into his quarters. His smile slipped into a groan as he saw the mess sprawling around him, and he watched with increasing amazement as the teen wove a quick path through the crazy piles of stuff covering the floor, his feet not even disturbing a speck of dust. “Do you *ever* clean this place?”

Lucas looked at Bridger, suddenly forgetting to scowl as he slipped into his customary sarcasm. He shook his head. “No. Why would I want to do that?” He shuddered dramatically. “I’d never be able to find anything again.”

Bridger and Westphalen rolled their eyes in unison, both giving Lucas *The Look* before he turned away from them. The grin was still on his face as he prepared to pack for his mandatory “thank you so much, Mr. Wolenczak” trip to the Pentagon.

He just hoped it was a quick trip. If nothing else, he supposed he could always annoy those Big Brass authority figures so much that they practically shoved him out the door themselves.

Hmmm . . . not a bad plan, actually.


*********
It was raining in Washington, D.C. From all reports, it had been raining for a good four days now. The reports suggested that another four days of rain was likely, with a strong probability of high winds and possible hail.

From inside the helicopter, Lucas peered outside. The air force runways were empty, with the exception of a few stragglers who simply looked right past them as they headed towards their jets. Fog wrapped around the large dark blobs Lucas assumed to be aircraft hangars, blanketing the runways until everything seemed almost . . . hazy or unnatural, as if a shroud lay over it. The few sounds drifting towards them were dim, more like echoes of sound than anything.

Bridger eyed their surroundings, then sighed. He looked back at his two companions with a shrug. “Well, it seems our ride’s not here. Guess we’ll just walk a little bit over to the main terminal.”

Lucas followed the Captain’s gaze, but for the life of him couldn’t see anything but mist. He assumed there was a main terminal lurking somewhere out there, though.

Silently, they set out for the terminal. Lucas thought it was the most silent he’d heard the two in more than a month. Usually, when they were anywhere near him, they felt it was their solemn duty to lecture him. But today, they seemed very . . . preoccupied.

Hmmm. He wondered what could be on their minds.

Was there something he hadn’t been told about this little sojourn in Washington?

Lucas quietly pondered the possibilities. As he trudged behind Captain Bridger and Doctor Westphalen, his soaked feet swashing through several puddles of water, he noticed that Doctor Westphalen was frowning. There was always the possibility that she was frowning because of the rain racing down her face, but he doubted it. This didn’t look like a merely “I’m uncomfortable, wish I were inside” frown. It looked more like an angry frown.

Again, Lucas wondered what could be wrong. His not knowing bothered him, particularly since it suggested that he didn’t know the whole truth behind what was happening.

Lucas suddenly snorted. There were relatively few things Lucas considered sources of stability in his life. In fact, he could name exactly five of them.

First, he could reasonably count on Bridger to make him laugh, eat his dinner, clean his room, or chew him out for his latest pranks . . . depending on the situation, of course. If he were in trouble, Bridger knew about it. If he were causing trouble, Bridger knew about it. If he were even thinking of something that might potentially get him into trouble, he swore Bridger knew about it.

Second, he could pretty well expect Doctor Westphalen to be on his side--unless he was late. If he were late to the lab, as he’d been lately, she sought all available opportunities to express her displeasure. Barring that, though, she was a pretty good ally. He’d often discovered her sympathy earned him a softened prison sentence from the Bridger Court of Teenage Misbehavior.

Hmmm . . . third, he could always expect Krieg to get both of them into deep trouble. If Lucas had been the slightest bit superstitious, he would have long ago decided the Lieutenant had been born under the wrong star, had walked on a crack in the pavement, or had shattered a mirror: something like that to place him straight in Trouble’s pathway.

Fourth, he could well expect that, when he least needed it, his cursed bad luck would hunt him down anywhere and any time. And it was doing so with relish right now. He hadn’t been allowed off the *seaQuest* for weeks now. After the *Ulysses* disaster, Bridger and crew had essentially kept an eagle’s eye on him if he so much as thought about leaving the relative safety of the ship. As luck would have it--or, more specifically, as *his* luck would have it--the one time he did manage to escape up-world, it was pouring rain. It didn’t help that he was being hauled off to the Pentagon, either.

Well, that said about everything, with one minor exception: that would be the Fifth Golden Rule of Lucas Luck. And that fifth rule was simple. He could rely on his parents not to care if he were alive or dead, while he could count on the crew of *seaQuest* to care more than seemed naturally possible. They were more of a family than he’d ever imagined, especially given his “family relations.”

There were some negative sides to this fifth rule, though. By trying to protect him, by trying to be that family he had never had, his crewmates tended to shield him from anything they thought might upset him. This trend was no more obvious than in Captain Bridger and Doctor Westphalen, who sometimes forgot he was also a computer scientist and physicist, and that he could handle a few minor upsets now and then. To them, he was fifteen yeas old. To Lucas himself, he was stranded somewhere between fifteen and a hundred: fifteen in age, but a hundred in the dark, haunting experiences his family life had given him.

Given the way Captain Bridger and Doctor Westphalen were acting, Lucas suspected something was happening beyond the obvious ceremony and congratulations the Captain had discussed. However, he also suspected that Captain Bridger wouldn’t tell him what this was unless all hell broke loose.


********
Their ride to the Pentagon came screeching before them in a black limousine. Apparently, traffic had been backed up for miles: some sort of demonstration going on in front of the Pentagon. As the man apologized profusely to them, Lucas simply wished he’d shut up and let them into the car. He couldn’t believe how long a walk it was from the runway to the air terminal. What, was the air force making sure its personnel got their exercise? Even now, he was dripping from head to toe. He felt like he’d been tossed through several cycles of a washing machine. Finally, the man tired of his apologies and unlocked the doors for them.

“About time,” a very soggy and ill-humored Lucas griped as he was squished in between Bridger and Westphalen in the back seat of the car. Bridger and Westphalen glared at him, but Lucas felt vindicated. Doctor Westphalen had sighed in relief, too, when she’d slid into the car. “All I want right now is a nice, hot shower. The Big Brass at the Pentagon can wait.”

Bridger frowned at him, though Lucas noticed he didn’t seem overly excited to go to the Pentagon, either.

“I, for one,” Doctor Westphalen started, again sighing, “will be glad to get something warm to eat. And, preferably, it should be something that hasn’t been sitting on the *seaQuest’s* shelves for a good year or two.”

Bridger rolled his eyes. “You’re worse than Krieg. You heard the Lieutenant’s latest beef about the oranges, didn’t you?”

Lucas snickered at this, silently remembering Krieg’s attempts at procuring genuine beef for a cheeseburger. The smell alone had made Lucas ill, but Krieg kept insisting it was a “classic meal.” Of course, Krieg had later told him that “classic meal” went the way of all such classic Krieg ideas: straight into the trash can.

“Oh, you mean his ‘perfect orange spiel’?” Doctor Westphalen asked, shaking her head. “What does the Lieutenant want, anyway? Bruised oranges?”

“Umm. Probably. Sounds like a Krieg idea to me.” Bridger stared outside, watching the rain as it drizzled against the pavement. He frowned, but stayed quiet.

The silence dragged on. Lucas played with the wet hem of his shirt, cautiously looking from Bridger to Westphalen and back again. The two were drearily staring out the windows.

Tick, tick, tick. Lucas could have sworn he heard his own watch in the hush of the car. He tapped his foot against the floor, then rolled his eyes as Bridger glared his way. Lucas stealthily began tapping his toes instead.

Several minutes later, they sped right past what Lucas thought was their hotel. They didn’t slow down or stop, but, instead, simply continued to move. Blinking, Lucas stared at their driver, then looked curiously over at Captain Bridger. Maybe he had had a change of plans?

But Bridger, too, looked surprised by the sudden change in their destination. His eyes narrowed before he leaned forward. “Excuse me, but I think . . .”

The Captain froze mid-sentence, amazed, as the window separating them from their driver effortlessly rose between them.

*Click.* The doors suddenly locked.

Lucas swallowed hard. He looked over at Bridger.

Captain Bridger, too, was staring around him. His eyes were wide, aghast.

Again, Lucas swallowed hard, fighting down the urge to shake uncontrollably. A knot clamped around his stomach, tightly squeezing until it was almost hard to breathe.

Somehow, he knew that whatever Captain Bridger had been expecting, it hadn’t been this.


Part 2
Bridger pounded his fist against the window. The driver simply ignored him, eyes refusing to acknowledge their anger as they were whisked off to God alone knew where. Bridger’s fingers tapped momentarily on the door rest. Something jabbed into his knuckles. Hmmm . . . what was that? He stopped, staring: buttons were on the door. With any luck, they might just work . . .

The Captain started pushing buttons on the door at random. Unfortunately, as he’d suspected, nothing happened. No doors opened. No windows went down. Nothing.

Damn.

He leaned back, exchanging worried glances with Kristin Westphalen. She glanced at Lucas. Bridger’s gaze then slid to Lucas, whose hands were absolutely white, seeming drained of blood, as the boy clutched his fingers tightly together. He was almost hyperventilating, his eyes locked on the driver’s head.

After a second’s concerned thought, Bridger patted Lucas’s shoulder comfortingly, only to be rewarded with a scowl. Lucas, obviously, wasn’t in the mood to be falsely comforted. Bridger couldn’t really blame him. They were clearly in trouble; a pat on the back just didn’t change that. He wished it could.

A quarter of an hour, then thirty minutes, slowly ticked by. The back of the limousine was silent, tense.

Lucas abruptly looked over at Bridger, opened his mouth to speak . . . before shutting it with a snap. The teenager made a strange sound in his throat, shuffling his feet a few times, as he simply stared straight ahead.

Nathan followed his gaze. His stomach lurched.

They had just stopped beside a large black fence, its thick bars rising well over two body lengths into the sky. Armed guards dressed in slate gray uniforms stood tensely at the entrance, fully alert and stiffly holding rifles in their hands. Their faces were cold, unemotional--smooth as slabs of marble.

They heard the click of their driver’s window rolling down. Two voices murmured something they couldn’t decipher before the guard extended his hand towards their driver. A pass exchanged hands, then the driver’s hand was held against a small pad. Light glowed underneath the hand, apparently taking some sort of identification reading.

They waited, nervous, as the seconds ticked by.

The gate suddenly snapped open. One of the guards swung its ponderous form to the right before they drove straight through.

The road they now traveled was long; black fences similar to the one they’d just passed through outlined the entire road. Bridger had the suspicion that the fence also coursed with electricity. From what he was seeing around him, the security of this place was heavy . . . whatever the hell this place was.

Minutes later, their destination arose before their sight. Black walls blended with the stormy skies; slashes of faded sunlight dully lingered over the building’s harsh slabs of obsidian-colored granite, then gleamed against the black fences surrounding the compound. Light traced the oblong shapes of a few tiny windows, each window screened by iron bars. Dark hued curtains drew across the windows and hauntingly stifled any light from inside.

The building squatted down by the earth, a short two-stories high, its brooding form hunched over, stooped, like a vicious animal raging to attack. The huge black double doors at the front of the complex were impassively shut, guarded by three men dressed in the same gray as before. Silence hung over the building and its surroundings: intimidating silence.

Black. Darkness.

Bars.

Bridger swallowed hard. They were in serious trouble.


********
Minutes later, they were wrestled out of the car by six guards, all dressed in the same slate gray uniforms they’d seen at the gates. They were then herded inside the building, hustled through a blur of bleakly gray halls and doors and stairways.

Somewhere within the building, a door was finally reached. A set of numbers was punched into the keypad, and they were bodily flung inside.

The door closed behind them with a final, resounding *thump.*

Bridger caught his balance, holding his right elbow against the nearest wall. Lucas and Westphalen crashed to the floor. Even as he heard Lucas mumble something about bastards and guillotines, Bridger could hear their guards’ footsteps retreating down the hall.

Then he heard only silence.

“Where are we, Nathan?” Kristin stood, agitatedly rubbing her hands through her hair. She glared around them. “And who were those . . . monsters?”

Lucas looked at him, clearly wondering the same thing. Bridger watched for a moment as Lucas roamed around their room.

“I’m not sure.” He paused, sighing, before he added, “I don’t recall ever having heard of this place. Whoever’s behind it, though . . . they’re organized. I’ll say that for the bastards.”

Lucas was still prowling the room when he asked, his voice tight, “What about the ceremony we were coming here for, Captain? Is it related?”

That was the very question Nathan had puzzled over for the past hour or so. He didn’t like his conclusions, either.

As he looked at Westphalen, whose mouth was set in a grim, almost bloodless line, Bridger again considered what--or who--could be behind this. Who would want to do this? It wasn’t as if anyone would want to get their hands on him--or Lucas and the doctor, for that matter. At least, that wasn’t something he would have considered likely.

However, this was certainly making him reconsider the possibility. The question was, though, *who* would want to capture any of them? What would their motives be? Was it simply convenience, or was there more to it than that? And if their . . . captors . . . had wanted only one of them, who had they wanted?

Was it himself? Bridger knew he had access to enormous amounts of classified material. That alone would make him a suitable target for any enterprising criminals. He also knew Kristin had her hands into several extremely critical research projects. One of her competitors could be interested in gaining her information . . . though he thought it rather unlikely, given the amount of money this entire site must have cost.

And then there was the matter of Lucas. This worried him the most. Lucas had access to classified material, but most information bandits would seek Bridger instead. However, as the first and only scientist to produce a vortex, Lucas was a primary target for terrorists interested in getting their hands on a thoroughly dangerous weapon.

Hell.

Nathan started tapping his fingers against his leg, then rubbed at his jaw. He didn’t like any of this. The whole scenario spooked him, for it seemed to suggest an inside job. In fact, an inside job was the most obvious explanation for this entire mess.

He silently considered the facts.

First, there was the matter of his sidearm. Whoever had them must have known he didn’t usually travel with a sidearm. Otherwise, they would have frisked him for a weapon *before* they climbed into the limousine. Even after they’d reached this . . . place, Bridger hadn’t once been searched. An intelligent captor would have placed that first on the list of priorities . . . unless it was generally known that he didn’t carry a weapon. The only ones with that type of information would have been his own government: UEO command, the Pentagon, his crew.

Second, there was the call from General Thomas. This was the most disturbing element of all. Either their captors had a tap on Thomas’s line--which was damn near impossible, considering the General’s security--or the General was himself involved in their detention.

Bridger clenched his jaw, then forced himself to relax. If this were true, anger wouldn’t change the facts.

Finally, third, was the existence of this building in the first place. The site almost reeked of political corruption. It wasn’t as if satellite photos of the area could easily miss a complex like this, particularly in Washington, D.C., the most highly secured city in the nation. That no one had wondered of it was alarming. Rumors should have been flying for months over something like this, but not a peep had been uttered.

Not good. Not good at all.

If, though, it *were* an inside job . . . what would be the purpose? What could they possibly hope . . .

Bridger’s thoughts suddenly froze as the door swung open.

His heart skipped a beat as he saw who it was.


**********
Nathan Bridger felt every muscle in his body stiffen with tension. The muscles of his face were so tautly drawn that slowly, almost uncontrollably, he could feel a muscle in the corner of his left eye twitch, twitch, twitch--as if in tune to his heart beat. His fingernails dug into his palms as his teeth ground against one another.

The silence dragged between them, an almost palpable, living entity.

“Well.” At last, the silence collapsed as a voice, its words frigidly cutting against Bridger’s ears, spoke its soft, sinister tones. “It’s good to see you again, Captain.”

Bridger felt his jaw would snap from the pressure. His eyes narrowed, seeming to draw the darkness towards them. They were dark pits set in a carved, angry face. The silence continued as he refused to speak.

“Of course, the last time we saw each other was under . . . somewhat different circumstances.”

The man continued walking into the room, glancing swiftly at the rest of his audience. He smiled slightly at Kristin. “Doctor. So good to see you.”

He ignored the flash of eyes blazing a hole through his chest. Instead, he looked at Lucas. “Ah. Mr. Wolenczak. We meet at last.”

Warily, Lucas eyed him. He glanced from Bridger’s smoldering countenance to their captor’s emotionless, unreadable eyes. He shifted, heart beating an unsteady rhythm as his nerves jumped frantically. Muscles tensed, he was poised to flee: the prey confronting its hunter.

“What the *hell* do you think you’re doing, General?” Bridger finally snapped. He moved in front of the General, who was even then moving towards Lucas. “You’d better have one damned good reason for this--an explanation that stands the sight of God himself--for this one. Damn it, General, it had better be so blasted airtight . . .”

Slowly, General Thomas turned, staring at Bridger. He suddenly smiled: a twisted, almost nonexistent twitch of the lips. “I’m not sure you’re in the position to tell me what to do, Bridger.”

Eyes narrowing against a pale, strained face, Bridger moved towards the man . . . then stopped, foot midair. As if the foot were made of lead, it thumped to the ground. His eyes shifted from Kristin to Lucas, then back to Thomas. Hell, the man had a point. Curse his useless hide, he had a point!

“Good. You now see the obvious.” Thomas moved back towards Lucas, his gaze never leaving Bridger. “As long as you’re here, Bridger, this is my game. Not yours. Keep that in mind.” He smirked. “Don’t get any of your usual bright and heroic ideas, either. I have several armed men outside this door. I’m also more than happy to demonstrate my combat skills on you . . . or your companions, for that matter.”

Bridger’s eyes narrowed. He’d been wondering about this. He knew Thomas was well known for his ability in hand-to-hand combat, but he also knew he was an ace marksman. Put together, the odds weren’t incredibly in their favor, especially since Thomas seemed more than prepared for any stupid moves Bridger might make.

Bridger’s attention remained riveted when Thomas added in an almost off-hand tone, “It would be most unfortunate, of course, if the *seaQuest* were to lose its captain . . . or its computer analyst and physicist, for that matter.”

The threat was clear. Even through the rage currently tearing headlong through his mind, Bridger could see the meaning lurking behind Thomas’s words.

The smirk widened. Thomas placed his hands behind his back, looking much like a drill sergeant confronting a rather confused recruit. “Mr. Wolenczak, I’ve been wanting to meet you. I hear you’ve done some interesting things lately.”

Lucas stared at him, again nervously looking towards Bridger. Nathan could only look back with sympathy, knowing that if he moved, if he even tried to help, he could only make things worse. He crossed his arms over his chest, clamping his hands tightly over one another to keep himself from attacking.

“I have some . . . issues I’d like to discuss with you, Mr. Wolenczak.”

Lucas stared at the General. Issues? Was that some grand euphemism for “classified information I’d like to blackmail you for”? Did Thomas truly hope to hide behind empty euphemisms--did he truly think him naïve enough *not* to understand the implications of what was happening?

Really, who the hell would drag a captive to a dark room like this out in the middle of nowhere, proceed to threaten his companions, then say he’d merely like to discuss some “issues” with him?

Eyes darting several directions, Lucas started slowly backing away from the General. But Thomas suddenly grabbed his arm. “*Now,* Wolenczak.” He wrenched Lucas towards him, pulling his arm in an awkward, unnatural angle. Lucas quickly followed, eyes widening as pain clearly marked his features.

In a blur, Bridger reached for the teenager . . . but froze as a pistol materialized from somewhere on Thomas’s left side. Bridger watched in horror as the pistol pointed at him before turning to Lucas’s head.

“Ah-ah-ah, Captain. Not a move, please.” Thomas smiled slightly. The smile widened as he felt a tremble rocking through Lucas’s shoulders. By Bridger’s concerned glance, he could tell that Bridger had seen this tremor, too. “We wouldn’t want any accidents, now, would we?”

Bridger studied Thomas’s calm face, his fingers aching to grasp the General around his stubby little neck. His fists clenched. God, he’d kill the bastard. He’d kill him. If he hurt either of his charges--Doctor Westphalen or Lucas--he’d strip that falsely smiling General of the sneer brimming across his face so quickly he couldn’t count even one hellish nanosecond.

Thomas’s brows rose, and he dipped his head. “Very good. I see you have at least an ounce of wisdom in that head of yours.” He glanced between Westphalen and Bridger, seeming to measure their frame of mind. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you, Captain.”

Bridger tensed, but remained motionless. There wasn’t a thing he could do. If he moved, he’d most likely get one of them killed.

He watched helplessly as Lucas was drawn towards the door. Several times, the General had to literally drag the boy. He then forced his anger down as Thomas flourished a mock bow at him. “Well . . .” he finally said, reaching the door. “We’ll see you later. Please . . . make yourselves at home. I’m sure you’ll find the floor quite comfortable.”

With that, he knocked sharply against the door. A muffled voice replied. Bridger watched with interest as numbers--seemingly nonsensical to his ears--exchanged between Thomas and the unseen man on the other side. After several seconds’ silence, the door clicked open.

Lucas looked with frightened eyes at Bridger before allowing himself to be shepherded into the hallway and away from his friends’ worried eyes.

The door shut behind him.


**********
Watching as Lucas was forcefully dragged from the room, a gun to the boy’s head, Bridger struck his fist against the wall . . . wishing it would shatter, scream, break apart . . . anything to help ease his *anger.* How could this happen? How the *hell* could this happen with him in the damned car in the first place?

Bridger was supposed to protect Lucas. He was supposed to keep harm from him--not walk him right to its very door!

Breathing unsteadily, Bridger squeezed his eyes shut; his body slumped against the wall. He kept seeing Lucas: his eyes wide, the pistol pointed at his head, Thomas’s controlling hands on his arm. Lucas trusted *him* to keep these disasters away. The teen trusted *him* to protect him. Damn it, he had failed Lucas. Again, as on the *Ulysses,* he’d failed the boy . . . and God alone knew what would now happen because of that failure.

On the *Ulysses,* Lucas had been almost blown apart by his own sabotage. He’d then almost been beaten to a pulp by the mad Captain Brigg. He’d been tortured with Diphorline-Pyroxine, an experience Bridger wouldn’t wish on his worst of enemies . . . let alone Lucas. Bridger suddenly snorted. Yeah, some protection he was.

Now there was . . . this. *This.*

Again, Bridger slammed his fist into the wall. He ignored Kristin as she gently placed her hand on his shoulder, his mind spinning through a mental hell of self-loathing.

And then there was the matter of their captor: General Thomas.

This was General Frank Thomas, the thrice-decorated and glorified head of the Pentagon. He was the best and brightest of both the UEO and the Pentagon. His word was the Voice of God in the military. He was next in line, according to rumor, for presidential nomination.

He was also their captor.

The idea nauseated him. It was bad enough they’d tried to force him into attacking and killing his one-time friend Max Scully It was bad enough that Washington, D.C., was still the proverbial teeming nest for political vipers. It was damned *bad enough* that the UEO couldn’t sort its allies from its enemies! But *this*? Surely they weren’t so stupid that they didn’t *see* the corruption currently sitting in a nicely decorated office in the Pentagon!

Somehow, though, he knew that they had missed the obvious signs of corruption. Though Bridger had himself been uncomfortable with General Thomas from day one, he’d never suspected--not in a million years--that Thomas was rotten. He’d never suspected Thomas of criminal activities: just of ruthlessness. On top of that, he’d never suspected Thomas of being mentally unbalanced; however, given the General’s behavior, he wondered if the man was truly insane.

Now, though, he supposed that ruthlessness and criminal activities weren’t too far apart in the first place.

Ruthlessness wasn’t a pretty word. And right now, it was even uglier than normal as Bridger wondered just what sort of ruthlessness Thomas had in store for them.


*****
Lucas felt like he was in a maze. Halls blurred past him, twisting in and out of his sight. If he’d had the fortunate opportunity to escape at that moment, Lucas figured it would have been nearly impossible. He would have gotten lost before he could find the dratted exit.

However, Lucas was pretty sure escaping wasn’t really a possibility in the first place. There was General Thomas, so nicely agreeing to escort him to their destination--wherever the hell that was. There were also *his* two escorts, who looked about as friendly as two bull dogs clawing at each other’s throats. Yeah, real friendly bunch here. He also had to remember his friends; Lucas wasn’t leaving without them.

They were now walking down another staircase, this one spiraling down several floors. At last, they reached theirs, about three levels down. Lucas noticed the doors here were all bolted shut, each protected by a keypad for entering passwords. These had been seen on several doors above, including the door to their own “room” (well, cell, really), but not on all of them.

Frowning, Lucas wondered what could be sealed behind those doors.

His frown deepened as numerous possibilities suggested themselves, clamoring for his attention. Let’s see . . . there could be nuclear weapons behind some of the doors. But that wasn’t actually too “classified” any more. Perhaps biological weapons? That sounded a little more sinister, certainly. A weapon of some sort, he thought likely. Or, at the very least, something not . . . approved by the UEO.

Well, not *officially* approved by the UEO, that is.

One more door in front of them, and they would reach the end of the hall. They stopped at the last door. Lucas’s stomach churned as he watched one of his guards tap in a code on the keypad.

The door opened, and he was gestured inside--with the added incentive of a gun waved his direction. Swallowing hard, Lucas entered. He heard the door shut behind him with a loud, resounding *thud.*

Lucas spun on his heels. Trembles jittered through his body.

He was standing completely alone in a barely lit room. A large desk, covered by what looked like reams of paper, stood to the back of the room. Behind its ponderous frame was a simple leather chair, one that looked like it had been battered over the years. Two chairs faced the desk.

A third chair looked like a recliner from a dentist’s office.

Except this one had straps on it.

Lucas tried to swallow, but found he couldn’t. Fear pinched at his chest, making his breath come in short, wheezing fits. He lifted a shaking hand to his hair, stroking it out of his face simply from reflex.

Oh, hell. Abominable hell. Lucas collapsed heavily into one of the chairs facing the desk. He didn’t realize he’d been biting his lips until a dull ache started to pound through his lower lip. He felt a trickle of blood running into his mouth. Absently, he brushed the blood away.

Hadn’t he been the primary prop in this scene before?

Violently, Lucas shivered. He squeezed his eyes shut as the images started pounding into his mind. The *Ulysses,* drifting towards Dominia as agents of the Non-Allied Powers tried to restart her engines. Lucas himself, starting a level nine renegade vortex . . . and hoping to God he’d live to see the damage done. Later, himself again, but this time as he was crawling through the ship . . . collapsing as a strange odor assailed his senses.

Hours, days--he wasn’t sure which--later, himself staring with horror into the demented eyes of Captain Brigg. Moments later from then . . . Brigg injecting him with something that burned through his veins and made him shriek in agony.

Oh, God, no. Not again. He couldn’t go through that again.

Would Thomas . . .?

Lucas froze the thought, knowing, somehow, that Thomas would.

For there could be no doubt . . . Thomas didn’t have him here for Lucas’s well being. And if he wanted information from Lucas, he wouldn’t simply ask nicely for it.

People who simply asked nicely for information never had chairs with straps on them. They also didn’t kidnap people. They also didn’t drag them from their friends at gunpoint to God alone knew where for God alone knew what reason.

No, Lucas suspected that things weren’t going to get any better. In fact, if he were entirely honest with himself, he suspected that things were going to get a whole lot nastier.

Damn.

Lucas closed his eyes, wishing there were a place for him to hide. But there was no place to hide here.


*****
Standing on the bridge of the *seaQuest,* Commander Jonathon Ford sighed. It was definitely a quiet day. Even Lieutenant Ben Krieg, the usual rascal of the crew, was behaving himself today . . . well, at least moderately. He’d been on time. He hadn’t made any wise cracks. And he hadn’t even pestered Ford once during his shift.

Tiredly rubbing the back of his neck, Ford wondered if Krieg was up to something. It certainly made more sense than Krieg behaving. While he supposed miracles could happen, Ford also thought they didn’t happen too frequently, and he wasn’t sure Krieg was exactly miracle material. Yes, definitely: Krieg was planning some hair-balled scheme to get back at him for who knew what.

He blinked as he looked from Krieg’s quietly attentive face to his navigation charts. The man looked like he was actually doing his job, which frightened him more than if Krieg had been hanging upside down from the ceiling and howling like a banshee. That, at least, would have been somewhat normal.

Hmmm . . .

“Commander?” O’Neill called from his station. He had a puzzled frown on his face. “We’ve got a call coming in from the Pentagon . . .”

“Oh? Must be the Captain,” Ford said quickly, remembering that Bridger had promised to relay the “exciting details,” as he’d put it, of Lucas’s awards ceremony.

“I’ll bet they’re having fun,” Ortiz sarcastically chimed in, speaking with a somewhat lopsided smile. He pointed at a console beside him. “Weather’s supposed to be dark, gloomy, and rainy, all rolled into one. What a day to take a vacation in Washington.”

“It’s not vacation, Ortiz,” Ben drawled, shaking his head. “It’s Washington. Vacation and D.C. don’t go in the same sentence.”

“And, what, Krieg . . . you don’t know the addresses of half the Washington Mafia?” Katie teased, smiling slightly.

“Hey! I resent that implication!” Krieg looked at her with shocked eyes. “As if I’d know the Mafia!”

Ortiz snickered behind his station. “It’s probably more like this, Krieg. You know *more* than half of them--in fact, you’re probably related to most of them!”

“How’d you hear of Cousin Ralph? He’s my best buddy, you know . . . well, one of them . . .”

Tim cleared his throat noisily as the banter threatened to continue. “Well, actually, sir, it’s General Thomas,” Tim began, looking warily at Ford. “He says he needs to talk to you in private.”

“In private? General Thomas?” Ford frowned. This was certainly . . . odd. What was Thomas doing calling him? Furthermore, what on earth was the man doing asking for a private one-on-one with him? “Well, put him through, Mr. O’Neill. I’ll take the call in the wardroom.”

“Aye, sir.”

Ford headed off the bridge, walking quickly towards the ward. He tried to imagine what Thomas could want. Actually, the more he thought about this, the more strange it seemed. Ford felt a nerve in his jaw jump slightly before firmly squelching it, forcing his emotions well below the surface. He’d rarely ever spoken to Thomas; he couldn’t imagine needing to speak to the General with Bridger already in the General’s company.

Unless something . . .

Resolutely, Ford stabbed the thought before it could completely take form in his mind. No. Nothing had happened. Things were just fine.

He was simply over-reacting.

He’d been doing a lot of that since the *Ulysses* disaster. Ford frowned, wishing he could simply silence the thoughts, but finding he could not. As he walked down the seaQuest’s halls, his face completely calm, completely stoic, Ford remembered that week: his Captain, kidnapped by enemy spies; one of his best friends, Katie Hitchcock, stuck in the same demented hands as Captain Bridger; Lucas, Tim, Kristin, and even Ben . . . all facing who knew what.

And then hearing of what had actually happened. Ford swallowed hard, trying to push the thought away, but unable to do so. The muscles of his jaw tightened. He’d arrived in MedBay to find Lucas looking like a building had collapsed on him. The rest of the crew hadn’t looked much better. Even Krieg had had some dark bruises, several of them running across his temple. And Bridger . . . the Captain had looked terrible, almost unhinged, his eyes partially glazed. Ford had never seen Bridger like this before, and he hoped never to see him that way again.

His jaw tightened as he entered the ward. The entire *mess* had happened under his command: under his control. He had been in command, but he hadn’t been able to do anything to help. Ford’s fists tightened into balls as he remembered his own uselessness. There he’d stood by, helpless, as Lucas went around blowing up a ship and trying to evade a shipful of lethal enemies. Ford had been miles away when Brigg had boarded the *Ulysses*; in fact, he hadn’t even heard of Brigg until much later. Ford had been in hot pursuit, but still far from able to intervene, when Lucas had been tortured. He’d still been in hot pursuit when the whole mess had reached its near-disastrous ending.

He always wondered what Bridger would have done if their roles had been reversed. Would Bridger have resolved the situation well before Lucas was tortured? Well before Brigg arrived on the scene? Well before the situation even got out of hand?

Ford cleared his throat, then put on his best military façade: inexpressive eyes, clamped mouth, chin high. He hoped the mask served its purpose today; he hoped Thomas wouldn’t be able to see the turmoil even now raging within. After one deep breath, he pushed the button for the vidscreen.

There was a moment’s pause as the screen flickered. General Thomas’s worried face then flashed before him.


*****
“Good day, Commander,” Thomas said hastily. His voice was tight, over-controlled. Ford could hear the strain even as he tried to ignore it. “I trust all is well with the *seaQuest.*”

“Yes, of course, sir. Simply a routine mission.” He watched the General. The man wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“Ah, yes. Good to hear.”

Ford waited for the General to continue, and wasn’t disappointed. After a quick perusal of Ford’s face, Thomas leaned forward, his face dominating the vidscreen. “I’ll get right to the point, Commander. I know your time is precious, and there simply is no way to ease bad news.”

Ford tried to hide the hammering of his heart by clutching desperately at the back of a chair. He swallowed--hard. “Bad news, General? What . . . bad news?”

Thomas slumped back in his chair, suddenly looking several years older. He ran a hand through his dark hair. “Commander, at approximately fourteen hundred hours Washington time, Captain Bridger’s helicopter was . . .”

Horror raced through Ford’s mind. He listened, his face turning into cold ice as he prepared for Thomas’s words.

“. . . hijacked.”



Part 3



Entangled Alliances, part 3



by Sheri Ann

Ford blinked his eyes in amazement. No . . . he hadn't heard correctly. Obviously, he'd misunderstood. The words floated without direction within his mind. He felt like his brain was in some sort of eternal rewind: the same events coming back at him, only with slight variations in the *who* and *what.* After a second, he shook his head.

This just couldn’t be. It *couldn’t be.*

Damn it, *no one*--no one, not even Captain Bridger and Lucas, the two worst magnets for trouble that he knew of--could get hijacked twice in two months!

It was . . . impossible . . . wasn’t it?

However, one look at Thomas’s exhausted face assured him otherwise. It had happened.

Ford carefully controlled his voice before asking, his voice soft, “Who did it? Do we know?”

Again, Thomas refused to meet his eyes. This only made Ford worry even more. Finally, the General replied, “Yes, we know.” There was a short silence before Thomas continued, “You're not going to like this one bit, either, Commander. It was NAP. Again.”

An explosive second passed between them.

“NAP?” Ford finally demanded, shaking his head in disbelief. “*NAP*? As in . . . the Non-Allied Powers? *That* NAP? Again?” Frustrated, he started to pace: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. After a second, he whirled towards the General’s harried face. “General, I can’t believe this! It’s incredible! Preposterous! How could they have the . . . the *gall* to try this twice in a row?”

It was not until well after the words were out of his mouth that Ford realized he was reacting exactly as Bridger: with anger and emotion in his voice. For once, he wasn’t too concerned about controlling that anger.

“Commander Ford,” Thomas began tiredly, his voice soft but somewhat stern. He frowned. “Look, Ford--Jonathon--it’s not exactly the same situation.

“Oh? General, what would the difference be?” More anger seethed into his tone. Again, Ford couldn't care less about that anger. This was just . . . this was just too much.

"Commander . . ." Thomas sighed, then ignored his rudeness. “NAP has them--and we don’t know where. They’re also demanding ransom for the Captain and the Doctor.”

“*Ransom?*” Ford felt his temper was about to boil right through the Atlantic Ocean. He shook his head. “A political power keg asking for ransom. This is insane.”

Thomas was silent.

After a second, Ford’s head suddenly snapped up. His eyes narrowed. “You said the Captain and Westphalen. What about Lucas? The boy? He was on the helicopter, too.”

“Hrmm-Urmm . . .” Thomas noisily cleared his throat. He shuffled some papers, absently tapping his fingers. Again, he wasn’t meeting Ford’s eyes. “Mr. Wolenczak is currently being held by NAP agents.”

With a thud, Ford sank into the nearest chair. He stared at Thomas.

“We’re not sure where, unfortunately.” Thomas looked up, at last meeting Ford’s eyes. “We do have some familiar names connected to this, though. It at least tells us what we’re going up against.”

“Who?” As the General looked away, Ford exploded, unable to keep the rancor from his voice, “*Who?*”

“The ONS.”

Ford stared, fist rolled tightly until his nails bit into his flesh. He inhaled deeply and opened his mouth, but no sound came. After a few seconds of silent almost-speech, Ford at last clamped his mouth shut; he suddenly realized there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, to make this better. Nothing short of a miracle could make this better.

Maybe he should call the blasted Pope to request one.

Blindly, Ford thwacked his hand against his leg, wanting anything--*anything*--to break, to wrench into tiny little pieces, as he heard this news. This was simply insane, especially after *Ulysses.* Ford knew the ONS, or the Operations for National Security, was infamous for its cruel and unscrupulous tactics. It had a worse reputation than Section Seven, which took some doing. They tortured their captives. They bled people to death if and when it suited their needs. They had absolutely no qualms about playing with people’s minds. If Lucas was in their hands . . .

If that kid was in their hands . . .

Ford didn’t want to complete that thought, but he did: If Lucas was in their hands, he would probably never come home alive.


*****
Moments ticked by. Ford finally asked, his voice cracking, “What . . . what are you thinking is their primary goal in capturing Luc . . . Mr. Wolenczak?” There. If he could distance himself, if he could cushion the truth behind formal language, behind formal titles, maybe . . . maybe he wouldn’t feel like a chasm was ripping through his heart a centimeter at a time.

But despite his best efforts to distance the pain, the ripping continued.

“Presently, we have little doubt, Commander, that their goal is information on Mr. Wolenczak’s vortex. After the power we saw demonstrated aboard the *Ulysses,* it seems a likely possibility.”

Ford had to agree with this assessment. Though he didn’t like it, it seemed the most logical possibility--if logic had anything to do with this whole disaster. He also suspected Lucas wouldn’t tell the bastards a thing, even if they tried to batter it right out of him. The kid had faced abuse and terror before: many years at the hands of his own father, and then at the hands of Brigg. Lucas knew what torture was. From everything Ford had heard, he'd learned what torture was all too well.

Wincing at the thought, Ford shut his eyes. Balance. He needed balance. He couldn’t be any help to the Captain or to Lucas if he lost his control. He *had to keep in control of himself.*

However, that fragile control slipped as he heard General Thomas's next words. Ford felt that his life had slipped entirely out of control: that everything he had worked for, fought for, understood . . . just simply fell apart.

“Commander, we also believe we have a name associated with this.” As Ford looked at him, Thomas sighed sadly. He shook his head. “It’s Noyce.”


*****
Ford blinked his eyes, clearly not following the General’s train of thought. “*Noyce*? General, what’s Admiral Noyce have to do . . .” He stopped, the words stuck in his throat at the thought of Bridger’s best friend. “You can’t be serious . . . I mean, sir, are you implying . . .”

Thomas snorted, shaking his head. “No, I’m not implying that at all, Commander. I'm stating--directly, even. Admiral Noyce, that paragon of UEO virtue, is dirty as my garden soil."

Ford simply . . . stared at him.

After a second's pause, Thomas sighed. He leaned in towards Ford, filling the vidscreen with his dark features. "Think for a moment, Commander. Just think about it." The General held up one chunky finger, firmly waving it in Ford's view. "Let's go over *seaQuest's* mission history for a moment, Ford. Point number one. Who commanded Bridger to pick up Rubin Zellar, the mad bioengineer?"

Ford eyed Thomas as if he were nuts, then shook his head. "That's nothing, General. He was just giving us our mission. Nothing more."

Thomas ignored him. He held up his second finger. "Point two. Who ordered you to the Liberté? Who ordered you to 'handle the situation,' at all costs?"

Ford frowned.

"Point three, Commander." The third finger popped up. "Who lured him onto the seaQuest in the first place . . . saying some stupid thing to you about handling a renegade sub?" Ford blanched at this, clearly remembering the heated first days of his relationship with Bridger. "Who, Commander, made you pretend to be incompetent so that his ruse would work?"

Ford started to pace. Again, he frowned. After a moment's tense silence, Ford snapped, "So . . . what are you saying, General? That *Noyce*--Bridger's best friend, for god's sake--somehow . . . somehow *orchestrated * the whole Stark affair to put his friend in the Captain's shoes so he could later betray him?" He shook his head. "That makes no sense. No sense at all!"

"Oh, but it makes perfect sense," muttered Thomas. He looked at Ford, eyes appraising. "Look, Commander . . . imagine it. You lure your friend into the top sub, put him into all the dangerous scenes, give him orders no other Captain would follow . . . knowing he'll either follow your orders or get the ship sunk. It's a brilliant plan, and also one of the simplest. Use your friends to do your dirty work."

Thomas paused, looking Ford in the eye. Slowly, he stated, "He *used* Bridger. He *used* you. He *used* the entire *seaQuest* crew."

Ford felt about ready to explode. He shook his head, eyes blazing. "Look, *General,* I think you're wrong. Dead wrong. It doesn't make much sense. If he were dirty, Noyce would want to protect his dupes, not . . . throw them right to the flames!"

He just couldn't accept it. He *wouldn't* accept it. He'd trusted the man, placed his and his crew's lives in his hands. He also couldn't believe that Bridger--Captain Bridger, his commanding officer--could be stupid enough to have his best friend use him.

No. Impossible. Ford *simply would not believe it.*

The look on Thomas's face became almost sly. He smiled, holding up a fourth finger. "And then there is point number four, Commander. Think of the *Ulysses* for one moment."

Ford stared at him, then blanched. He looked away, a muscle in his cheek throbbing in tune to the pain in his heart.

Thomas simply continued: "On the *Ulysses*, who was the NAP commanding officer?”

Ford’s eyes widened, though he kept his face tilted down. “Alicia Noyce, you mean . . . his daughter . . .”

Thomas nodded.

"She explained her motivations." Ford cleared his throat. He slumped back in his chair, thinking, as a frown slipped across his face. "In fact, I thought Alicia Noyce accepted political asylum in the UEO. Last I’d heard, she was being forgiven her ‘trespasses.’”

“Oh, she was . . . have no doubt. Until she went and did this, that is.” General Thomas smacked his fist into his desk, angrily scowling at Ford. “She accepted asylum, then went and managed to contact NAP agents right under our own damned noses. I have proof of that . . ."

"Yes, but *her* actions are not her *father's* actions! That's like . . . like saying the 'sins of the father pass on to the son.' It's nonsense, and you know it . . ."

"Don't you find it ironic, though, Commander, that Noyce is her father? I'm positive he told her of Bridger's flight plans. Positive . . . for who better than the Captain's best friend to trap him? Bridger *trusts* Noyce. Bridger wouldn't even think to question the man's word. What better tool could you use against a man?"

Ford stared at Thomas, then shook his head. "No. I won't accept that, General. Not until I have proof."

Thomas smiled, inclining his head slightly. He shrugged. "Call him. Talk to him. See if he squirms." The General leaned back in his chair, suddenly looking very smug. Ford wanted to wipe that expression right from the man's face, but knew he couldn't.

"Okay. I think I will," Ford finally said after a moment's silence had stretched too thin between them. He watched as Thomas perked his eyebrows.

"Good, Commander. I guess I'll talk to you later, then." As Ford nodded and was about to disconnect the vidlink, Thomas added one short comment, "Just remember, Commander . . . if he squirms, ask yourself why he's squirming. Friends don't squirm. But eels do."

Ford stared at the vidlink in surprise, then blinked as it cleared, the familiar gold and blue UEO symbol replacing Thomas's near-gloating expression. Ford wondered at that expression even as he placed a call through to Noyce's office. Was the General trying to discredit Noyce so he could take his position? They weren't even in the same branch of the service, though. It just . . . didn't make sense.

As Ford ran a hand across his chin, deep in contemplation--and completely unaware that he was mimicking the motion he had seen Bridger make so many times--the screen flickered; it cleared to reveal a middle-aged man in an impeccable white dress uniform. Ford sighed. He knew this man--or, at least, men like him. It meant nothing that he'd never spoken with him or met him; he'd met his type before. The man was the stereotypical "administrative official": Cool, crisp lines, perfect hair, perfect Oxford accent. Just what he *wasn't* in the mood for today.

He sighed, glancing at the man's insignia. "Lieutenant, I need to speak to Admiral Noyce. This is Commander Ford from the *seaQuest.* It's urgent . . ."

The Stereotypical Official frowned slightly, suddenly looking somewhat flustered; Ford had to admit, the look at least made the man seem a bit more . . . well, human, perhaps. "Sir, I'm afraid that's impossible . . ."

"What do you mean, 'that's impossible'?" Ford interrupted, snapping at the man. His face was glowing angrily. "What part of 'urgent' didn't you understand?"

"But, sir . . ." the confused man started, then stopped. He shook his head. "Commander, Noyce . . . Noyce was called into Washington, D.C., for a special awards ceremony . . ."

Ford heard this. Slowly, an ominous sense of foreboding slammed into his mind; he felt his stomach muscles stiffen.

The man continued: ". . . He disappeared shortly after reaching Washington." The man looked away, then down, a troubled expression settling over his face. "We're not sure where he is."

Oh, God. Ford's index finger shook slightly, barely controlled, as he clicked off the vidscreen. He stared blankly, silently, at the now empty vidscreen.

Ford believed in chance. He believed in coincidence.

But he strongly suspected that this . . . this wasn't coincidence.


*****
Fifteen minutes had passed since General Thomas unceremoniously deposited him in the strange little room. As of yet, he'd heard nothing: absolutely nothing. No noises, no movement, no blatant preparation for torture . . . nothing.

The silence was getting to him. It was worse than anything, for then . . . he could all too well imagine what the General just might be doing.

Nervously, Lucas ran a hand through his hair. He started walking around the room, looking carefully at everything. The desk was his first object of attention. Its gouged form contained three drawers, each firmly locked against intrusion. However, Lucas quickly took care of that little problem with a letter opener he found carelessly thrown on the desktop. A smile briefly flickered across his face as first one, then a second drawer creaked open. With a short snicker of derision for the idiot who had left a letter opener just sitting around, Lucas slammed through both drawers, throwing papers into a scattered heap on the floor. A plume of dust drifted through the room, and Lucas sneezed--then again. Damn. Thomas certainly wasn't a neat person, whatever else might be said of the man.

He continued digging, leaning away from the desk as more dust filtered into the air. Several small computer disks were thrown to the floor. They might have been interesting under different circumstances, but, unfortunately, Lucas had no computer to zap them into. Grumbling, he simply continued his excavation of the desk and its contents. A few pens were soon to follow. After that came tattered credit card receipts, a few erasers, and a black book filled with names and phone numbers.

However, nothing interesting was here . . . nothing like a knife, a gun, a key, or anything that might remotely get him out of this hell hole. Damn.

Not that Lucas had really thought to find such an item.

Lucas's brows instantly shot up in surprise, though, when he discovered several stacks of dry, highly academic treatises conveniently hidden beneath a dictionary, one that Lucas practically gouged as he tried to open the bottom drawer. He pulled out the wrinkled papers, noting that no dust coated these papers. Someone had obviously been reading them recently.

Suddenly, Lucas jerked back from the papers. Whoa. He simply stared at the papers before him. They were written on the nature of physical reality and quantum fluctuation.

Hmmm. Lucas's eyebrows shot up as he thought of over the implications of his latest finding. Quantum fluctuation and physical reality . . . these subjects of exploration all led straight to Lucas's own field. It was, at least, loosely connected to his work in vortex engineering.

And Lucas wasn't about to believe that this was entirely coincidental. No way.

Time suddenly seemed to slide quickly as Lucas sat comfortably in the chair behind the desk and started reading through the treatises in front of him. He was even more surprised to find that his work in vortex engineering was mentioned in at least half the reports. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, though, when he ran across his own work at the bottom of the pile, the paper clearly earmarked and highlighted. Lucas could see highlighting on just about every page, with marginal notes printed neatly on the sides. Thomas appeared to have read through every major publication Lucas had made; the number of such publications wasn't extensive, but Thomas had obviously gotten his hands on each one of them.

Surprisingly--if Lucas was any judge of the General's notes--the man seemed to have understood a good portion of his work.

Well, if Thomas was researching vortex engineering--and even going so far as to *read* more than ten heavily technical documents on the subject (or, at least, willing to have someone else do so for him)--then Lucas didn't even want to know what the General wanted from him. It was obviously something to do with his vortex. He just couldn't imagine exactly what it could be . . .

Lucas suddenly snorted, rolling his eyes at himself.

*No,* he ruthlessly corrected himself. *That's not true. I do know what Thomas might want the vortex for.*

And what could that be?

Why, quite naturally, weapons. Thomas's eyes had practically glowed when Lucas had filled the man in on what he'd done aboard the *Ulysses.*

Damn. Just what could he do to get the vortex out of the General's hands, assuming, as he did, that that was what Thomas wanted? Lucas pondered the problem for several moments, thinking; he tried to explore several angles--even the most bizarre twists his mind could take--but he still came up with the same answer. He frowned. At this point, that answer was a depressing *nothing.*

He was trapped.

Lucas shuddered as the word *trapped* repeated in his mind. He could only too well recall what happened to most animals when they were trapped: they died.


*****
Just as Lucas was about to start prowling through the desk for the third time in less than thirty minutes, he heard the door swing open. Quickly, he turned from his investigation of the tiny black address book to his newest guest.

He was not at all amused with the sight he saw staring straight back at him.

They'd only met once before, but that had been a . . . stressful time. During that brief encounter, Lucas had thought he'd come to know the man, to understand him.

Obviously, he'd been wrong: terribly wrong. If this man was involved with General Thomas, he was dirt. He was a traitor. He had betrayed everything he stood for, as well as everything Lucas believed in and fought for. And Lucas would pay for that breach of faith, too.

With a hard, pained swallow, Lucas leapt to his feet and angrily glared at the man. He jabbed a long, thin finger in the man's face. "You!" He sneered, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them, as he fumed angrily. His eyes poured venom over the beast's heart, if there even could be such a thing in the man . . . the two-faced, lying, son of a . . .

Lucas forcefully stopped himself, realizing that outrage wouldn't help. He needed a cool, collected mind . . . not a mind about to explode in fury. Unfortunately, the anger was about the only thing he could be assured of right now.

Slowly, Lucas crossed the room. He stood in front of the man before narrowing his eyes in withering hate.

"Well, it's been awhile," Lucas hissed. His blood simmered as he added bitingly, "*Friend.*"

His "friend" stared at him, a note of sadness in the large eyes. His glance briefly wandered towards Thomas, who was now standing beside him. The eyes seemed to beg for permission, for understanding . . . Lucas didn't know what, but he also really couldn't have cared less. Those seemingly guileless eyes turned back towards him. Lucas saw apology glimmering in their depths, but he refused to accept that apology.

He refused to extend the hand of friendship to someone who had betrayed his trust, especially when that trust hurt not only himself, but his friends as well.


*****
< The tension thickened between the two, thick enough to cut with a knife. If he'd had one, Lucas speculated that he would have been tempted to use a knife on the bastard; not that he'd really hurt the . . . man, but the idea of being able to hurt him was tantalizing. Unfortunately, Lucas knew only too well that this was nothing more than his own idle wishes.
He paced around the room, watching Thomas and . . . his "friend" . . . as they watched him. Irritably, Lucas clenched his fingers together so hard that they lost all color, almost all feeling.

At least that was one thing in this miserable situation that wasn't being tormented by *feeling.*

Finally, he cleared his throat, whipping back from his angry perusal of the nearest wall to look at his enemies. His eyebrows lifted. "So. You're here. He's here." Lucas paused, then hissed, "I'm here. How convenient."

Again, the briefest of pain flickered across the man's features. He met Lucas's eyes, then looked away. After a second, he cleared his throat. "Lucas . . . look . . ."

If it had been anything else, Lucas could have forgiven him. If it had involved only himself and some research, he could have accepted Nelson's actions. But this . . . no, Lucas simply glared at Nelson and wished him to the lowest level of hell itself. No one involved his friends. No one hurt his friends and got away with it.

"Don't you even 'Lucas, look,' me, *Commander.* Don't even try it." Lucas pounded his fist against the wall. He couldn't remember how many times he'd seen Krieg do this--hit the wall--but right now . . . hitting the wall seemed the safest of the ideas screaming through his brain, each seeking release through his balled fist.

Silence. Thomas sighed loudly. He moved across the room, sitting into the leather chair behind the desk, a smile of satisfaction written clearly across his face for all to see. He then gestured for the two men to sit down. Thomas smiled slightly at the dark expression on Lucas's face, at the jaw clamped so tightly that little muscles pulsed in his cheek; he'd evidently shaken and angered the boy. That was working according to plan, too. Riling Lucas up might unsettle him enough to make any ideas or plans for escape that much more difficult for him to make.

Especially when he now knew someone he dearly trusted had betrayed him. No, Thomas suspected ideas of escape would be overwhelmed by Lucas's anger at the Commander, leaving Thomas with the perfect opportunity to manipulate the teen into doing exactly what Thomas wanted him to do.

And manipulation . . . that was his forte. Lucas presented such an easy target, such a . . . workable target. Thomas was almost saddened that there wasn't more difficulty to be expected of this manipulation.

Of course, if, by some miracle, this didn't work--if Lucas somehow managed to withstand the manipulation Thomas had so carefully prepared for him--Thomas also had other threats to use against the kid, threats conveniently stashed within these very halls. He almost hoped he'd be able to use these threats; it would be so much more interesting that way.

He smiled, watching as Lucas's fingers curled into a tight ball. Perfect. He had the genius wrapped up so tightly that nothing but anger, nothing but thoughts of revenge, ran through his mind.

His eyes flickered to the other element in his plan: the traitor. The man sat with eyes trained painfully upon the ground, self-disgust evident in the way his body slouched forward, in the way that he avoided Lucas's gaze . . . provided, of course, that Lucas was willing to even look at him. Right now, it appeared that this wasn't the case. The NAP officer's hair was mussed, unkempt, as was his entire appearance. Thomas realized that this wasn't anything overly unusual for the Commander, but he suspected the current situation had made the man lose all interest in how he appeared.

For, truly, what did appearances matter when you betrayed those you loved? What did an overgrown beard mean when you betrayed your country . . . even if you were understandably sickened by the actions of that country?

Thomas smiled, exhilarated, though he was careful that neither of his guests noticed his expression. He had them. And now . . . he would use this latest possession to his advantage.


*****
Thomas leaned back in his chair. His smile widened. "Well. I imagine you're wondering why you're here, Mr. Wolenczak."

Lucas glared over at him, then snorted derisively. "Give me credit for moderate intelligence, at least, Thomas." He glanced at the stack of papers sitting in front of Thomas's hands. "You're reading up on quantum fluxes. You have me here. And you have . . . *him* . . . here." The last words were spoken coldly, laced with a disgust Lucas couldn't hide. His one-time friend flinched. "You want me to do something with my vortex. The only thing I haven't quite managed to guess is what."

Dramatically, Thomas clapped his hands, eyebrows raising in mock admiration. "Very good, Wolenczak. I see the files didn't lie when they said you had uncanny perception." Lucas's fists clenched, his jaws tightening perceptibly; however, he kept silent, simply glaring at the General.

The General's gaze swung towards the man seated beside Lucas. "It must feel particularly good to work with someone of his caliber, Nelson. I can understand why you two worked together so well on the *Ulysses* . . ."

Lucas snorted at this, disgust clear in his eyes, in the pointed glare he struck at Commander Dean Nelson. "Worked together? Oh, that's very funny. Ha, ha. Yeah, good joke there, Thomas."

Thomas chuckled. "That would probably be because you were working at sabotaging the *Ulysses* even as he was trying to hijack the *Ulysses*." Thomas leaned forward, looking from one face to the next. "That part of the story seems most clear, Mr. Wolenczak."

Lucas simply decided to remain silent. If Nelson decided to betray him, fine. Nelson could tell the General what had happened . . . what he knew had happened, at least. But Nelson sure as hell didn't know everything that *had* happened. He hadn't been there, in Lucas's shoes. He hadn't been the one to blow holes through the ship. He hadn't been the one to set the renegade vortex. He also hadn't been the one injected with chemicals designed to torture. The remembrance of what Nelson *had* done compared to what he was *now* doing tore into Lucas's heart, but he knew that Thomas wouldn't be learning much from the Commander's mouth . . . traitor or not.

In Lucas's eyes, there were only two real possibilities here: Worst case scenario, Nelson's account of the *Ulysses* disaster would bring up some issues Lucas would rather not discuss . . but his account would still be spotty, unrevealing, for the man truly hadn't been involved in the vortex itself. Best case scenario, Nelson wouldn't know a damned thing to save his own neck.

And Lucas himself absolutely, positively, was not going to fold under General Thomas's pressure.

He *would not.*

His thoughts were ripped from what he should do and what Nelson was doing when Thomas said, his voice cool, calculating, "We've been researching your latest field of interest. Commander Nelson here seems to think he understands your theory."

Ah. The journal articles, of course. It would seem that both Nelson and Thomas had been doing their homework. Lucas cleared his throat. "That's just great for him. And you. Then you can kindly let us go."

Thomas laughed at this . . . outright laughed. Lucas glared at the General's levity. "Oh, very good, Wolenczak . . . very good. Your file didn't mention what a sense of humor you possess."

Yeah, right. Sense of humor. Lucas wondered if he could shove the General's laughing mouth right up . . .

"It's always nice to spot a sense of humor in one's colleagues . . ."

*Colleagues?!* Was the man flaming insane?

"Oh, for . . ." exasperated, Lucas stood, starting to stomp around the room. Anger burned through him, and he fought to control it. He pounded his fist into the nearest wall, wishing it were Nelson or Thomas's face instead. What game was the General playing? He had Lucas, Bridger, Dr. Westphalen . . . Nelson . . . what the hell was he planning to do with them? He span towards a perfectly calm Thomas, wishing he could wipe the smirk from the man's face. "What am I doing here, Thomas?"

Thomas shrugged negligently. "You said it yourself. I have Nelson. I have your articles. What do you think I want with you?"

"I don't know. Enlighten me." Lucas continued to wander around the room, trying to fight down a vicious anger.

"Mr. Wolenczak, I think you would be the first to agree that practice and theory are rarely the same thing." Thomas smiled at Lucas's sharp inhalation of breath, at his narrowed, almost cobalt eyes. "You've blown your share of holes through the science lab, from what I understand."

Lucas nervously shifted from foot to foot, refusing to look at Thomas.

"The greatest difference between 'practice' and 'theory' must be what happened on the *Ulysses.* You turned a peaceful device designed for transportation into a deadly weapon that crippled the most state-of-the-art ship built in the UEO's history." Thomas's hands spread wide in a gesture demanding acceptance. "Theoretically, your design was peaceful; in practice, however, it was the most powerful weapon I have heard of in years."

Despite himself, Lucas angrily ground out, "On the ship, there was no difference between theory and practice. I knew exactly what I wanted to get, and I got it. I don't see where you're going with this." His troubles with the vortex--particularly the troubles that resulted in gaping holes in the science lab--still rankled.

Thomas grinned, triumph gleaming from his eyes. Lucas had walked straight into his trap, absolutely unwittingly. "You see? That is the difference between you and Commander Nelson here. Nelson is good with the theory, the ideas . . . but the practical aspects of the vortex are his stumbling points."

Lucas snorted at this, not feeling like adding that these very "practical aspects" of the vortex were his bane in existence, too . . . or, for that matter, discussing just what those "practical aspects" truly were.

"You, however, Mr. Wolenczak, have made it work." Thomas stared at the boy, noticing that he was doing his best to avoid his gaze. He smiled slightly at the genius's avoidance. "And that is what I need: a working vortex."

*I'll blow a flaming vortex right through your bedroom, you snake-skinned eel . . .* Lucas thought silently, hands shaking. A working vortex. Why didn't the bastard just give him a gun and ask him to shoot hundreds--no, thousands--of people on sight? That's about what the vortex could do, if it was used to do so. He had seen the effects of that vortex in all of its horrifying reality.

*Holes, ripped through the wall: giant holes bleeding through the metallic flesh of the ship. Screams of pain as panels, equipment, and glass whipped into the air, suddenly becoming both alive and deadly . . .*

*Howls, screeches deep within the ship's skeleton . . . tearing apart, unraveling . . .*

*Flames searing the halls, burning out of control in several areas . . .*

He did not, *did not* want to hand this type of weapon to the military. What it could do . . . in the hands of the wrong people. Lucas shuddered as he thought of it. He had destroyed the *Ulysses* with that weapon, merely because he had had no other choice. But people like Thomas--people who didn't give a damn about who they hurt, who they maimed, who they killed--they didn't even bother to examine for choices. They just killed.

Slowly, Lucas turned to face the General. He shook his head, swallowing hard as he tried to calm his stomach. "A working vortex? What, so you can . . . so you can go and blow people up?" He flashed accusing eyes towards Nelson, then glared back at Thomas. "The UEO . . . the UEO is supposed to be dedicated to peace, to working out solutions without . . ."

"Don't even feed me that nonsense!" Thomas interrupted with a snort of disgust, suddenly rising from his chair and leaning over the table; Lucas's voice died in his throat as he noticed the man's face was ashen, his eyes blazing. He shrunk against the wall, as if he could somehow disappear into its surface. "The UEO . . ." the man spat the words out, hate seething in the voice, "the UEO . . . the weakest, most powerless organization in the world. Peacekeeper! That's garbage not even worthy of feeding a hog."

Images of Stark sped through Lucas's mind. He'd never met the woman, but he'd certainly encountered her work--and her madness.

Behind that image, he saw Brigg, interrogating him . . . eyes glazed with madness, with something Lucas couldn't even identify . . . maybe lust for power, he couldn't be certain. Something frightening beyond anything Lucas had seen. He remembered the fists pounding into him, the drugs burning violently through his veins . . .

He remembered the words that rung in his ears, making no sense. He remembered the hatred in the man's eyes. *The voice hissing in his mind, demanding cooperation, demanding answers . . .*

Snapping his mind back to reality, Lucas cringed even further into the wall, wishing he could simply disappear, fade, when Thomas stalked towards him. Heavy footsteps beat towards him, footsteps that resounded in the suddenly silent room. Brigg . . . Thomas . . . Stark . . . his own father . . .

God, no. The madness . . . it seemed to glow in those eyes, passed like a torch from one set of eyes to the next.

"You will listen to me, Mr. Wolenczak, and you will listen well." Thomas whispered, stopping in front of Lucas, within an inch of Lucas's face. "The UEO is weak, a mewling waiting for something to destroy it. I won't allow that to happen. Peace-loving, science-hugging idiots . . . like Bridger," Lucas blanched as the General spat his Captain's name with hate, "will destroy us."

He leaned closer, then suddenly gripped Lucas's head by the hair. He pulled the teenager closer, forcing Lucas's ear within a centimeter of his hissing mouth. "You, Wolenczak, will keep that from happening. Nothing . . . not NAP, not anything . . . will destroy us."

Thomas pulled at the boy's hair, then flung him into the wall, watching with satisfaction as the genius slumped bonelessly to the ground. His eyes slid past Nelson's horrified expression, then returned to stare at Lucas.

Slowly, Thomas walked over to stand above Lucas. The General's face was without expression. "If you wish to keep alive, if you wish to keep your spineless friends alive, you will do exactly as I say. Exactly. Anything you do to change my plans will get one of them tortured or killed. You screw up, they die." Lucas stared at him, eyes huge against a face drained of all color.

Thomas stood away from him. Lucas watched in terrified fascination as the man's face suddenly . . . changed. Transformed before his eyes. Gone now was the mad, insane glow to his eyes, the sneer of his lips; instead, he simply smiled pleasantly at his two guests. He dusted absently at a nonexistent speck on his shirt.

"So . . . Wolenczak, I will leave you to reacquaint yourself with your 'friend' Nelson. My men will take you back to your . . . quarters . . . in approximately five hours. I recommend that you and Nelson work through some theories on putting this vortex together."

With a pleasant nod, Thomas unlocked the door and walked out, shutting it behind him. The door thudded into place, sending a shiver down Lucas's back.

He turned to look at Nelson. They stared at one another before Nelson hesitantly cleared his throat. "Do you need help up?"

Slowly, Lucas shook his head, carefully dragging his aching body from the floor. He looked back at Nelson. "I . . . guess . . . we need to work on this."

Their eyes locked for a moment. Nelson opened his mouth to speak several times, then simply snapped his jaw shut. Resignedly, he nodded his head, moving to join Lucas as they started working through the journal articles on quantum physics . . . and noting sadly that Lucas sat as far apart from him as was possible within their prison.

Part 4

Entangled Alliances, part 4


by Sheri Ann


Lucas read the sentence, then reread it. Unfortunately, it still didn’t make any sense. Lucas glanced at the author’s name: Mandeel. Mandeel wasn’t a name he recognized, which probably meant that he was straight out of graduate school and looking to establish a name. He seemed to have overlooked several variables along the way . . . if he even understood vortex engineering in the first place. However, there was one positive side to this most recent discovery: Thomas didn’t know the scientist was a bit off in his theories. If Thomas didn’t know, then, perhaps, Lucas could try to act like he didn’t know there was a problem, either.

Lucas’s shoulders sagged, though, when he remembered one slight problem: Thomas had other hostages. He had Dr. Westphalen and Captain Bridger. With little question, the man wouldn’t hesitate to hurt his hostages should the need arise.

*Well, there goes yet another brilliant Wolenczak idea,* Lucas thought angrily. A lot of good being a genius did him. When he needed to rescue his friends, that much-glorified and publicized brain of his did him no good. All his ideas, all his plans, had some flaw in them. *Every one of them.*

Shifting in annoyance, Lucas looked up to find Commander Nelson’s eyes on him. He glared back at the man before returning to his work. Yeah, just what he needed: one of Thomas’s cohorts spying on him. Just flaming *great.*

Briefly, Lucas wondered why he always seemed to run into trouble. It was like the universe held something against him; in fact, it would be easy to think he *liked* trouble and danger, for it sure as hell liked him. It liked him so much that it courted him on a regular basis.

"Lucas?" He heard the voice calling his name carefully, almost cautiously. After a second, Lucas looked up, regarding Nelson with wary eyes. Nelson smiled slightly, seeing he had, at last, caught the boy’s attention. "What have you found on your end? I’m afraid I haven’t found much of anything useful."

Lucas was silent for a moment, carefully considering Nelson’s question. He supposed Thomas would only beat the answers from him, eventually, if he refused to answer . . . or, perhaps, drug the answers from him. One way or another, he knew Thomas would get his answers.

He just had to make it look like he was giving answers when he wasn’t. That way, the General would have no reason to harm the Captain or Dr. Westphalen . . . and Lucas himself might remain in one piece for a few more hours, anyway. It was certainly worth a try.

He held up the journal article he was currently "investigating." With a sigh, he said, "This one seems to have the best information in it. The discussion on vortex construction in a lab environment was particularly enlightening." Lucas had to keep himself from snickering at that idea. Mandeel, quite obviously, was merely hypothesizing; he hadn’t actually *tried* to build a vortex in his lab. Some of his hypotheses were absolutely hilarious. Lucas only prayed the scientist decided to keep his ideas within the realms of the strictly intellectual; he could just imagine the mess this "lab experiment" would make. The scientist would be lucky if he didn’t blow up his entire building.

Nelson peered at the journal article, then looked at Lucas with a rather skeptical expression. "You’ve got to be kidding, Lucas."

Surprised, Lucas lied, "Why? I mean, the theory is perfectly sound."

Nelson leaned back in his chair, obviously trying to control a brief fit of annoyance. He sighed. "I know you don’t trust me, Lucas . . ."

Looking at his hands, Lucas mumbled, "No, shit, Sherlock," then beamed beatifically as Nelson glared at him.

Nelson continued, growling slightly, ". . . But that’s no reason to treat me like I’m the most idiotic baffoon on the face of the planet. I wouldn’t even insult Thomas with that last statement of yours."

Ah. So . . . Nelson understood enough about vortex engineering to know Mandeel was full of crap. That was worth knowing, Lucas supposed. He’d have to be a little more subtle with the lies he fed the Commander. But, hey, he could do subtle once in awhile--not often, but upon occasion.

Nelson shifted in his chair, a restless, charged expression on his face. He studied the wall for a moment before turning to face Lucas once more. "Look, Lucas . . ."

"I thought we’d been through this already, Commander Nelson," Lucas interrupted with a snap, pretending to read the article in front of him. "No ‘look, Lucas’ conversations, please."

Nelson mumbled something Lucas couldn’t hear.

"Besides, what good would it do?" Lucas continued, as if Nelson hadn’t said a word. "You’d just tell me how horrible you feel, how you had no choice, blah, blah, blah . . . I’d just tell you what a ruthless, integrity-lacking, dishonest, loathsome, petty, useless, spineless . . ." Lucas paused a moment, trying to think of other adjectives to describe Nelson, but drawing a blank. He shrugged. "Anyway, I’d just say what a bastard you are . . . and we’d be done. This way, we skip all the emotional arguments in between and get to our work."

"If you’d only listen! I have good reason for what I’m doing . . ."

"Yeah, I’m sure you do. About a million good reasons stuffed into your bank account?" Lucas questioned, again not even bothering to look up at the man. Instead, he continued acting like he was reading.

"No, I am *not* getting paid for this . . ."

"That’s nice."

Nelson visibly inhaled to control the outburst trembling at his lips. He shook his head. "Lucas, damn it, you’re not thinking straight right now." He sighed, rubbing at his forehead. "Not that I can much blame you, but . . . Thomas has me in the same position he has you."

Lucas stopped reading, slowly looking up to meet Nelson’s eyes. His face paled at the pain on the man’s face.

"I haven’t got a choice here, Lucas. Thomas didn’t give me one. I either did as told, or . . . or . . ."

Nelson looked away, face lined with regret, with torture. Slowly, Lucas set Mandeel’s article down, quickly rising to his feet and walking to Nelson’s side. His heart wrenched at what he saw: at what he, in his anger, had refused to see until now.

Agony twisted Nelson’s face--indeed, his figure, for he was bent at the waist in shame. He met Lucas’s eyes slowly, wiping away a frustrated tear as the teenager knelt beside him.

Softly, Lucas asked, sorrow edging his words, "Who does he have, Nelson . . . Dean?" He studied the man’s face, and, suddenly, knew without question who it had to be. He swallowed hard. "Does he have her, Commander? Does he have Alicia?"

At Nelson’s defeated nod, Lucas sat back on his heels, thinking. Damn. It was bad enough that Thomas had Captain Bridger and Dr. Westphalen, but . . . Alicia Noyce added an entirely new dimension to the problem. God alone knew where she was being held. It could be in a completely different part of the building . . . if it was within the building at all. Hell, Thomas could even have her stashed miles away.

Just who else did Thomas have hidden in some cell, ready to hang over their precariously perched necks? Were there more surprises awaiting them, more hostages to hold against them?

How was Lucas to avoid meeting the General’s demands for a fully working, lethal vortex when the General had these threats ready to use against him? How was he to both foil General Thomas *and* keep his friends’ heads firmly attached to their necks?

And if he couldn’t do both . . . which was Lucas to sacrifice? p> Turning slowly from Nelson, Lucas shut his eyes, squeezed them until nothing but blackness stood before him. A tremor quaked through his body: through his feet, his ankles, his knees and arms. A tear trickled down his cheek, joined shortly by another. He didn’t care. More spasms coursed through him, turning his muscles into water. With an inarticulate cry, he slid to the floor, wanting to scream, to holler at the top of his lungs, to shout until every ounce of stress was gone from his body . . . but unable to make even a sound.

Nelson watched for one moment, then joined him, placing a steadying hand behind Lucas’s back as the tears, at last, came to him as well.


******
Nervously, Lucas stared at the information in front of him. The words momentarily blurred before his eyes, but he wiped the tears away before forcing himself, once more, to look at the articles on vortex engineering. He had to figure something; he had to invent *some* way of dealing with this problem. He only wished he knew what that "some way" was.

They had about five minutes more, according to his watch, before General Thomas would return to take them back to . . . wherever. He didn’t even know what the bastard would want, either, when he *did* return. Did he expect Lucas to have drawn up plans for converting the vortex into a weapon? Did he expect a perfectly designed analysis, complete with formulae and schematics?

He doubted that the General, intelligent as he might be, truly understood the implications behind what had happened on the *Ulysses.* Lucas had produced a *renegade* vortex. Lucas called it a "renegade vortex" because it was not behaving as expected: it was, theoretically, a "renegade." It defied all the laws of physics. Yet General Thomas fully expected him to produce a weapons system that made this "renegade behavior" normal.

Lucas snorted. Right. Sure. Five hours was plenty of time to design an entire weapons system, calculate the complex numbers involved, and sketch out a prototype for a system that was theoretically impossible. Yeah. Plenty of time.

Lucas shifted on the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him. He was clearly dealing with the impossible, but he knew Thomas was insane. It wouldn’t matter to the man if his expectations were insane, too. He’d just want them fulfilled. Lucas just had to come up with some way to seem to fulfill those expectations . . .

The key word, Lucas knew, was *seem.* He had to seem like he was following Thomas’s orders, or his friends would be harmed. He just wondered how much Thomas understood about vortices. Obviously, fooling him would be easy if he knew next-to-nothing. But Lucas suspected that Thomas, while completely and indisputably insane, was still an intelligent man. An intelligent man would know enough about vortices to know if Lucas was following his orders.

The door opened, and Lucas looked up, eyes wary. He swallowed hard.

It was Thomas.

The General entered the room, his gaze carefully slipping between Nelson and Lucas. The two were sitting on the floor, side-by-side, a pile of papers and notes sprawled around them. He smiled slightly. "It seems we’ve made some progress here."

Lucas and Nelson simply remained silent, each watching the General and wondering what would happen next. Lucas felt his nerves dance under the General’s dark stare.

"What progress have you made?" The question was sharp, brisk. Above all, it was calm and collected: there was no anger or insanity burning in his eyes now. Lucas knew Thomas was, at this point, sane enough to think rationally. Thus, he would probably spot any overt deception almost instantaneously.

Slowly, Lucas caught Nelson’s gaze. He held it for a moment, then looked back at the General. Thomas was watching him, eyes narrowed and shrewd. The look made him catch his breath before carefully saying, "We’ve been looking over the research. There are several interesting theories I wanted to run through a computer."

Thomas’s eyes hardened. "I see." A long silence stretched between them. Finally, the General said, "While I understand the use of the computer may be helpful later, right now I would like to see some results before I grant you access. I am certain you know enough about the vortex to not require immediate use of the computer."

Damn! The man had spotted that lie far too quickly. Lucas inhaled deeply, trying to calm his taut nerves. What the hell was he supposed to tell this man?

Lucas decided to try a new strategy. He met the General’s eyes, making a face. "I’m intelligent, General, but even *I* need a computer," he insisted stubbornly, trying his best to look like an annoyed scientist with an enormous chip on his shoulders. "If you want me to put together your damned weapon, I need the computer. I don’t get it, Thomas boy, I start not doing a thing for you or your stupid little proj--"

Abruptly, Lucas’s voice squeaked as Thomas lifted him bodily from the floor and slammed him against the wall. His head struck the wall, then again . . . then again. He choked in pain, staring at the General’s eyes. Cold onyx stared back at him: uncaring, unfeeling, completely without emotions. Not even anger raged through those eyes, as it had before; instead, the eyes were empty. Lucas shuddered despite Thomas’s tight grip on his throat, despite the throbbing in his head and body. Dead eyes. That was what they were.

The world span around him as spots of light exploded in his vision. Blackness slowly swirled around his head. The pressure on his throat tightened. Thomas continued to smack his head against the wall.

"Do you think me a fool, Wolenczak?" the man hissed, voice so low that Lucas could barely hear him. "Do I *look* like a fool?"

Lucas opened his mouth to reply, but found he could not. Ropes of fire burned around his throat. Pain shot through his skull. More sparks of light shimmered before his eyes, rapidly replacing the General’s face in his vision.

"I am *not* a fool, Wolenczak," Thomas whispered, breathing into his face, eyes within inches of Lucas’s own. Without further word, the hands crushing into Lucas’s throat disappeared.

A doll ripped of its stuffing, Lucas fell to the ground. Nelson quickly helped him into a sitting position, hands cradling Lucas’s head. With an angry, simmering glare directed at Thomas, he carefully rested Lucas’s head on his shoulder.

Thomas looked at the Commander, his expression unreadable. "Bring him with you. You have one more stop to make."

Not even bothering to look behind him, Thomas headed towards the door. He pushed it open after unlocking it, then barked, "Bidea! Welton!"

Slowly, Nelson stood, arms firmly supporting Lucas. The boy seemed nearly unconscious, though Nelson had been grateful for the slight moan he’d heard as he helped him up. He was breathing with difficulty--probably from the pressure placed on his throat--and hadn’t reopened his eyes yet. He was, however, able to stand, which was a good sign. Nelson forced himself to ignore the dark handprints on his throat.

Thomas was looking at two men who had just appeared in nondescript slate gray uniforms. They were standing at perfect attention, spines straight as bars, looking only briefly towards the two prisoners. "Escort them to the room."

Nelson swallowed heavily, not liking the sound of this at all: the room. For some reason, it had a particularly ominous ring to it. This was especially true as he saw both men stand even straighter at attention.

After a sharp, military nod, the guards moved. They headed towards Nelson and Lucas, grabbed both of them, and shoved them forward. Lucas would have crashed into the floor if Nelson hadn’t quickly reached over to grab the boy. As it was, he was still barely standing on his feet when they started heading into the hall.

They dragged on, Lucas stumbling several times, but slowly seeming to awaken to his surroundings. His eyes slid open drunkenly, and he moaned softly as the light struck at sensitive eyes. Nelson simply tightened his grip around Lucas’s shoulders.

Several halls away--but not, Nelson absently noticed, up--they at last arrived before a large door. Two guards stood before it, faces impassive. They didn’t even seem to breathe. Nelson watched as one of his guards quickly pushed in a number on a control pad attached to the door.

A bolt snapped; the door opened slightly, a light *click * drifting through the air.

Darkness met Nelson’s eyes as he peered inside. He could see nothing.

Without word, the two guards pushed Lucas and Nelson in.

The door slammed shut behind them.


******
Head aching tremendously, Lucas looked around the room--or tried to. All that met his eyes was an unbroken cloak of ink. Darkness, everywhere. He couldn’t even see his own hand. He shuddered, swallowing hard as he wondered what Thomas planned next. He’d obviously failed in misdirecting the man; hell, Lucas conceded that he’d failed miserably . . . so miserably, in fact, that he’d ended up having his head pounded into the nearest wall for his efforts.

Nausea rushed through his stomach as he turned his head, hearing breathing beside him. It seemed to be to his right . . . no, maybe his left. Confused, Lucas blinked his eyes. What the hell?

The breathing was coming from two different directions.

"Nel--Nelson?" he whispered softly, voice strained as he forced himself to speak against the pain. His throat still burned, aching from Thomas’s grip. As he spoke, he blindly slid his hands around him. "Nel--son? Wh--where . . .?"

He heard a noise at his side; a hand collided with his own, then fiercely squeezed it. Second’s later, a voice softly whispered, "It’s all right. It’s me, Lucas. I’m right here."

Nelson’s voice calmed him immensely. However, alarm coursed through his frame when he heard a rustle of clothing: a rustle of clothing far too distant to have been Nelson. His throat suddenly felt tight, constricted. He gripped Nelson’s hand, painfully whispering, "Di-did you . . ."

"Shh. Yes, I heard it, too." Nelson quickly replied; it was obvious that speaking hurt like hell. He lifted his voice, addressing the dark room. "Hello? Who’s there?"

A moment’s pause, then Lucas heard a voice guardedly reply, "Who are you?"

"I’m Commander Dean Nelson. I was a computer analyst with the Non-Allied Powers." Lucas blinked at the decisive use of the word *was.* His heart wrung for the man, knowing that Nelson had truly believed in NAP’s ideals. "I have Lucas Wolenczak with me. He’s . . ."

"Wolenczak?" the voice snapped back, new life suddenly appearing in it. Lucas’s eyes narrowed. He knew that voice. Somehow, he knew it. "Wolenczak, how the *hell* did Nathan get you mixed up in this?"

Lucas abruptly recognized the voice. His head pounded at the knowledge. This was anything but comforting. Thomas had brought *him* into this mess?

Why the hell would he do such a stupid thing? It was like . . . like kidnapping the . . . hell, Lucas couldn’t even think of a suitable analogy.

Lucas’s thoughts abruptly scattered as he heard a noise in front of the door.

The door opened. His heart thudded in his chest as light flooded the room. He could vaguely make out two blurry figures standing in the light, but that was all he could tell. Lucas blinked against the glare, shielding his eyes with a hand as, in pain, he finally turned away.

He heard a sudden curse, one that drifted angrily through the air. For a second, he blinked.

Blackness once more settled in the room as the door slammed shut. There was a momentary silence.

However, the silence was interrupted as one of the room’s newest visitors muttered, language punctuated by a fist whacking into the floor, "Damn that bastard! Damn his rotten hide to hell! I’ll take that beast and remove his sick . . ."

Lucas’s eyes snapped wide. He stared into the darkness. He knew that voice. He’d recognize it any day.

Verbal chaos reigned momentarily as two voices spoke at the same time.

"Cap--Captain!" Lucas squeezed out through his injured throat.

"What the crispy hell are you doing here, Nathan?" A second voice joined Lucas’s, nearly over-running the teen’s soft syllables.

Less than a split second passed before Nathan Bridger’s voice rung through the air: "Lucas? *Bill*? What the . . . never mind, never mind, I don’t even want to know. Where are you two?" Bridger moved, then cursed as he crashed into something. His hands reached in front of him, trying to find anyone in the darkness. "Lucas, speak for me so I can find you. You, too, Bill. I can’t see a damned thing in here."

"I’m over to the right. I think I’m right behind Lucas." There was a sound of movement as Noyce started heading out of his corner.

"O--over here, Ca--capt . . ."

"I hear you, kiddo. Hang in there. I’m coming." Another muttered curse hung in the air as Bridger thumped against something else. "Blasted stuff all over the floor . . . damn that idiot . . . I’m going to strangle him alive . . ." A sudden yelp sounded; Bridger came to a halt. "Noyce, is that you?"

"No. I’m still behind Lucas."

"Well, who the hell did I just plant my foot into? Lucas? Was that you?"

"No, it was me, sir."

"Me?" The perplexed undercurrents of the Captain’s voice were unmistakable. "Just who is *me*?"

"That . . . w-would b-be . . ."

"Lucas, it’s okay. I can introduce myself," Nelson said softly. He then addressed the invisible man who had stood upon his hand just seconds ago. "I’m Commander Dean Nelson. I . . ."

"*Nelson*?" Bridger snapped. He shook his head. "What in all of creation are you doing *here*?"

"You know him, Nathan?" Noyce asked from somewhere in the room.

"Of course he knows him!" Kristin Westphalen’s voice abruptly sounded in the room. Lucas stared, not having realized that she had been the second figure drug inside the room. Irritation hung in every letter she uttered. "Nelson was on the . . . oh, dear." She paused, clearly worried as she made the connection. "Nathan, don’t you see? Nelson was on the *Ulysses.*"

"Damn!" Nathan cursed, fists tight. "Just great! There’s that ridiculous, over-priced, technologically-absurd *boat* rearing its high-financed hull again! Damn, damn, *damn* . . ."

"Nathan!" Kristin interrupted. She cleared her throat. "Lucas is here!"

"Dr. Westphalen? You’re here, too?" Noyce asked, surprised; he ignored Nathan’s annoyed tirade. "Why would Thomas take you?"

"Well, I *don’t know.* If I knew, I would be a criminal mastermind myself, Admiral. Why don’t you ask *him.*"

"I just might do that, Doctor!" Noyce snapped, obviously riled. "I’ll probably discover it was to torture the prisoners! And I bet it would work real well, too, judging . . ."

"Hey, will you two shut up?" Bridger interrupted. He sighed. Though they were usually on good terms, Kristin and Bill always seemed to run aground of one another when bad things started to happen: this was certainly one of those times. Nathan knew it had started when Kristin Westphalen disobeyed orders and fired several torpedoes; however, he suspected it was simply because both of them argued to relieve stress.

Lucas leaned his head into his arms, stifling a groan. He wasn’t in the mood for this, and his head was pounding. Just what he needed: Kristin Westphalen chewing out Admiral Noyce when they had the ranting lunatic Thomas coming for their throats.

"Lucas? Hey, Lucas, where are you?" Nathan suddenly asked, realizing that he hadn’t heard Lucas for several minutes. The kid usually wasn’t this quiet. "Lucas, answer me."

Nelson moved beside him, nudging Lucas. With a soft moan, Lucas lifted his head, wishing they would all shut up so he could get some sleep. "I--I’m he--here . . ."

Bridger frowned, now genuinely worried. He heard Kristin starting to head towards them. "Lucas, you sound horrible. What the hell happened?" He paused, reaching his hands out. A firm hand--probably Nelson’s--suddenly gripped his, then moved his hand towards a shoulder. He felt Lucas’s turtleneck and sighed in relief.

Nelson answered for him, speaking loud enough for both Kristin and Nathan to hear. "Thomas . . . worked him over for a few minutes."

"And just where were you, Mister Nelson, when all this happened?"

Nelson recognized the snapping voice as Dr. Westphalen’s. He grimaced. "I was in the same room. I’m sorry. I know . . ."

"H--he c--c--couldn’t help . . ."

"Shush, dear. Don’t talk any more. You’ll make it worse." She finally reached their sides, bumping into Bridger, then Nelson, then, finally, Lucas. Bridger heard Noyce moving in towards them and quickly guided his friend over with his hands. Kristin continued her rampage against Nelson, "Now, Mister Nelson, what exactly happened, and why didn’t you stop it from happening?"

"I--it’s n--not like h--he . . ."

"Hush, Lucas. If you try to talk one more time, I’ll have Nathan hold something over your mouth." Lucas would have growled, but knew it would only make things worse. He also knew--all too well--that Dr. Westphalen would really follow through with her threat if he didn’t do as asked. "Mister Nelson, I believe you were about to explain why you let a teenager get ‘worked over’ while you stayed safely away?"

Her voice was cold, almost mean. Lucas shuddered, feeling sorry for Nelson even as he was glad that the voice wasn’t directed against him.

"The man attacked out of nowhere. But I am sorry. It’s no excuse, and I know it," Nelson answered softly. He cleared his throat "Thomas got upset with him. He picked him up and started throwing him against the wall."

"Oh. I see," she all but hissed at Nelson. Lucas winced, then sighed as he felt Kristin’s hands on his forehead. "Anything else? This doesn’t seem to account for his voice."

Lucas could hear Nelson shifting nervously on the floor. He didn’t blame him. "Thomas held his hands up against Lucas’s throat as he hit his head against the wall."

A startled silence filled the room. Lucas heard Bridger curse under his breath. The Captain then wrapped him in a hug, resting his chin on Lucas’s head. Kristin inhaled sharply. Noyce rapped his knuckles against the floor, muttering something Lucas couldn’t hear.

"We’ll take care of you, kiddo. That bastard won’t get his hands on you again," Bridger whispered angrily, tightening his arms around Lucas. Tears burned in Lucas’s eyes as he desperately wished the words could be true, but feared they couldn’t be. Thomas had them; no matter what Bridger did, Thomas was still in control of their lives. He suspected Captain Bridger knew this, but he also knew that Bridger didn’t need to be reminded of it. "Well, this dark room should be good for something. Why don’t you try to get some sleep before . . ."

Abruptly, Bridger’s voice stopped. Lucas’s head popped up, his eyes frightened, as the door once more opened. Several figures stood outlined against the hall’s light; one of the figures slumped heavily, seeming to be made of cloth.

A hand reached around into the hallway. The lights abruptly clicked on. Pain shot through Lucas’s eyes as the harsh light blinded him.

He looked up, finally able to partially focus his eyes. He could see five men dressed in the slate gray uniforms, all with expressionless, emotionless faces. He swallowed hard as he saw that one of them was carrying a pouch that seemed to have needles in it.

Thomas, naturally, was also in the room, his face gloating as he met Bridger’s infuriated eyes. His expression turned almost triumphant as he stared at Noyce.

However, Noyce didn’t even spare the General a glance. His eyes were riveted upon the seventh new figure in the room, the one that slumped in Thomas’s arms. Blood wound down her face, bruises covered her arms, and her eyes focused on nothing.

"Alicia," he whispered softly, face white, colorless. He swallowed heavily, shaking his head. "Oh, God, Alicia."

Thomas threw Alicia Noyce, Admiral Noyce’s daughter, against the floor. He carelessly stepped over her, ignoring her battered body as he headed towards his target.


******
Lucas tensed, his muscles bunching painfully, as General Thomas arrowed straight for him. He pressed further into Bridger’s side, wishing the Captain’s arms could somehow protect him from the lunatic even now gazing upon him with such wild-eyed, almost frenzied intensity. However, he suspected that if Thomas wanted him, Thomas would get him.

Lucas shut his eyes as the thought fully worked its ways through his mind. It was soul-rending, making him tremble despite every intention he held of looking brave in front of this madman. In this time, in this place, Bridger could offer nothing more than comfort. Lucas wanted to deny the implications of this truth, but he knew he couldn’t. Even if he tried, General Thomas was standing right in front of him to make such a denial impossible. And the truth was simple: the security he felt near his Captain was illusory. The Captain could only try to protect him; however, he could never take complete control of the situation.

Lucas couldn’t even take complete control of what happened to him. This helplessness, this inability to protect himself and the ones he loved . . . it ripped him inside. Lack of control over his own life had spotted Lucas’s short years with pain. There had been his parents, who hadn’t cared for him, but had instead seen him as some sort of convenient stress relief program, a perfect person to yell at or hit when life became too tense. There had been the million and one disasters the *seaQuest* had been in since he’d been aboard--another situation over which he had had no control. And there had been the *Ulysses* mess, the one that had brought him--like it or not--right back here: right back here, facing the pits of tar Thomas called eyes as they drilled into his mind.

Shuddering, Lucas found himself staring back, his eyes seeming frozen to Thomas’s own gaze. He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry.

God. This was going to be another of those "Lucas has no control" situations, wasn’t it? Trembles ran through his hands, his fingers. Hell, he was going to have absolutely no control over the situation when Thomas started pounding into him . . . again.

Bridger’s hand tightly gripped his own. As if awaiting a blow, Captain Bridger stiffened, trying his best to push Lucas out of the General’s reach.

Despite himself, Lucas found himself staring almost dazedly at the General's hands. They were large, well-boned. They would do well at beating almost every whisper of breath out of him, probably just as well as his father’s. He supposed, had they known each other, they would have been best friends: Dad the maniac and Thomas the madman. Wincing, Lucas glanced away, now looking at the men with the needles. Perhaps Thomas would choose to torture him that way, instead.

Thomas paused in front of Bridger and Lucas, looking from one face to the next. He smiled.

Time seemed to slow, to narrow to the pulsing of Lucas's heart: *beat, babump, beat, bathump, beat.* The General reached for him, his hand clasped in a claw-like shape. Down he stretched, eyes set on Lucas’s face, never looking away.

Yet . . . he stopped . . . as if suddenly deciding the teenager wasn’t really the one he wanted. His hand hovered over Lucas’s head: still, deadly. The second stretched into a minute, perhaps more. Bridger moved beside him, ready to interfere, body tense.

But the hand crept deliberately away from Lucas.

General Thomas moved on.


******
Relief flooded Lucas’s mind. It charged through him, then rocked to a stop.
Lord, no. Please, *no.*

*Panic.*

Wide-eyed, Lucas watched as the General worked his way, his steps intimidatingly slow and measured, towards Admiral Noyce. He swallowed hard, heart hammering in his chest . . . even as self-loathing struck. How could he feel relief when Thomas was going to torture someone else? Even more, how could he feel relief when Thomas was going to torture someone he cared for, someone he called "colleague"?

Hatred filled him: hatred of himself, hatred of what he could be.

His own emotions sickened him. Was he really so weak that he would wish suffering upon someone else? The guilt continued to war within his mind as the General’s feet, at last, came to rest in front of Bill Noyce.

Lucas could almost feel his own heart stop in time with Thomas’s feet.

Again, time froze.

Noyce met General Thomas’s eyes with rage. Yet Lucas could see the man’s hands trembling, could see his eyes slide towards Alicia Noyce’s unmoving figure. In confusion, Lucas watched as Noyce continued to stare at his daughter. Why wasn’t Noyce rushing to Alicia’s aid when the two of them were close? For heaven’s sake, Alicia was his daughter; how could he simply leave her there?

But just as the thoughts worked through his mind, Lucas realized that that was exactly what Noyce feared most: drawing Thomas’s attention back towards Alicia, who was even now barely breathing.

The General’s move was swift when it finally came. As if out of nowhere, the man reached for Noyce, pulling the Admiral to his feet by his collar. With barely a flinch, Noyce met the man’s eyes; he then looked towards Lucas and Bridger, towards Westphalen and Nelson, and towards his daughter . . . and smiled.

More minutes halted, ached for the Admiral. Lucas watched, helpless, as Thomas dragged Noyce towards a chair in the room. He realized with disgust that the chair was exactly like the one he’d seen in the previous room: reclining, built with straps to confine, to torture.

No. He would not allow it. No, no . . . no.

As his heart continued to pound, Lucas started to rise, mind set on coming between Noyce and Thomas. This man was Bridger’s best friend, the closest thing the Captain had to family. They’d been through years of both crises and triumphs together. Noyce had probably even saved Bridger’s life by bringing him aboard the *seaQuest.* Noyce’s age also frightened Lucas; the Admiral could all too easily suffer a heart attack or a stroke under Thomas’s beatings. And, hell, Lucas wasn’t going to idly stand by as another human being was tortured. Never. Not by some fiend like General Thomas.

Especially when it was him--Lucas Wolenczak, creator of the damned vortex in the first place--that the General truly wanted.

Lucas moved, lunged forward. Yet his body suddenly thudded against Bridger’s. He looked up to see the Captain holding him back with a grip Lucas would have sworn was made of steel. Bridger met his eyes before shaking his head. He refused to let Lucas look away.

General Thomas’s fist curled. He prepared to strike.

Releasing Lucas, Bridger suddenly rushed to Noyce’s side himself. Lucas’s stomach twisted into pained knots as he saw his Captain push Thomas’s hand away. Noyce moved, Thomas moved, Bridger moved: they all moved at once.

The General’s large fist blurred in his sight. Noyce pushed Bridger out of the way . . . then, from what Lucas could tell, Bridger pushed Noyce out of the way . . .

Only to be pushed out of the way as Nelson slammed his body into the trio, pushing both Bridger and Noyce down as he took their places.

*Will not allow this, will not allow this, will not . . .*

"No!" Someone screamed, a scream ripped from deep within. The cry reverberated throughout the room. For a moment, everyone turned towards the voice’s owner. Lucas suddenly realized that the voice was his own, one screeched out past teeth now chattering. He felt tears burning in his eyes. "It’s m--me you want, isn’t it, Thomas?"

Shakily, Lucas stood, aware of the eyes plastered to his body. He was dimly aware of Kristin reaching her hands towards him, but he moved away from her. With trepidation, he approached the General, watching as Thomas’s face twisted into a frightening smile.

"If y--you want m--me, c--come for m--me . . . not t--them."

The smile on Thomas’s face widened. He dropped his hand from Bridger’s throat. "Does it bother you, Wolenczak, to see them hurt?"

Carefully, Bridger slid towards the teenager. His hand slipped on top of Lucas’s shoulder; he started edging the boy behind him, only to have Lucas wriggle from his hands. "Lucas!" Bridger hissed, trying to shove Lucas back behind him.

Lucas simply ignored Bridger’s words. He stared at Thomas, then smiled slightly. "C--come a--after me, T--thomas. W--why work on them when y--you really w--want to h--hurt me?"

"But that is exactly it, Wolenczak," Thomas started, his smile widening. He grabbed Noyce’s shoulder.

Lucas watched in confusion; it was Lucas the General wanted, right? So why wasn’t Thomas coming for him?

Thomas smiled at his confusion. Most obligingly, he explained, "I don’t want to hurt you. You’re too valuable." He threw Noyce into the chair, looking back at his audience. "However, to make you do as I wish, I have no problem hurting your friends."

Horrified realization struck. Lucas shut his eyes.

God Almighty, he had just played straight into Thomas’s hands.

Part 5

Entangled Alliances


by Sheri Ann


*Thud.*

Seconds of silence. Lucas heard breathing: heavy breathing. The breath wheezed, squeezed out of lungs constricted. Sounds of breath labored, panting, struck the walls, then reverberated back towards his ears, gasping.

Violence. Cruelty. A scream: first a low moan, a resisting moan . . . then a cry of pain, of anguish.

*Stop. Stop. Stop!*

Spring in the mountains . . . spring flowers blossoming . . .

Blossoming with vivid colors everywhere. Mountain creeks shivering through the forest paths. Animals thudding against the . . . thudding against . . . *Oh, God, stop, stop!*

Red—scarlet--splashing across the mountains, coating the ground in beautiful flowers . . .

*Ssssmmack.*

More mountains. Air clean, beautiful, pure: hiking. Nature all around, the green of the earth shining brightly as the sun’s rays beat down upon the soil.

Beating. Beating, crackling. Sound of panting in the air. Sounds of screams filtering through . . .

Bone splintering, cracking. Shattering.

*Shatter.* Lucas heard the sound, but he tried to block it from his consciousness. It was the sound of bone thudding against bone, of flesh broken. It was the sound of someone . . .

He buried the thought deep within his mind, hiding--searching for some place of safety where the thoughts couldn’t find him, where his own guilt could escape. His fingers trembled. Shakily, he combed blanched fingers through his hair . . . again, then again. The fingers spasmed, flexed helplessly.

It wasn’t happening. It wasn’t happening. It *wasn’t* happening.

*Smack.*

The sound echoed in his ears, echoed against his mind. His thoughts ruptured: God.

His head dropped down, bent at an angle. Tears streamed down his cheeks, dropping silently on his shirt. Oh, hell. More screams penetrated his hearing. Shivers struck. Poised at the edge of breaking, his nerves stretched. A cry, a hideous laugh, an arrow straight into his heart . . . his jangled mind screeched in agony.

A hand cautiously touched his back. A voice whispered at him, "It isn’t your fault. It isn’t something you could have stopped . . ."

But, oh, Lord, he knew better.

Not his fault? Oh, wasn’t that funny. Ha, ha.

He *flaming knew better.*

Whose fault was it?

Noyce’s?

Was it Noyce’s fault that Thomas had zeroed in on him and commenced a war campaign on the Admiral’s body?

Was it Noyce’s fault that, even now, Thomas was staring with gleaming eyes at his victim, triumphant in, at last, making the Admiral howl in pain?

Was it Noyce’s fault that Lucas was an idiot?

Lucas shifted, self-hatred, self-recrimination taunting him. Oh, what a fine genius he was. What a fine specimen of intellectual performance had been seen today! What a superb thinker, what a marvelous strategist he was!

Walking straight into that bastard’s hands . . .

Walking right into the General’s trap--and ignoring everyone else as he did it: ignoring Bridger’s warning, ignoring Dr. Westphalen’s alarmed grasp at his arm. Ignoring everything but his own desire to stop Noyce’s pain, he had moved. The cruel irony shook him: he had caused Noyce’s pain by trying to end it.

Bridger’s arms circled his shoulders. He ignored the soft words, so gentle, so easy to believe: "He would have done it whether or not you tried to stop him. There’s nothing you could have done . . ."

Nothing he could have done, nothing . . . nothing . . .

Helplessness gnawed at him.

Well, what the hell was he going to do when Thomas turned his eyes to Dr. Westphalen?

To Bridger?

What was he supposed to do then? Simply . . . sit back and hope to God no permanent damage was done?

Was he supposed to sit back even as Bridger’s screams tormented the air?

Rocking back and forth, back and forth, Lucas did the only thing he could: he retreated deep within his own mind, to where no one could reach him. He silenced the shouts of pain, burrowing so far within himself that the world seemed to disappear.

Yet, somehow, the screams still registered deep inside his mind . . . the screams were still there, despite what he did to erase them.


******
Noyce wavered in his seat, staring dully in front of himself with unfocused, hazy eyes. Blood lazily trickled down his forehead, from the corner of his mouth, from his nose. Blood even wept from his left ear, sliding a tiny drop at a time down his neck: drip, drip, drip.

His eyes were swollen, bruised. Lucas was amazed that the Admiral could still see through them at all. Noyce somehow still had the strength, the audacity, to stare up at Thomas with hatred--despite the fact that Lucas doubted he could actually see the General.

Lucas was just glad that Thomas had quit hitting Noyce in the face. The sounds of bone breaking, flesh hooked against Thomas’s hard knuckles . . . Lucas shivered. He hoped never to hear the sound again.

Of course, he wasn’t entirely certain Thomas’s latest tricks were any better. Drugs were Thomas’s newest strategy. The name of the drug shot shivers straight through Lucas’s spine: Diphorline-Pyroxine. This was the same crap he’d been given on the *Ulysses*--the same crap that had made him stare listlessly at a wall for God alone knew how long. Bridger had said it was at least six hours. And that was only one of the effects. He remembered not being able to move . . . then feeling pain blistered through his veins. It hurt to think that Thomas was using the same stuff on Noyce.

It hurt even more to know for what reasons Thomas was using it.

But the bastard hadn’t even *asked* Noyce any questions. Thomas hadn’t demanded information, secrets, codes, or anything of the sort. Hell, given Thomas’s position in the government, Lucas knew the . . . monster didn’t even need to ask for secrets. He already had access to all Noyce might know.

Information was trivial to him. What Thomas wanted was shock value. He wanted to shock Lucas right into betraying everything he knew and loved . . . everything.

Lucas flicked a nervous glance at Thomas as a long silence stretched between Noyce’s ever-resounding screams. Thomas just sat and smirked right back, casting several triumphant glances in Lucas’s general direction. Feeling Lucas’s eyes on him, Thomas slowly looked towards Noyce. A subtle smile lifted the left corner of his mouth.

Deliberately, Thomas moved his hand towards Noyce. The Admiral simply watched the hand drifting towards him, then swallowed hard as the hand clamped onto his shoulder.

Seconds passed. Bridger sat beside Lucas, his body tense . . . wanting to help, but knowing it wouldn’t help.

Bridger had already tried to run interference between Thomas and Noyce several times. He’d run between them; he’d offered his own body instead. He’d even tried tackling the General. However, Thomas wasn’t an idiot. He had his personal bodyguard-soldiers with him. Thomas had just laughed, seeming much amused, as one of his bodyguards tossed Bridger back onto the floor.

Lucas knew that, eventually, it would be Dr. Westphalen and the Captain up there.

And he still didn’t know what he was going to do when that happened.

The hand stopped; carefully, in a measured pace, it traced its way up to Noyce’s hair. Thomas then whipped Noyce’s head back . . . a tortured cry ripped from Noyce’s throat as Thomas’s fist cracked into his skull.

*Screams, screams, screams . . .*

Lucas felt his stomach tighten, sharp pain knifing through his own stomach as Thomas’s fist suddenly smacked into Noyce’s stomach. He thought everything must be breaking, tearing apart, with Thomas’s steady beating.

Agony. Pain. More cries of anguish.

Lucas’s vision wavered, darkened around the edges. This was *his* fault. This was *his* doing.

The Admiral screamed and screamed and screamed . . . the Admiral’s voice bled through the air, hauntingly filling the room’s silence even when he wasn’t screaming.

God, he had to do something. He had to do something . . .


******
His agony pierced the room’s silence.

This time, it was Alicia. Again. For the third time.

Lucas didn’t particularly like Alicia Noyce; he still remembered what she’d done on the *Ulysses.* He still remembered the gun she’d pointed his way. He remembered her herding his friends into a makeshift brig, locking them away as she prepared to steal the *Ulysses.* Worse, he remembered the drugs Nelson--at her request--had fed into his veins . . . and then Brigg. She couldn’t be held responsible for Brigg, but Lucas still managed to blame her, despite his mind’s recognition that it was completely unfair. Even now, he felt anger when thinking of her. Her mission aboard the *Ulysses* had led to his being tortured at the hands of that mad-ass Captain Brigg.

But he didn’t think anyone deserved this kind of treatment. Alicia was barely able to breathe; hell, he didn’t understand how she *was* breathing, given the number of times Thomas kept hitting her in the ribs. He was amazed anything resembling a ribcage remained.

Uneasily, Lucas shifted positions on the floor. Guilt nagged at him as he tried looking at anything in the room not covered with blood or battered by Thomas’s hands. It seemed almost everything, almost everyone, had blood smudged somewhere upon them. Even Bridger had a trace of blood on his shirt.

Even Bridger . . .

Lucas stopped the thought, swallowing hard and wincing as the movement hurt his throat. He suspected that, soon, Bridger would have a hell of a lot more than that tiny dot of blood covering his shirt. But Lucas . . . he couldn’t see any way of avoiding it.

No way but doing as Thomas asked.

And that wasn’t a choice. Never.

*Thwap.* Thomas struck Alicia in the face, his large Academy ring scraping across her skin and drawing blood Lucas flinched, wishing he were the one being hit instead. He could handle the pain if it were inflicted on his own body; watching it inflicted on someone else . . . it was the hardest thing Lucas had ever had to watch. Short of reversing roles with Alicia, Lucas wished he could block his ears, his eyes, to what was happening.

The blood trickled down Alicia’s narrow face, joining even more blood as it splashed against the floor.

Lucas’s heart wrenched for Nelson as he saw the man’s face. Lines creased his skin, tears running helplessly down his cheeks. From the short time they’d been together, Lucas knew Alicia and Nelson were close--perhaps even closer than he’d imagined. Yet, like Lucas himself, Nelson refused to give in, to yield, to the General’s torture. Nelson wouldn’t give the bastard the right of seeing him betray everything he believed in.

Lucas followed Nelson’s example and armored himself against what he was hearing.

*Schwack.* Alicia cried out, yelping, though she was almost unconscious. The sound carried straight to Lucas’s heart. He squeezed his eyes shut.

If he gave the information to Thomas, his friends would no longer suffer.

Certainly, that much was true. Thomas would have no reason to torture his friends, for he would have what he wanted so badly. He would probably leave Noyce alone, as well as Bridger and Westphalen.

Lucas suddenly snorted.

Unfortunately, he also wouldn’t have any reason for keeping them alive. Lucas had seen enough of this type of thing--hostages taken purposefully to hold over someone’s head until that person behaved as requested--to know that, generally, there was only one ending: bloodshed. Death. Murder.

*Whack.* Alicia didn’t even cry this time.

Nelson stirred across from him, a muscle twitching in his hand. His fist whitened into chalk.

Lucas wouldn’t . . .

*Crack.* The left wrist angled to the side, dangling lopsidedly, a broken twig attached only by skin . . .

Lucas shuddered.

He wouldn’t let his friends down like that. He *would not* let them down by giving into Thomas’s plans.

*Agony: throbbing, knifing agony.* Alicia’s cries hammered at his ears.

Nerves seething, aching for escape, aching for anything to hit, Lucas forced his hands to his side. His nails dug into his palms: deeper, deeper. Alicia’s howl rose throughout the room. Deeper his nails clawed. Blood ringed his fingernails. The tortured cry continued, tearing through a throat long since battered by the sounds of pain escaping it.

He wanted to run to her, to push Thomas away, to ease the pain. He wanted to do something . . . anything. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. To do anything would give Thomas exactly what . . .

*Crrrack.* Something else broke. Lucas couldn’t tell what. He didn’t know if he wanted that knowledge.

God.

He concentrated hard. He had to think. He had to think his way through this.

Couldn’t give Thomas what he wanted . . . couldn’t do it . . .

Had to think of something else. Lucas concentrated on his latest vortex readings . . .

Sharply, he crushed the thought. *No.* No, no, no. He wouldn’t think of that damned invention of his. Would that he had never invented it. Would that he were dead and at the bottom of the sea rather than . . .

More shrieking. More cries of pain. Increasingly, Lucas felt his mind slipping, retreating: he felt like he was about to join Alicia’s cries any moment now, his own voice a chorus to her screams.

*The vortex. Must think of the vortex.*

*No.* In confusion, Lucas shook his head. *No.* The screams were making it increasingly difficult to think, to catch his own thoughts.

He shouldn’t think of the vortex.

God, he was so confused. He just wanted silence. A moment of it, a breath of it . . . anything to get this godawful confusion out of his mind.

What the hell had he been thinking?

The vortex. Yeah, that was right. He frowned, trying to block the hitting sounds out of his mind. What about the vortex? Oh . . . the vortex was the reason he was here . . . it was the reason for Thomas’s actions.

If anything, he should be thinking of how to destroy everything he had ever written on the bloody . . .

More screams. He squeezed his eyes shut until spots danced behind his eyelids. He needed something else to consider . . . just something else. There was that problem with the seaQuest’s main computer. It only appeared from time to time, but Lucas didn’t like recurrent problems. They tended to show up again at the nastiest times possible.

Recurrent problems. Hell. His mind switched back to Thomas: there was a recurrent problem . . .

*Screeching in the background.* Lucas shivered.

Lucas had once owned a bird that sounded like that--a parrot. A beautiful parrot named Mikey. That bird was always getting into things . . . shiny things particularly. Mikey had tried eating his mom’s diamond earrings. Mom hadn’t been overly pleased with the bird. In fact, his parents had hated the thing. It would start screeching . . . and screeching . . .

And fists would fly.

Hell, fists.

Fists pounded into Alicia’s side. Lucas hid from the sound of pain in her voice, the slamming of her body against the floor.

His father’s fists suddenly blurred with Thomas’s fists. Lucas’s mind curled tighter: protected, unreachable.

Damn.

Alicia again. Himself as a small child. A darkened room, stuffy, the menacing steps of his father echoing towards him . . . bridging the time and distance between now and then to once more grab him . . .

Nausea. Swallowing hard, Lucas watched as his two worlds suddenly collapsed together: his father, Thomas, beating. One image superimposed over the other until both seemed almost the same.

*Cry of pain.*

Reality again. The present. Alicia in Thomas’s grasp.

Lord, was he going mad? Was this, then, madness?

One finger broke, then another . . . then another. Alicia continued to scream, tears of pain running down her face, intermingling with the blood already coating her skin. She whimpered, rocking back and forth in her chair.

Hell. Lucas cringed inwardly as he waited for Thomas’s next move.

Thomas pushed her to the floor, carelessly stepping over her--as if she were garbage not even worthy of his consideration.

And then Thomas’s eyes turned to Westphalen.


******
Thomas’s eyes bore into Kristin’s eyes, into her skull. Lucas swallowed hard, trembling, remembering that same gaze from when Thomas had attacked him earlier: the eyes were dark, unreadable, almost insane--and shining more brightly than they should have. Yet Kristin refused to look away, fierce anger burning through her own gaze. She lifted her chin slightly, back stiff, as he approached her.

Lucas’s pulse beat in his ears. He watched, his mouth suddenly dry, as the scene unfolded before him.

If he moved to intervene . . . if he moved to take Kristin’s place . . .

Lucas didn’t want to finish the thought, but he knew what would happen: he would only give Thomas more reason to hurt Doctor Westphalen. His move to help her would only make matters worse than they already were . . . though he couldn’t even begin to imagine things getting much worse.

No, Lucas took that back. He could imagine things getting worse. If Thomas even began to suspect how much hurting Kristin Westphalen would break him, Thomas would continue hurting her. He would hurt her until Lucas’s defenses did, indeed, shatter.

Lucas cringed at the thought. No. He couldn’t make things worse. He had to stay right where he was.

Yeah. Right where he was. Right while that bastard hurt Kristin . . .

The thought seethed through his mind before he could stop it. He felt his muscles tense, his body unconsciously waiting to leap upon Thomas as the General’s feet at last stopped in front of Kristin. Lucas didn’t know how much more of this damned *sitting on the sidelines while his friends were HURT* he could take.

He flexed his fist, briefly noting the dried blood from earlier . . . from when Thomas had interrogated Alicia. However, the small traces of blood on his hand were nothing compared to the blood covering Alicia’s face, the floor, her clothing.

Thomas’s hand curled into Kristin’s hair. He ripped her hair back, forcing her face up towards his own.

Lucas saw Bridger slowly edge his way to Kristin’s side, leaving the barely conscious Admiral Noyce in Nelson’s hands. His heart caught in his throat.

"Dr. Westphalen," Thomas purred, smiling slightly. Lucas felt his stomach twist. "I’m sure we can wipe that scowl from your face. Easily."

The General’s cold eyes turned to Lucas. Lucas buried his feelings as quickly as possible, tightening his face and praying to God his expression betrayed none of his true feelings. But, hell, he’d also been praying that lightening would strike Thomas dead or that the bastard would just keel over from heart failure. So far, neither prayer had come true. He didn’t think he’d be so lucky that this prayer was heard.

Without a warning, without so much as a flicker in his dead eyes, Thomas hauled Kristin to her feet, pulling her hair and dragging her towards the chair. Lucas moved, body uncoiling, nearly jumping to his feet . . . until he realized that he couldn’t. He stopped, shivering. Ice flowed through his veins as he felt Thomas’s gaze on him.

No.

He *couldn’t* help her.

Frack.

Shutting his eyes and wishing he were anywhere but here with anyone but Thomas, Lucas sank back onto the floor. Tears burned his eyes, clung to his lashes. Curling into a tight ball, knees drawn up to his chest, Lucas tried to hide from the sudden gasp he heard Kristin make as her hair was yanked one way, then another.

Kristin yelped. Lucas tried to focus his mind on differential equations.

Kristin screamed. Lucas tried to parse verbs.

Hard bone crackled against skin. Lucas tried to keep the tears from spilling down his cheeks.

Then Lucas heard struggling, cursing, a murmured, "Get the hell away from her, Thomas!"

Something hit the floor--hard.

Lucas’s eyes flew open to find Bridger and Thomas grappling on the floor. Their bodies collided with one another, hands reaching for each other’s throats. Blood flowed from Thomas’s temple as Bridger’s fist connected. Thomas reached up to Bridger’s neck, then pounded his fist into Bridger’s ribs instead. Lucas heard Bridger grunt in surprise, then watched as Thomas’s fist hit again and again.

*No no no no no . . .*

Frightened eyes staring helplessly as Thomas increased his attack, Lucas lunged for the two . . .

Only to be stopped as one of Thomas’s guards grabbed his arm. Anger lanced through his voice as he yelled at the man. The anger pounded, throbbed in his skull. Fury tore through him; feeling he could kill something, anything, with his bare hands, Lucas reached his right arm back and back and back . . . and punched the man with everything he had.

Agony met the impact of his hand. Something broke against Lucas’s knuckles, and there was that sound, the one that always told of extensive damage: the sickening sound of bone and ligaments torn, stripped from one another. The man screamed, voice echoing throughout the room.

Blood flowed down the man’s face, gurgling from the smashed side of his nose. Ice blue eyes suddenly glowed with pure hate. His hands reached for Lucas’s own neck, his fingers hard, tight. Blood splattered, unheeded, against the floor, against Lucas’s clothing, against the guard’s uniform. The two fell to the floor. In seconds, Lucas felt himself pinned, felt two hands reach for his throat.

The pressure increased. He struggled against the hands, the claws jabbing into his throat. Blackness started twisting his sight, fading the margins of his vision. More pressure . . . he was gasping, gasping for just one breath.

His fuzzy sight focused on the hate-driven eyes above him. They reminded him of . . . someone’s . . . Thomas’s . . . God . . .

Vague sounds in the background. His vision steadily deteriorating. Nothing but a hum, a general blackness starting to surround . . .

More vague sounds.

Then a gun shot.


******
Reality snapped back into Lucas’s mind. He awoke, body trembling helplessly, with one startling realization: he could breathe. His throat burned, but--if he was careful--he could gulp tiny breaths down.

His eyes fluttered open to find a hazy red surrounding him. Everything seemed coated in red: a sticky, thick, warm red. He was floating in a damned sea of red.

His eyes blinked, then refocused.

The ice blue eyes gazed at him: dead. Lifeless.

Red soaked into his clothing, dripped against his skin.

Suddenly, Lucas . . . screamed. He screamed with everything in him, at every horror, every terror, he had ever seen, at every drop of blood spilled uselessly, at every scene of violence he had ever witnessed. The mad cry rang through his skull, through his temples, through every cell in his body . . .

But not a sound whispered from his throat. His lips parted, his heart screamed and screamed and screamed because it could find no other way to handle what he had seen, what he had caused . . .

Blood seeping into the floor.

Blood dripping against him.

Blood . . . blood . . . blood . . .

Lifeless eyes staring at him.

God! Lifeless--eyes.

Shuddering helplessly, Lucas rolled over, watching as the corpse tumbled to the ground with a sickening *thud.* He tore at his clothing, at the blood that dripped from him . . .

Thomas had . . .

Leaning to his far left, Lucas swallowed the bile that burned his raw throat. His eyes met nothing but red. Blood was everywhere: covering him, puddled around the now-lifeless guard who had attacked him. Helplessly, he looked back up, towards Thomas.

He started to hyperventilate.

*No more blood.* Blood already covered him. It already reeked to heaven. To hell. To wherever. *No more no more no more.*

Lucas’s world tilted, crashing, plummeting around him. Darkness threatened.

Thomas . . . Thomas held a gun. The black gun shook in his hand.

No . . . Thomas’s hand didn’t shake. It was Lucas’s world that shook instead.

Kristin was on the ground, her battered body held by one guard. The guard held her hair firmly in his grasp. Soundlessly, she stared in front of her, her eyes wide with shock. Lucas couldn’t even tell if she was truly seeing anything.

Nelson’s body sprawled across part of the floor; he was breathing, but unconscious. Blood welled around his nose. One of Thomas’s guards crouched over him, fist painted with blood.

And his Captain was . . .

Lucas’s throat and chest throbbed, ached. He could barely breathe. Chaotic dots of color spasmed before his eyes.

*Bridger.* Lucas pushed down the fear, the terror, that raced straight through his heart. He forced his mind to register what was happening.

Thomas held a gun to Bridger’s head. The Captain breathed raggedly, bending slightly at the waist. Scarlet stained his shirt. His eyes blazed, even as he blinked blood and sweat out of them.

Lucas’s eyes suddenly fell on something cold, something softly shining against the blood coating its surface.

His eyes looked back at the Captain, at Dr. Westphalen, at Admiral Noyce . . . even at Nelson and Alicia Noyce.

He looked at the dead body beside him. It no longer bled; it was now dry of life, a husk.

Too much death. Already, there was too much death.

He blinked. He moved towards the dead guard’s body, watching as Thomas watched him. Softly, he whispered, words barely loud enough to be heard, "Let h--him go. N--now."

Thomas stared at him, eyes suddenly crinkling at the corners. The General tightened his hold on Bridger, smiling slightly as the Captain cursed helplessly under his breath. Thomas’s finger twitched near the trigger.

Silence. Lucas and Thomas stared at one another. Thomas’s smile widened, a caricature of mirth as the eyes remained cold, heartless, unyielding. Lucas focused simply on breathing. He silently began counting.

*One . . . two . . . three . . .*

*Four.* Suddenly, the stare ended. Lucas moved. His hand a blur, Lucas grabbed the shiny object that had entranced his attention only moments before; it was stuck in the guard’s boot, hidden there for emergency use. It hadn’t helped the guard. It would help Lucas, though. Lucas swore it would. He would make it help him.

Precious split seconds passed. Lucas could have sworn time slowed, its ticking ceasing, as he moved. His blood hammered in his own ears, pounding: *throb, throb, throb.* He thought he heard the sound of every heart beating in the room.

Metal hissed in the dead silence of the room. The silence quivered as a knife suddenly appeared in Lucas’s hand . . . then as that same hand held the blade to his throat.

Slowly, the knife firmly held against his own throat, he looked back at Thomas. Blood trickled down his throat, a scarlet ribbon against white alabaster, as he forced the blade to bite into his own flesh.

For the first time since their meeting, the General was no longer in control. Blood drained from the man’s face as he, too, realized what had happened.

Lucas had just changed the game entirely by making his own life the prize.

Part 6