Entanglements with the Enemy

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 . . .

* READ AUTHOR'S NOTE*: some elements have been changed from canonical tradition. 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.

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

Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn


Entanglements with the Enemy
by Sheri Ann


Wires sprawled everywhere. Dangling, looping over crossways, coursing up walls, spiraling into tiny, dark crevices, they seemed alive, like metallic, plastic-skinned ivy crawling in a maze of twists and turns-trying madly to cover every inch, every centimeter of space. But this was most certainly not ivy: reds, blues, yellows, purples, blacks, greens, oranges, grays, whites-all hues jumbled crazily together, without thought, without pattern, without order.

Unless, of course, one understood the system behind the colors, behind the sprawling clash of shapes.

One such individual was even now happily sifting through the twisting, turning wires. The form was barely visible in the dim, fluctuating, florescent light. Dark clothing, dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. The dark eyes, however, were lit with triumph as the figure dramatically plucked one tiny, almost invisible turquoise wire from its nest of other tiny, almost invisible turquoise wires. Flourishing the wire proudly in front of him, the man grinned at his companion, a smug smile slipping across his face. As promised, he’d done it. He’d found the culprit; out of thousands of possible culprits, he’d found the defective wire.

His companion groaned, kicking ill-humoredly at the wires nearly entangling his feet. The wires merely bent, then regained shape as his feet at last retreated. Instead of stupidly kicking at wires, he simply glared at the man next to him, wishing silently that he could wipe that smirk right off the man’s face. It was bad enough that he’d been dragged into this. But putting up with this man’s smugness was just too much to expect from anyone. He only wished that cooling someone’s ego was as easy as cooling someone’s body temperature. If such were the case, he’d dump a bucket of ice on his companion’s ego any day.

Still smiling, the wire-bearer grinned arrogantly and began fusing turquoise wires with red wires and red wires with purple wires . . . and finally purple wires with blue wires, hoping to hell that they’d not blow up in his face or electrocute him. Well, no fire quite yet . . . he hoped one didn’t suddenly materialize, for, truthfully, to catch half a thousand wires on fire in front of his grumpy companion would not only be embarrassing-it would also be deeply humiliating.

It would be humiliating for one very simple reason, too, a reason for which he was completely responsible: for hours, he’d lectured his companion on how to do this, how to do that-essentially, how to assemble any and every component a ship’s wiring might need. Of course, during his lectures, as any instructor would, he’d highlighted his years of experience and his “vast” knowledge of mechanical engineering.

So . . . well, he’d basically painted a portrait of himself as the god of engineering.

Okay, so he’d exaggerated a bit. But who wouldn’t when confronted with an intelligent, sharper-than-a-whip disciple? Moreover, who wouldn’t exaggerate when that sharper-than-a-whip disciple was required to listen if he liked it or not? Having a captive audience had its definite benefits, one of which was parading a slightly overblown list of his accomplishments before his listener’s ears.

Captain Nathan Hale Bridger of the United Earth/Oceans Organization’s flagship submarine, the seaQuest, suddenly grinned. He cast his “devoted disciple” (or his “drafted drudge,” if all truth were known) a glance. The aforementioned drudge was even now distractedly playing with a pile of discarded wires, sculpting them into the shape of a dolphin, astutely ignoring every word and movement Bridger made. Nathan could see what looked like the snout of a dolphin forming; doubtlessly, this was supposed to be a sculpture of Darwin. With imagination, he could even say it somewhat resembled the real Darwin.

He sighed, shaking his head. Kids. When one got right down to it, they made the worst disciples. This seemed true even when their presence was mandatory.

Yawning, Nathan’s drudge looked up, casting his Almighty Teacher a bored, disgruntled look. He then glanced at the instrument panel, rolling his eyes. He pointed at it, wagging his finger impudently. “Ha! You call that engineering, sir? I don’t see any lights blinking.”

Nathan glared at his supposed protégé. “Ha yourself! I don’t see you fixing it!” He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot, refusing to look away from his crewmember. “Besides, there are a few other areas that could be wrong.”

Nathan’s alleged disciple-one Lucas Daniel Wolenczak, the seaQuest’s resident fourteen year-old computer and physics geek-outright laughed. His captain had dug himself into a pit on this one.

“Sir, there could be any number of things wrong here!” He finished shaping Darwin’s snout, then looked back at Nathan. “The ship could be having a bad wire day, for all we know.”

Laughing softly, Nathan glanced at the wires sprawling in every direction. Yes, one could say the ship was having a bad wire day. It would take him at least ten hours of fully concentrated effort to put this tangle of wires back in order. Even with Lucas’s help, he doubted the wires could be reassembled in less than six hours. And he still hadn’t found the faulty wire . . . if there were one. It could be something else, as Lucas had “innocently” suggested several hours ago, suggesting the unthinkable even as his captain was elbow-deep in wires. However, Nathan had to examine the very real possibility that the “unthinkable” might very well need consideration. It might not be a wire problem.

Damn.

He’d been so certain that he was right. This should teach him to listen to Lucas before embarking on a twelve-hour tour through a ship’s entrails.

Lucas caught the look of self-disgust on his captain’s face and shrugged lightly, trying to cheer him up-even though the look of disgust was well worth the twelve hours of toiling through corridors and instrument panels.

“Sir, I don’t even see the problem here. This isn’t our ship. Have them call in the engineers or something. Surely they can get in touch with the original designers of this beast.”

“Well, Lucas, they can’t get in touch with the designers: they’re all ignoring the phone. And that isn’t even the point. I said I’d fix it. When I say I’ll fix something, I mean it. In fact, when I say we’ll fix something, I mean it-which, by the way, means it’s now your turn to take a whack at this.” He grinned as he watched Lucas’s jaw all but drop to the floor. “You had some ideas. Perhaps I should’ve listened to them before I got all carried away here. Obviously, my turquoise wire hasn’t made a bit of difference. Where were you thinking of starting?” Quickly, Lucas wiped out his dolphin sculpture with his foot, now all business. He shrugged.

“Probably the computers, the simplest item on board. It seems if propulsion is down, even though this is a new ship, we could take a look at the central processor for routine or subroutine degradation.” He paused, then grinned happily, rubbing his hands together. “If not, we can take a look at the ionizer. I’ve never seen one on a ship, but the principle should be the same as on shore. It could be that we have an anti-gravity ionization problem here. God only knows, actually, given the technical nature of this monster.”

Lucas paused, eyeing the instrument panels with something approaching awe. Nathan hid his smile, imagining that pilgrims possessed the same star-dazed expression when they at last arrived at Mecca. But then, the Ulysses was Mecca for Lucas; the computer hacker and physicist in him thrived in such environments.

“So, sir, does this mean that I get to play with the big toys now?”

Nathan stared at him. “Toys? These ‘toys’ cost the UEO several billion dollars worth, young man. You’d best keep your fingers off as many of the Ulysses’ toys as possible.” Seeing the crestfallen expression on Lucas’s face, the captain relented. “Okay, maybe a few toys. Let’s just be careful what toys we play with. We don’t want to break anything here.”

Nodding eagerly, Lucas couldn’t agree more.

With a sigh, Nathan pulled out his comlink and patched his voice through to the rest of his Ulysses repair team from the seaQuest.

“Bridger here. Lieutenant O’Neill and Lieutenant Commander Hitchcock, I need you down on Port 5 to reassemble the wiring. It would appear that we don’t have a wiring problem. Lucas wants to check on the computer and then the ionizer, so we’ll be heading towards the bridge. Lieutenant Krieg and Chief Ortiz, I’d like you to meet us there. Doctor Westphalen, I’ll have you take a look at anything that looks like it needs checking: I leave that to your discretion. Captain out.”

Bridger switched off the comlink, sighing. The Ulysses: a multi-billion dollar, high-tech ship dead in the water because no one on earth knew how it ran. Great. What brilliant move would the UEO make next?

Following Lucas as the teen ran excitedly towards the ship’s main computer interface, his eyes practically glowing at the prospect of playing with such advanced technology, Nathan shook his head; they’d practically need a genius to command this ship. Hadn’t the UEO even considered how difficult it would be to pilot a ship this technologically advanced? Hadn’t they considered that most of the crew wouldn’t know the difference between an ionizer and a tow beam?

Unfortunately, Nathan had a bad feeling that the answer was a resounding no.

Feeling like the proverbial stick-in-the-mud, Nathan stood out of the way and watched as Lucas tapped strange equations and even stranger numbers into the computer. Well, at least Lucas had figured how to turn the damned thing on; not even Hitchcock had gotten that far. If he could keep Krieg and Ortiz from both killing each other and distracting Lucas, they might just get off this boat sometime in the next century. He only hoped that Kristin was having more luck with her search than they were; as yet, Lucas hadn’t quite found a problem with the computer. Of course, that was at least partially because the computer was behaving in a most non-user-friendly fashion. It’d already knocked Lucas-the whiz of computers and numbers-from its auspices three times.

With a sigh, Nathan sat down. His feet were killing him, and it looked like this was going to be one long night.


*****
Three hours later and nothing had changed. The computer was still being cantankerous. Lucas was glaring at its technologically superior faceplate and devising multiple plans for torturing the machine (assuming it could be tortured). Ortiz was noisily tapping his foot, obviously wanting to leave the Ulysses as soon as possible; Nathan wondered if the man had a date or something. And Krieg . . . well, he was doing his very best to be obnoxious to any and everyone. He was even getting on Lucas’s nerves. If Krieg didn’t shut his mouth soon, Nathan swore he’d tape it shut. How Lucas could concentrate with the man chattering in his ears hour after hour was beyond him. He suspected even Lucas was on the edge of losing his concentration, especially when he saw the boy roll his eyes and beat his fist angrily against the computer, glaring at his friend as if he wished he’d just struck the lieutenant instead. Even Kristin had returned with little news from her search for possible problems. Everything seemed to be working fine. The engines just . . . wouldn’t start.

Nathan suspected the next move was to check the ionizer. That, of course, worried him. He wondered if he should evacuate the boat of his skeleton crew before Lucas tried playing with that piece of equipment. He kept imagining giant holes blasted into the ship’s shell. Though a brilliant computer whiz and scientist, Lucas was still a kid-and kids and ionizers gave Nathan serious indigestion.

Looking at the clock as he stretched his aching limbs, Nathan finally decided that they’d had enough for the day. They could all use a break. So, with a sigh, he flipped open his comlink and said, “All right, folks, the day is well past done for us. Let’s go grab a bite to eat and call it a night. See you all in the Mess Hall in a few.”

As he heard excited “Yes, sir’s,” he wryly reflected that this was one order his crew was more than happy to follow . . . probably because they didn’t know what dinner would consist of. He’d wait to fill them in on that tiny little detail until they were all gathered together in the Mess Hall. From experience, he suspected that the last thing they’d want to hear was what dinner would be: dried beef, dried bread, and dried milk. Umm . . . appetizing.

So, surprised to find that he didn’t need to pull Lucas from the computer after all, Nathan and company traipsed off to the Mess Hall.

On their journey towards dinner, they didn’t spot the shadows following them.


******
Sitting beside his captain with his feet propped up on one mess table and his head rested against the back of his chair, Lucas stared at what had been set in front of him. It had to be a joke. What he saw defied interpretation: three small rectangular cartons, each with the word dried inscribed across the surface.

This had to be a joke: a malicious joke, but a joke nonetheless. As he looked up, he saw variations of the same expression on the faces surrounding him. No, he wasn’t the only one miffed at this. They’d just spent over ten hours on this tub of a technological showpiece, and what did the UEO’s kind chefs provide them to eat? Dried supplements! Not even semi-dried, semi-identifiable supplements-such as vitamin supplements that suspiciously tasted and looked exactly like oranges-but cartons of powdered food. Zikes!

Pushing the cartons to the side, he decided he really wasn’t that hungry after all.

And then he caught the captain’s glare. As he watched Bridger actually tear his carton of dried beef open, add water and a straw, and-God above, the very bravery of the act!-drink the mixture, he shook his head. Bridger was still glaring at him; the glare intensified as Lucas, acting like the bratty kid he was supposed to be, charitably pushed his carton of dried beef towards the captain.

Bridger’s glare focused even more, so, at last, Lucas snapped, “What? I don’t see anyone else eating this . . . stuff. If you’d like, you can have mine. In fact . . .” he glanced at the officers surrounding him, then said, “I think you can probably have all of ours. Enjoy, sir!”

“So much for setting a good example for the rest to follow, Lucas!” Captain Bridger huffed, still hunched over his dried beef and periodically chugging at its contents. Lucas tried to hide his laugh each time, for the captain’s face said it all: it squished up, his nose wrinkling, his eyes watering, his mouth curling down. No, thank you-he’d do without eating that.

“What? Me? Set an example?” Lucas echoed, laughing softly. “I’m a kid, captain. I’m not supposed to set examples. Except maybe for pranks. But then, for pranks, you’d probably want to talk to Ben.”

Krieg grinned, smoothly juggling his three cartons of dried meals with few mishaps. He glanced at Lucas between the flying cartons. “Who? Me? I’m honored.”

Bridger snorted, catching one of Ben’s cartons and holding it squarely in front of the lieutenant’s nose. “Mr. Krieg, don’t you have anything better to do-such as eat, for example? There are plenty of cartons for you to use.”

“But, sir . . .”

With a sigh, Bridger interrupted, “Look, folks, I’m no happier about this than you are. But we do need to eat. At least get one of these down; we’ve all been working hard, and we need the nutrients. I’ve already hollered at the seaQuest to bring some real food over as soon as possible. They should be able to stop by sometime tomorrow.” He looked at Lucas, then pushed the boy’s dried beef back towards him, ignoring the disgusted expression on his face. Bridger then glanced at the rest of his small crew. “Now, since you’re all navy men and women, I think you can handle this. I have faith in your courage.”

Lucas was about to argue that no, he wasn’t a member of the navy, but he caught Bridger’s glower and decided to keep this little argument to himself. So, glaring at his captain, he added water to his dried beef and swallowed the chalk down all in one gulp, not daring even to breathe until the substance was completely down.

He then desperately swallowed three glasses of water.

He only hoped the sleeping accommodations were better than this. His third glass of water in hand, Lucas finally followed as everyone began drifting out of the Mess Hall. But like an idiot, he suddenly remembered his computer was sitting on the dining table-his treasured, beaten, somewhat abused personal computer, his beloved instrument of computations and formulae. So, quickly, hoping to avoid becoming lost on this maze of a boat, he dodged back into the Mess Hall for his little computer and grabbed it. With a happy sigh, Lucas headed back towards his friends, knowing full well that they’d give him a hard time over his love for his computer. Some things just couldn’t be sacrificed. His computer was one of them.

Then, suddenly, he stopped.

What the hell?

He clearly saw Ben’s back only feet in front of him, his shoulder’s tense. Lucas stared. What looked like the barrel of a gun was pointing at his friend’s chest. To his friend’s side, Lucas could see a darkly clad, hooded figure, its head turned towards the hall in front.

Stunned, Lucas simply stood there, wondering what he should do. He swallowed hard.

Carefully, slowly, Lucas began to back away, gliding as soundlessly as possible to the Mess. Only a few feet. Ben could do it in his sleep. He could do it now; he had to. Lucas didn’t know who the hell was on the ship, but they certainly weren’t friendly. They certainly weren’t here to help put the ship back together.

God Almighty, guns. Guns!

He continued backing up, desperately searching for the hatch to the Mess. All he found was panel after panel of metallic wall. Sweat dripped down his cheeks, down his chin. His hands trembled. It hadn’t seemed this far before . . .

And then, suddenly, he saw a red beam of light flash onto his arm. Oh, God. They’d spotted him.

“Stop right there.”

He heard the voice just as he found the hatch to the Mess Hall. Licking his lips in pure terror, Lucas sprang with all his force into the hatch, slamming it behind him as he tumbled into the room. He smelled something burning next to him: a newly-created hole smoked in the Mess. Convulsively, he shuddered, slamming himself against the floor as more laser fire penetrated the wall. What the hell were they using, anyway? He’d never seen laser rifles capable of shooting through a ship’s walls.

Quickly, knowing it was his only chance of escape, and perhaps their only chance of survival, Lucas tore open an instrument panel attached to the Mess Hall’s refrigeration system. Probably for the first time in his life, he thanked the Lord above that he was so thin. He climbed into its entanglement of wires and fuses, then snapped the panel back into place behind him. The door to Mess Hall banged open.

Trying not to hyperventilate, Lucas closed his eyes, terrified. Talk about your miraculous timing. His timing was as unreal as the rest of this mess was.

As Lucas waited, panting, he felt something wet trickle into his eyes. Wiping it away, he realized it wasn’t sweat. It was red. It was blood. His blood. Damn, he was bleeding all over the place. He couldn’t imagine where he’d managed to hit himself; actually, now that he thought about it, breathing quickly and listening for any sounds of pursuit, it could’ve been just about anywhere. It could even be from the gunfire, though he doubted it: if he’d been hit by their guns, he’d now be one very dead Lucas Wolenczak.

Carefully, he slid through the tight passage cut into the ship’s body. The ship, he knew, was riddled with these small, hidden passages: air vents, refrigeration units, bypass valves. Like a medieval castle, hidden passages went everywhere. If he could only figure out the design behind the passages, he could use them to his advantage.

Providing his unknown enemy didn’t find him and/or shoot him first.

Damn. He suddenly wished he’d listened to the captain a few more times when he discussed ship schematics. This would teach him to ignore pertinent information.

He pressed on.

Bridger sat rigidly on the floor, hands cuffed before him. They were on the Ulysses’ bridge, staring at each other in shock. As of yet, their captors had said nothing to them but “Move” or “Stay still.” Nothing had been mentioned of why they were on board the Ulysses, or of what they planned to do with their hostages. They hadn’t even questioned Nathan on anything: on crew, on weapons, on computers, on engines. Nothing at all.

As far as he could tell, there were eleven of them on the bridge itself-all fully armed, all fully organized and systematic in their handling of the ship. The Ulysses wasn’t running any more than it had been moments earlier, but Nathan wondered if they knew how to operate the ship. The very thought frightened the hell out of him.

If these were members of the Non-Allied Powers, the renegade power in international politics, they could have no purpose in stealing this ship but to engage in warfare. They’d been threatening war against the UEO for months now. With the UEO’s most technologically advanced ship in their fleet, Nathan knew the Non-Allied Powers would have an excellent chance at maiming or destroying the UEO.

A red-haired, hazel-eyed woman suddenly entered the bridge, and Nathan watched curiously as their captors stood at peak attention. She looked to be about thirty or so, small strands of gray peppering her otherwise fiery hair. Briefly, she spoke in soft tones to the men and women around her. Then she proceeded directly to the captives.

Well, if he knew anything, he knew this was the leader of their captors.

She looked immediately at him. “Captain Bridger. I see the rumors are true. You like to play with wires and fuses. Such habits can get you into trouble.”

Bridger rose one eyebrow. “I have found knowing my ship to be a habit most necessary for command.”

She nodded. “Of course. So have I.” She then looked at the rest of his small crew, smiling slightly. “Lieutenant O’Neill. Lieutenant Krieg. Lieutenant Commander Hitchcock. Doctor Westphalen. Chief Ortiz.” She paced back and forth in front of the hostages, then abruptly halted once more in front of the captain. “I see we are missing one of your crew. Who?”

Bridger looked from one face to another, stupidly examining his crew-as if he wasn’t quite sure who he was missing. “Hmmm . . . O’Neill. Hitchcock. Ortiz. Westphalen. O’Neill. Ah. We must be missing Krieg. I don’t see him here.”

The leader’s voice snapped at him, “Don’t play the fool, captain. You’re not generally known as an idiot.”

Bridger shrugged. “We’re missing crewman Orson. He took off like a stag as soon as he saw the guns. Wise decision on his part.”

Briefly, the lady turned to a tall, blond-haired, gray eyed, unevenly bearded accomplice at her side. After a moment’s conversation, the man typed something into a computer resting beside him, then abruptly laughed. He gestured mockingly at the screen.

The leader turned back to Bridger. “Orson seems to be the seaQuest’s cook, captain. I’m sure you didn’t have any need to haul a cook with you for this little mission of yours. I’m especially sure of this considering the ‘food’ you were just moments ago eating. Hardly what you’d eat if you had a genuine cook on board.”

Bridger shrugged. He had plenty of lies to go through before the truth could be guessed. In fact, he had about two-hundred twenty-five lies to go through: every name of every crewmember on the seaQuest. Lucas’s name wouldn’t pass his lips. “I’d have to agree. Maybe I should fire him for his cooking. What do you think?”

She simply turned to her assistant. “Nelson, take them to the holding cell. Keep them there. Be sure they get plenty of real food . . . not the garbage their dear UEO provided for them.” She glanced back at them, then at Nelson. “And run a database search. Look for a crewman with blond hair. That much was seen before he disappeared.”

Inwardly, Bridger winced. That narrowed the possibilities considerably.

“Also look for someone with an engineering background. That seems most likely.”

At this, Bridger had to hide a smug smile. Not quite right on that one.

“Scan the officers first. He’ll most likely be one of them.” Wrong again, fire-head, Nathan thought. Just keep on thinking along that track.

She looked at the captain, trying to judge his reaction to her statements. She then smiled slightly. “By the way, I’m Alicia Noyce. How is my father lately, captain?”

At the casual mention of her name, Nathan stared in shock. Alicia Noyce? Little Alicia, who he’d watched growing up? Alicia doing this? He shook his head, refusing to believe what she’d said. But the eyes . . . they were definitely her mother’s eyes. As was the hair. What the hell had happened between Bill and Alicia? What had driven Alicia to the other side?

Seeing his startled, disbelieving look, Alicia gestured for Nelson to take them to their quarters. She watched them leave, smiling somewhat wickedly as Nathan turned in his tracks and outright stared at her.

But then there was still the matter of that one missing crewmember. If she knew her father’s best friend, Bridger wouldn’t divulge the person’s name if the very devil himself came to collect his soul. So . . . well, they’d just have to find him themselves, wouldn’t they?

Excited, she turned to her work. Things were going splendidly. She had the best ship made on the face of the planet, she had excellent hostages, and she had an outstanding crew. They’d oust the UEO before the UEO even knew what had hit them.

Then she’d talk to her father and convince him of the error of his ways. And Bridger and O’Neill and Krieg and Hitchcock and Westphalen and Ortiz and whoever the missing crewman was . . . she’d convince each and every one of them that the UEO was too powerful for its own good. It was in need of some good old-fashioned iconoclasting.

But now, there was work to be done.


******
The “holding cell” was actually the ship’s brig, an immense room converted to hold more than fifteen hostages relatively comfortably. There were cots and blankets and extra clothes. Food was stock-piled for them in a small refrigerator: apples, oranges, chicken, turkey, synthetic ham and synthetic beef. There was even a stereo with soft, calming music playing. They’d been listening to the same disc for over five hours.

Lieutentant Ben Krieg, however, wanted to take that damned disc and shove it up their captor’s . . .

Frustrated, he slammed his fist into the wall. Damn! He felt completely useless. Like a bunch of idiots, they’d let themselves be captured while Lucas-young, untrained Lucas-had managed to escape.

God, Lucas was out there by himself.

The very thought frightened the hell out of Ben. Especially given the firepower their captors were using.

He caught Bridger’s worried, equally frustrated glance, then forced himself to look away. It did no one a bit of good if he lost his cool. It didn’t help them get out of this hell-hole. It didn’t help them contact the seaQuest for help. And it certainly didn’t help Lucas. He circled the room, trying valiantly but unsuccessfully to ease his nerves.

Lucas: out there alone.

The very thought rankled.

Minutes later, his face red with anger, Krieg decided it was time to hit the wall again before he hit one of his comrades instead. In frustration, Ben found a nicely sized, solid-looking wall panel to pound with his anger. But as he hit the wall panel, Krieg was amazed-no, flabbergasted-when the panel abruptly began to glow. He stared, backing away from it slowly, as if afraid that it’d suck him into its core.

Bridger suddenly stood beside him, staring at the panel with equal amazement. Carefully, he touched the panel-then literally jumped back as he heard a soft voice.

“Captain?” The voice was fuzzy, diffuse. It focused a bit more, as did the panel. Nathan could see a dim outline in the panel: blond hair, slim shoulders, dark background. He blinked quickly, not believing what he was seeing. Metal panels didn’t just begin glowing out of nowhere. Nor did they speak in the voice of one of his crewmembers.

“Captain? Are you there? It’s me. I’m trying to get this monster of a communications system to make sense, but this may be the best I’ll get it to do for awhile . . .” The voice disappeared for a moment, then returned. “Sorry about that. Technology for you . . .”

Finally, Bridger shook his head, as if to shake it of cobwebs. He frowned darkly. This was unbelievable. He’d never seen anything like this. Hell, he’d never even imagined anything like this.

“Lucas? Where the hell are you? And what, for heaven’s sake, what are you doing talking on a damned metal panel?”

A soft laugh was heard, and the picture cleared just enough for Nathan to see a smile on the boy’s face. He also saw one hell of a large bandage wrapped around Lucas’s head. Nathan’s disbelief rapidly changed to concern. He quickly demanded, “Lucas, what happened to your head? Were you shot?”

But the teen shook his head. “No . . . at least, I don’t think so. I’m not exactly sure, but I think I hit my head when I rammed my way through an instrument panel. I was so focused on getting out of the Mess Hall that I didn’t even notice it for awhile.” Lucas paused, looking carefully at each of them as the group of captives gathered around their captain. He continued, “Sir, I’ve made a few jumps into the communications system here. It’s amazing, too: I’ve never seen anything like it. Every room on this ship has a metal panel capable of communications, almost like a camouflaged viewscreen or something. I’m not sure how they rigged it, but . . . well, it obviously works. I’ll need to fine-tune it, of course, but . . .”

Lucas paused, inhaling deeply.

“Sir, I can keep in contact with you almost anywhere they move you. I just have to figure out the exact communications grid for the ship. I’ve also figured out a few more kinks in the computer system. My next stop is the ionizer.” Lucas quickly glanced around himself, then said, “I have a plan, sir. It’s not the best of plans, but it’s the best I can come up with.” He paused hesitantly. This was going to be the hard part.

“Sir, I’m going to play saboteur.”

Bridger’s face practically blazed with shock. Nathan leaned in to the panel, pointing his finger at the boy, his finger trembling slightly. Violently, he shook his head.

“No! You will not! Do you hear me, Lucas? You will not play saboteur. You won’t even consider it. It is too dangerous. These people will likely shoot first and then ask questions later. You can’t do this. Do you understand me?”

Silence met Bridger’s ears, and he watched as his young computer scientist, his young physicist, slowly shook his head. Nathan listened in complete disbelief as Lucas, after a moment’s hesitation, said softly, “I understand you, sir, but I will not sit here uselessly as this ship floats towards the Non-Allied Powers’ headquarters. They’ve plotted a course for Dominia, sir. If I don’t do something now, this ship will reach enemy waters.”

“The ship isn’t even working, Lucas! No one can run the stupid thing!”

“Sir, they’re working on that little problem even as we speak. And with quite a bit more success than we had. I’m thinking the engine problem is actually a result of their previous sabotage. Probably right before the Ulysses was supposed to leave port.” Lucas watched as fear registered on his comrades’ faces, then he looked back at Nathan. “I don’t know what else to do, sir. I can’t free you. They have seven men in front of the hatch, sometimes up to ten. But I can’t sit here and watch them cart this ship off to Dominia, either. I have to do something. If you have any better ideas, I’m listening. Otherwise, I don’t see any choice.”

Nathan felt all eyes on him, but especially Lucas’s. Finally, he shook his head. As the moments ticked by, he shook his head with more determination. He then looked at Lucas. “No. You will not do this. The best thing for you to do right now is to turn yourself in. That way, at least, they won’t kill you at first sight.”

Again, silence: heavy, heavy silence. Lucas slowly glanced at the ceiling, at the floor, and then back at his captain. He, too, shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that. Not with the mess . . .”

“Lucas Daniel Wolenczak, you will do exactly as I say! This is not a request; this is an order. An order given by your captain!”

Flatly, Lucas replied without a blink, “No. Sir, I do understand the penalty for direct disobedience. In this case, I must accept the consequences. I didn’t expect you to agree on this.”

“You’d better damn well bet I won’t agree on this!” Nathan snapped, furiously pacing in front of the metal panel. He glared at the boy, wishing to strangle him right then and there. “And do you truly understand the penalty for disobedience, Lucas? Do you even begin to understand what you’re getting yourself into?”

Leaning into the panel, Lucas held Nathan’s gaze in his own. He swallowed hard, frightened to death but feeling-no, knowing-he was right. “Captain, I would never disobey you if I didn’t think the order was unreasonable. But in this, I think you’re on left field, sir . . .”

“Left field? You think I’m on left field!”

“Yes!” Lucas answered forcefully, trying to ignore the panic he heard in Nathan’s voice. God, he hated doing this to his captain.

“Captain, you’re not thinking. You’re worried about my age instead. You’re thinking as my friend, not as my captain. Damn it, sir, let me continue!” He snapped as Bridger tried to interrupt; surprised, the captain remained silent. “If I were anyone else, you’d not only permit my ‘mission,’ but you’d encourage it. If I were Ben or Tim or Miguel or Katie or Kristin, you’d understand that I’m right; you’d understand that I’m doing what must be done. Sir, for heaven’s sake, I may be fifteen, but I am not a child. In this, at least, I know what must be done.

“The facts of the case are simple. You’ve been captured. You have a crewmember who managed to escape capture. You have an incredibly advanced ship being taken by the enemy. There is only one choice; logic suggests it. You need a saboteur, and I’m it. I have the scientific expertise to throw this boat upside down. I’m free enough to do it. It’s my job, it’s my duty as a member of this crew, to do what I can. And frankly, sir, we don’t have any choice.”

As the captain stared at him speechlessly, his conscience obviously fighting him, Lucas gently added, “I’ll be as careful as I can. And I’ll keep an eye out for where they keep you. They may decide to move you when the fires begin. I may be able to free you, with any luck.” He looked away for a moment, then said softly, “Remember once, sir, you told me that we must act according to our beliefs, according to what we want others to remember us by? That’s how I have to act now. I believe this is simply what must be done. If we don’t stop this ship from reaching Dominia, people-innocent people-will die. I don’t believe I have a choice. My conscience says so.” Lucas suddenly glanced at his watch, then back at them. “The Big Bang is about to begin. I’ve got to go, sir. I’ll keep in touch.”

With that, Lucas’s face disappeared from the screen.

As a group, they stared in amazement at the screen-then turned to Bridger.

As if someone had punched him in the face, Nathan stared at the now-empty screen-at the innocent-looking metal panel. Belatedly, he reached his right hand out to the screen, wanting to touch the boy who’d only minutes ago been on that screen, wanting to say something, anything, to him before he vanished. He wanted to say, if necessary, the good-bye he’d never had the chance to say to Robert or Carol. But the words, as before, went unsaid, unspoken.


********
Nathan was sitting motionlessly, still in shock from Lucas's words, still yearning to say something, anything, to the boy, when he felt the first of six explosions rocket through the ship: The Big Bang, as Lucas had called it. He smelled smoke filling the air, a heavy metallic odor drifting through the ventilation systems. The shock waves ripping through the boat were enough to make the metal moan. He heard the ship's belly creak with each new blast. One way or another, this ship wasn't reaching Dominia. If Lucas had to sink the beast, Nathan suddenly realized that the boy would do it. Lucas not only would know how to do it, but he also would be able to push the button. The teen had more backbone in him than five or six Commander Fords . . . which said quite a bit.

He looked up as Alicia Noyce stormed into the holding cell, her red hair falling loosely into her eyes. She glared at Nathan.

"All right, captain. You've made your fine little show. You've burned holes in several decks, and you've put quite the damper on our trip home. However, this won't stop us. You might as well tell me where your little saboteur is hanging out. That way, I might be able to keep my people from killing him at first glance."

Nathan winced at this, but held his tongue. If Lucas needed time, he'd buy him time.

"I believe he's somewhere around the kitchens. He was getting hungry last I spoke to him." She snorted. "You haven't spoken to him, captain! My men have been outside the entire time."

Nathan shrugged. "Then why are you asking me where he is? Do you think I'm telepathic or something?" Mockingly, he closed his eyes, assuming the lotus position as he hummed softly. Still humming, he then peeked his eyes open. "Ummm . . . looks like I was wrong. Instead of hitting the kitchens, he went instead to the gardens. He always loved jasmine and smoke together. He's a gardener, you know."

"Quit this nonsense, sir," she said with a sigh, glaring at him. She studied his impassive face. "What's his name? Where would he likely go?"

At this, Nathan snorted. "You expect me to give you that type of information? And what, do you think I've lost my marbles?"

"Nelson!" she shouted, annoyed. The assistant peeked in, not even glancing at their hostages. "Run another parameter through the database. I'm betting this saboteur has a scientific background, possibly in chemistry. See what you can find." Nelson nodded, then left without word.

Noyce again glared at Nathan. "You know, captain, that if this ship sinks, you and your crew sink with it. We won't be rescuing you." She watched as he silently shrugged, as if this news was the least concerning bit of information he'd received in years. Noyce sighed, spreading her hands out in frustration.

"If you tell us who and what he is, we'll be able to find him-without anyone being hurt. If you don't, with a ship as armed to the teeth and technologically superior as this, we could all be blown to smithereens because your crewman hit the wrong button." She paused, studying his face-and then his eyes. His face might very well be calm, as it was now, but in her experience, his eyes always gave him away.

Distinctly, she remembered her surprise birthday party when she'd turned seven; Nathan had been "assigned" the duty of keeping her occupied while the festivities were arranged. He'd done a good job, too-she hadn't even been aware that anything was up until she'd seen his eyes: wrinkled mischievously at the corners, laughing, sparkling at what lay ahead. And now, the same was true: his face was calm, but his eyes gave him away. They were frightened, pained . . . almost haunted. Whoever was missing, Captain Bridger was very close to him.

Slowly, she said, "Captain, if you care anything about your crew-for the officers beside you or for the officer missing-you'll help us find him before anything else disastrous occurs. Your life may depend on this. Your officers' lives may depend on this. You're responsible for their lives. Think carefully on it." With that, she turned on her heel and moved towards the hatch, but not before she heard the captain say slowly from behind her, "All of our lives will depend on what happens, Ms. Noyce. But the one ultimately responsible isn't me, but you. My officers know their duties, Noyce-all of them."

She simply opened the hatch and shut it behind her, not looking back at the captain. For a moment, Noyce stared silently, desolately, at the metal hallway; the captain's words, for whatever reason, bothered her. But she knew, she knew she was doing the right thing. She was stabilizing world power. She was bringing hope to a world held in tyranny. She was illuminating, for the benefit of the entire world, the wrong thinking behind the too-powerful UEO.

Finally, she was disillusioning the many deceived followers of the UEO's plans to the reality, the blistering, painful reality of truth: that the UEO was a fraud and a tyrant and that they, though unwittingly and with best intentions, had helped feed that fraud. And then she'd take the disillusioned officers and legislators and workers of the UEO, the genuinely exploited victims of the UEO's tyranny, and forge them into officers and legislators and workers of the Non-Allied Powers. This was the day she looked forward to, the day for which she even now struggled against someone she loved.

Suddenly, she snapped back to the world around her and looked at Nelson. The man was still diligently searching the databases. As of yet, no officers of the seaQuest even began to match her brief glimpse of their saboteur, especially not with engineering or scientific experience.

She frowned. If Bridger was close to this person, where could she find such information? Did the seaQuest keep a personal contact list or any such thing?

And then it hit her. She smiled, abruptly standing behind Nelson and staring at his screen. Her grin widened as Nelson looked up at her questioningly. "Do we have ship logs on file?"

Confused, Nelson shook his head. "For the Ulysses? No, they haven't really even . . ."

She snorted, lightly roughing the side of his head. "No, you idiot . . . the logs for the seaQuest. Do we have them?"

After a few seconds of typing, Nelson simply nodded.

Alicia practically grinned ear to ear as she pointed at one file on the screen. "That one, Nelson. I want that file opened." Yes! She'd find out who they were dealing with, Captain Bridger's help or not. That way, she could both protect her own crew and keep that same crew from hurting someone Bridger cared for. That seemed the best solution.

As the file opened, she was glad to see it was indexed by date. They'd start at the latest entry and work backwards.

"There-start there. Look for any names repeated several times. We're looking for personal contacts, personal comments . . . not official ship business. I think Bridger's very close to whoever's sabotaging our boat; his name should crop up several times in Bridger's personal logs." Quickly seeing her logic, Nelson nodded, setting to work immediately.

Feeling they were on the right track, Alicia exhaled loudly. Well, that was one problem well on its way to solving. Now all she needed to worry about was the boat's propulsion. Damn, if her people didn't know how to sabotage a ship's engines all too well . . .

She found it cruelly ironic that her crew couldn't start the Ulysses' cursed engines. This was cruelly ironic for one simple reason: her beloved Non-Allied Powers had sabotaged the very same engines only a week ago. The sabotage, of course, had been done so that she could commandeer the boat. Wondering how this could've happened to her, Noyce fumed inwardly as she paced behind Nelson. For the irony of it all-the damned irony of it all was that one could not easily commandeer a boat when the engines wouldn't come on-line as described in the instructions! This was certainly the last time she'd place her faith in an instruction manual written by saboteurs!

Sighing, she marched off to find out what, precisely, could be done to start the engines-if anything.



Part 2

Concealed in darkness, Lucas watched the guards yawn between cups of steaming coffee. Alluringly, the scent of roasted coffee beans drifted to Lucas's nostrils; the smell was tempting. With his eyes heavily drooping down, he could easily quaff two or three cups in several large gulps. Especially since he'd been squished into an instrument panel for three hours, his legs cramped, his head pounding. Just five to ten minutes: that was all he needed. Just a wee bit of time to sneak behind these men into the science and oceanography lab behind them. He just hoped such an opportunity arrived soon; he was getting extremely, dangerously sleepy.

He frowned, watching as one of the guards poured yet another cup of tempting coffee from a thermos nearby, then listened-suddenly alert-as several new voices appeared on the scene. His eyebrows perked, his mind interested, as a male voice loudly declared, "God, that woman'll be the death of me!"

Lucas heard mumbling assent to this comment; several nervous laughs drifted back towards him and resounded in his tiny, uncomfortable hole-in-the-wall (quite literally). Lucas winced as the loud sounds reverberated against his eardrums, grating at his nerves. No wonder he had such a lousy headache.

The man continued: "Red-Head came prancing into my side of the ship, asking for this, asking for that. Did I get the engines going, did I get the computer on-line, did I do her whim before breathing? I merely mentioned, between answers, that her questions were somewhat off-course. She was sticking her nose into my business."

The man paused, swaggering around the room. Now quite awake, Lucas saw that the guards' attention remained riveted to this loud, prattling man; the man himself seemed completely caught up in his own words. Cautiously, Lucas began sliding the instrument panel to the floor, lifting several of the hanging wires as he stuck one foot out of the passage.

The voice boomed towards him. "Imagine Red-Head, sticking her nose into my work! So I tell her, 'Ms. Noyce, you got your work, and I got mine. Let's just keep it that way.' And do you know what the little devil tells me? Hmmm? Try at a guess . . ."

Again lifting the curtain of wires out of his way as he slid his other foot out of the passage, Lucas wiggled completely out of the instrument panel, shoving wires and fuses back into the crevice with little thought but to get them out of his way. He then silently slid the panel back into place, holding his breath as the metal clinked into place with a soft ping.

He looked up. After a moment, he breathed once more. No, no one had heard him. Thank God.

"The minx doesn't know who's who on this boat. I tell you, watch and see, and she'll be trying for your jobs, too." Lucas grinned at this last statement: it sounded like the "Red-Head" and Doctor Westphalen had a lot in common. He'd known Kristin to lecture Captain Bridger on anything from eating habits to whale watching. As the boisterous man launched into more slander of the dubious red-headed minx, Lucas launched himself into the science and oceanography lab. Silently, he waited beside the door for any sounds of pursuit. None.

Merrily thanking his stars that a garrulous, over-talkative loud-mouth existed on every ship and in every crew, Lucas pulled his computer off his shoulder harness and set to work. If he guessed right, he'd have exactly five minutes to set up his little project and exactly five minutes to get the hell away from it.

That should leave him with plenty of time.

If he'd run his calculations correctly, that is.

Numbers flew into the computer, codes enacted the core vortex program he'd been working on for the past year or so, and-Lucas did this with a nervous sigh-one single button was pressed to begin the countdown. So much for step one.

He set the computer aside, now preparing for step two. The fun part.

Well, he had at least guessed right on this: the Ulysses was equipped with just about every type of scientific instrument one could imagine . . . and several he couldn't quite imagine. He focused, however, on the lasers: the big, multi-dimensional, multi-use lasers so loved by big industry and the military alike. He also focused on the room's large, shimmering moonpool: one similar, in fact, to the moonpool on the seaQuest. Existing apart, the lasers and the moonpool had little use for him. But put together . . .

Well, put together, they could create quite the blast.

Glancing periodically at his watch-he still had about three minutes-Lucas started sprawling out one laser disc after another around the moonpool. One here, one there, one over there . . . all pointed towards the exact center of the pool. He powered up each laser, linking them to his computer through the jerry-rigged adapter he'd fashioned while waiting in the instrument panel. Nothing like an instrument panel to cannibalize for spare parts.

That took care of step two. And now on to three.

Now working quickly, Lucas turned several of the lasers upside down and backwards, creating a strange, warped flow of energy particles as he ran opposing fields of laser energy through them. A dull, humming hiss murmured through the science lab; Lucas sincerely hoped the guards were still busy with their gossip. Beads of water slipped from the moonpool's flickering sides to the floor; sheets of water vaporized into fine mist in the center of the pool. The humming intensified.

Okay, time for stage four: the not-so-graceful exit.

With one last glance at his watch-great, twenty seconds to spare-Lucas pulled an instrument panel loose from the wall and tumbled inside, computer still open and flashing with one clear word: WARNING.

No kidding, Lucas thought wryly. He didn't need the computer to tell him that his butt was about to be fried if he didn't get the hell out of here.

Lucas bit into his lower lip, then did it: he punched in the final numbers sequence, the sequence that would start those lasers firing into one another, through the water, off the walls, and back into the water to create his latest pet project. Well, it'd almost create his latest pet project-or a version of it, at least. Lucas quickly yanked the adapter from his computer as the system at last went off-line.

With a curse, Lucas saw the lasers come fully alive, waking from their hibernating hum into-well, Lucas best described it as a passion of fire. Whatever it was, he was glad when the instrument panel was safely slammed shut behind him, his computer, and the dark passage cutting through the ship's innards.

As he urgently crawled away from the science lab, scurrying like a rat from a tomcat, Lucas could hear it, all right. The shouts spoke volumes for what was happening in that science lab. This was only the beginning of what his opponents would see, too. In about three minutes, the system would complete its initial numbers rotation. Then it would switch into its full, frightening capacity.

It would create a level nine vortex smack in the middle of the ship.

Lucas caught himself as he thought this, then silently amended, A level nine renegade vortex smack in the middle of the ship.

For Lucas had, as of yet, failed to create the object of his latest project: a stable vortex environment capable of safely transporting ships at about five times their current speed. He had, however, succeeded (and often quite dramatically, to his ultimate chagrin) in creating an unstable, highly powerful, very destructive vortex several times. This was what he labeled the "renegade" vortex: an instrument of unknown dimensions. This was the very "renegade" vortex that the navy was so interested in exploring for weapons research.

Of course, up until now, he'd only initiated level four renegade vortexes.

Those level four renegade vortexes had blown holes through glass and broken several of the navy's "destruction proof" test sensors.

Frankly, he had no idea what a level nine vortex would do to the Ulysses. But he also knew that, given his calculations, it wouldn't be pretty.

However, "pretty" wasn't what he was aiming for right now.


*******
Eating an orange and watching as Krieg juggled oranges and apples to the tune of Ortiz's whistling, Nathan Bridger almost bit his tongue in half when the ship suddenly lurched in the water. Slowly, he looked up at the ceiling, watching as the lights flickered, flickered, flickered . . . and then completely died.

Silence. Clear, chilling silence as everyone, captive and captor alike, listened for what was to follow.

A grinding, metallic moan echoed from somewhere in the center of the ship.

And then the ship lurched to the opposite side, screeching in its depths. Nathan could hear . . . God, it was awful, frightening, painful to the ears. It was howling winds whipping through a canyon or the cry of the dead. It was damned souls of hell moaning in sorrow. It was hell on earth.

Another screech of stressed metal, and then wind-strong, hissing wind-whipped through the small jail as several metal plates snapped from their grates. Apples and oranges flew everywhere as Krieg ducked under his cot and pulled it over his head. Nathan flung himself to the floor, gripping hard on the refrigerator as wind blasted into him. He heard sounds, echoes he didn't even want to understand. These were the sounds of nightmares.

Then, as suddenly as it started, it was over.

Silence. Utter, complete blackness.

Nathan rolled to his side, looking for his crew. But he couldn't see anything.

Slowly, he called out, "Krieg? Doctor? Hitchcock? Ortiz? Kent? Are you all okay?" For a moment, he heard only silence. And then he heard groans and grunts, each different voice answering to its name. All five voices accounted for, Nathan relaxed slightly, again peering into the darkness.

This was . . . interesting.

He wondered what in hell Lucas had done.

And he hoped to God the boy was himself all right.


*******
A figure lay motionlessly against the floor of the electronics lab. Slim, blond-haired, very pale-skinned, the figure seemed almost carved of porcelain, a rag doll spurned by its owner: unmoving, unresponsive.

But the figure still breathed. Blood spilled from the forehead. Its left arm bent torturously to the side, twisted, unnatural. But the figure still breathed. It still lived.

Alicia Noyce couldn't believe what'd just happened. She couldn't believe that, somehow, this one missing person had just blown half her ship apart.

Who could believe it?

As far as she could tell, the Ulysses was completely disabled.

It'd need to be dry-docked for months to make it even operational, much less at full power. There was no centralized computer control, no propulsion (not that it'd been on-line earlier), no anything. The only thing they'd been able to get working again was the power. They had lights, they had air conditioning, they had electricity. But they had nothing they needed to chug this ship from UEO waters to Dominia. A plague on it, but they were stuck in the middle of enemy territory in a ship leaking from stern to stern.

Again, she stared at the holes. She'd never seen anything like this. Gaping, dripping holes ranging in size from one or two inches to one or two feet now slashed through over half the ship's thick, metallic inner walls. Several floors had even been compromised. The moonpool, science and oceanography lab, and the specimen room were obliterated. Not a fragment of equipment could be salvaged from the mess. Black circles outlined each hole, burned darkly into the metal; she thought the burns would probably be permanent. Lord, such damage . . . created by one person.

What on earth had been used? She knew a lot about the UEO's weapons programs, and not one of them-not one of them-seemed to involve this type of technology. Not one of them could've created such destruction from utility-quality, low-grade laser beams and normal, boring water.

Her government would gladly pardon the near-destruction of the Ulysses if she could get her hands on this new weapon. For that was all it could be. A prototype for what was likely the most dangerous weapon she'd ever seen. It was immensely destructive, somehow combining two of the easiest found resources on earth in a reaction capable of destroying a large ship in less than three minutes. Even now, she remembered that howl: the moan, the echo, the screech of wind sheering straight through metal.

God, it'd been frightening. Wind had rushed up around her, knocking her roughly to the floor. Chairs, tables, papers, computers . . . all had flown in this air made suddenly lethal. Even as far from the lab as she'd been, she'd seen a wound rupture in the wall right before her very eyes. All-all created by water and lasers.

Nelson had called it something else: a reverse gravitational funnel injected with anti-bonded energy. In other words, an unstable vortex. An unstable vortex in a very bad mood. Nelson, however, didn't even know how to begin to produce something like this.

And he didn't know who the hell did know.

She looked over at him. Right now, he was bent over his computer, eyes strained. His hair was plastered across his cheeks, but he didn't seem to care. This unstable vortex had frightened the shit right out of him. Out of all of them, in fact.

She was picking up yet another piece of furniture when she saw Nelson frantically wave her towards him. Dropping the chair leg, she ran to his side-and found that his news had definitely been worth running for.

They had him. They finally, finally had him.

Nelson gestured at the computer screen. The name was Lucas Daniel Wolenczak. Apparently, he was the seaQuest's computer expert and physicist. He'd invented a device called the vocorder, which apparently translated "dolphinese" to a rudimentary human grammar. He also specialized in computer hacking and security, tide predictions, global warming problems, earthquake fault zones, sea floor topography, to name a few projects. She watched as Nelson scrolled down to the list of his main projects and caught her breath. Two little words glowered out at her: vortex engineering. A five-paged synopsis of his latest activities recounted vortex trials, unexpected holes in the roofing, nightmare near-explosions, and gigantic equations filled with enough twists and turns and strange symbols to give her a migraine.

And then there was his picture. Nelson finally scrolled down to it. Alicia simply stared at what she saw.

Yes, this was the figure she'd seen running out of her sights in the Mess Hall.

But, dear God Almighty, he wasn't an adult; he was a child.

As startled as she was, Nelson paged down to the boy's birthdate.

Lucas Wolenczak was only fifteen years old.

Noyce dropped heavily into a chair. Half her ship had been blown to pieces by a fifteen year-old computer scientist and physicist turned saboteur.


*******
Sitting silently in the captain's quarters of the Ulysses, Alicia Noyce pondered her latest discovery. Though she'd seen the file, though she'd seen his image, though she'd even seen the obvious fact that this was the figure she'd glimpsed running from her laser's sights, she couldn't quite bring herself to accept the truth of what she'd seen. A boy. A boy blowing up her ship. A boy-genius, a computer geek of only fifteen years of age crippling the Ulysses behind the very backs of twenty fully armed and trained military officers. The fact simply wouldn't fit into her perception of the world. Her reality couldn't accept this reality . . . but she had to if she were ever to decide what was to be done.

What was to be done. The words were so . . . easy to say. But when one considered what they meant, they were no longer easy. They were the hardest five words in the human tongue. This was her boat-her responsibility. This was her command. Obviously, she couldn't allow a saboteur free reign of her boat. She couldn't allow this saboteur freedom to sink this ship as swiftly as the Titanic.

But damn Nathan Bridger, what was she to do? The boy was fifteen. Fifteen! What was she supposed to do-unleash her hounds on him? Let them shoot the life right out of him?

A fifteen year-old genius. A genius.

She'd read the dossier on the boy-oh, she'd read it. Stanford graduate at the top of his class; linguistics; quantum mechanics; philosophy; aesthetics; computer programming of any and every sort (in languages she'd never heard of); advanced mathematics with 800 and 900 course numbers; physics courses so clearly beyond her comprehension that she couldn't even understand the titles (the majority of his course work was preceded by the prefix PHYS in the 800 or 900 series with enough strange adjacent titles to make her mind swim); artificial intelligence; space engineering; gravitational engineering; mechanical and electrical engineering; robotics . . . the staggering list of difficult, unbelievably complex course material went on and on. And this boy had aced these courses, seemingly with his eyes closed and half asleep. Fifteen. God.

She sighed. The boy, damn Nathan Bridger's stupid hide, was brilliant. He had a mind blazing with insight, with knowledge. This much was obvious from his dossier, from his three published articles she'd read from the seaQuest database, and-finally-from the destruction he'd caused on the Ulysses. This child, this young man of fifteen years, had created an unstable vortex-something not even Nelson, her scientific officer, knew how to create. Hell, Nelson couldn't even dream how to create what Lucas Wolenczak had created in less than ten minutes. And this mind-this young, brilliant, inventive mind-was at this very moment calculating some new way to destroy her ship.

Obviously, she couldn't allow this.

Angrily, Noyce thumped her fist into her cherry-wood table. It was infuriating. What she wanted to know, what she damned well wanted explained to her, was why in all of hell a child-a fifteen year-old, brilliant genius of a child-was on the seaQuest in the first place. Submarines weren't supposed to have children on board!

This was the best proof she'd ever encountered of the UEO's damnable irresponsibility: a fifteen year-old genius never should've been on a submarine in the first place. Lucas Wolenczak should never have been on the Ulysses when Noyce's team took over the boat. He should've been . . . in high school . . . or Stanford University, high school probably being out of the question. But wherever he was, it shouldn't have been on a submarine. Never!

But the cold reality of the situation was that Lucas Wolenczak was on board the Ulysses, sabotaging her boat with little resistance from her own people; hell, they hadn't even known what type of mind they were fighting until an hour ago. And he'd seriously injured two of her men, a fact for which he was hated by her crew. They wanted to kill him with their bare hands.

Fifteen.

Again, she pounded her fist into the desk. This was ridiculous; no, damn it all, it was absurd. What could've possessed Bridger to take a fifteen year-old child with him on a submarine? What demonic spirit could've possessed him to do such a stupid thing?

With a curse under her breath, Noyce stormed towards the prisoner holding cell. She glared at those members of her crew who looked up to watch her pass; however, most were sensible enough of their leader's moods to know that attracting her attention right now would be a very bad idea. She watched as they patched holes in the walls and fixed leaks, as they cleared piles of wreckage from the corridors. Lord Almighty, the place was a mess.

Her mood steadily darkened as she thought of who'd caused this mess.

And who'd brought him along with him on the seaQuest, the most powerful submarine in the world . . . and, thus, the most targeted submarine in the world.

Nathan Bridger. Damn his witless hide.

She eyed the door to Bridger's prison, then flung its door open, listening with pleasure as the metal door thudded startlingly against the metal wall. Ah . . . well, it looked like she had their attention after all: six pairs of eyes, all trained on her, many in undisguised alarm. Of course, Nathan Bridger's eyes were hooded as he attempted to hide his emotions. Just as she'd expected.

"Well, Noyce, I see you know how to make a grand entrance," Bridger began wryly. "It's so good to see you again."

Coldly, Noyce eyed Bridger-his dark hair, his dark eyes. Her eyebrows rose slightly as she said slowly, ominously, "We know of him, Captain. We know all about him."

Bridger swallowed . . . hard. He said nothing.

"A fifteen year-old boy, Bridger? Fifteen years old!" She stormed, angrily standing in front of him. She pointed an accusatory finger at him. "What the hell is a fifteen year-old doing on your ship?"

Bridger crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the wall as he looked up at her. He returned her glare. "I have perfectly good reasons for having him on my ship, but they're none of your business. In fact, none of this is your business."

"None of my business, captain? None of my business?" Noyce snapped, stepping towards him with fury in her eyes. "Right now, this very fifteen year-old is out blowing apart my ship. Two of my men are seriously injured. My crew wants your scientist dead. And damn it, he's fifteen years old, Nathan. Fifteen! What am I supposed to do, let them at him? Let them tear him to pieces? Or am I supposed to let him get away with injuring two of my men?"

In a flash, Nathan stood in front of her, his own eyes matching the fury in hers. He jabbed a dark finger at her. "Oh? Is it his fault that he has been put in this position; is it his fault that you and your crew have invaded our ship? Is he wrong in fighting you, in trying to stop you from taking our ship to enemy waters? Is he the one who's wrong in this, or is it you, Alicia?

"You and your crew take us at gunpoint; you shoot lasers at him, lasers that cut right through the ship's walls; you throw us in prison and start setting the coordinates for Dominia. What would you do if you were in his position? Would you do any differently? Damn it, if you're honest with yourself, you'll know that you'd wish to do half as well as he has. That boy has worked miracles, Noyce; it's not his fault that you're the enemy."

"My men want him dead!"

"Your men are inconsequential. You're in command-this is your decision, not theirs. Don't hide behind them as an excuse."

She turned on her heel, heading towards the door; but before she left, she looked back at him, her face hot with anger. "Captain Bridger, how-how could you have put a fifteen year-old boy under your command? How could you place his life in that kind of danger? How could my father-my father, damn it!-have allowed it?"

Bridger blinked quickly, apparently surprised by her mention of Admiral Noyce and by the depth of her anger. He slowly shook his head. "It's a long story, Alicia. To make a long story short, he was put on the seaQuest for his own good. If you look at his medical records-assuming, as I do, that you have them-you may understand why I say this." He paused, sighing. He then shrugged, looking at her with surprisingly honest eyes; Alicia could clearly see pain in those eyes. "I would never have kept him with me if I didn't think being on the seaQuest was the best thing for him. As things stand now, though, he's safer with me than he is . . . elsewhere. I'm not lying, Alicia. You know me too well to believe I am."

She studied him, again noting the distress in his eyes. She also remembered the look that had been in his eyes earlier when this had just started: the pain, the fear Bridger had felt at mention of the missing crewmember. Bridger, for whatever reason, was obviously close to Lucas Wolenczak. And Bridger was right: she knew him too well to doubt that he was doing what he believed was right. This entire situation was becoming increasingly strange.

Without comment, Alicia left the prisoners behind her, walking back towards the captain's corridors. Admittedly, her curiosity was up. The situation was increasingly bizarre: she had a fifteen year-old computer scientist and physicist acting as saboteur; she had a captain who was obviously very attached to this same fifteen year-old; and this same captain was declaring that he kept the fifteen year-old on his submarine to protect the child. That was a paradox, surely; one didn't normally send someone to a submarine to protect him.

As she entered her room, she flipped on the computer; briefly, she considered asking for Nelson's help, but she decided doing this herself might be best. She needed to discover all the facts before she attempted to explain anything to the crew. Too much was floating in her mind-too many areas were troubled.

It took her the greater part of an hour to find the right files, but she finally found what she was looking for: Lucas Wolenczak's medical files. She sighed as she waited for the files to load, stretching her arms quickly as she watched the screen suddenly flash with pages of text. Hmm. What was a fifteen year-old doing with a thirty-page medical file?

Scrolling through the pages, Alicia lost all track of time; her thoughts quickly honed to one focus only. In shock, she watched as one page of text after the other whirled by her, describing some of the worst possibilities she could imagine.

Dear Lord. It was awful. With wide, terrified eyes, she simply shook her head. God, this type of thing wasn't possible.

Nathan had said that being on the seaQuest was the best thing for Lucas Wolenczak.

She was beginning to agree with him.

After what she'd just read, nothing could make her think otherwise.

May 25, 2019. Patient admitted for severe fracture of collarbone. Severe strain placed on windpipe; obvious abrasion around the throat, almost indicative of hand pressure. Tracheotomy performed. Patient sedated for severe anxiety and pain. - January 22, 2019. Patient admitted for fractured arm, concussion, and broken ribs. Avoid pain medication due to complications from concussion. - November 15, 2018. Patient admitted with broken ribs, inexplicable burn marks on back of left palm. Concussion, ten stitches in left temple. - October 3, 2018. Patient treated for badly bleeding cut in scalp. - June 6, 2018. Patient admitted with fractured mandible bone; jaw wired shut to contain injury. Recommend IV sedation for patient extreme anxiety.

A fifteen year-old genius, a brilliant young man with a mind as quick as anything she'd ever opposed, had been so repeatedly abused at home that Nathan Bridger would no longer allow him to return to that home.

She shook her head in amazement as she came to a more current entry: September 19, 2019. That would have only been five weeks ago. Apparently, Lucas Wolenczak had tried to commit suicide after only nine weeks of residence on the seaQuest. As she read on, she found that Nathan and Kristin Westphalen had discovered Lucas's abuse; they'd gone to his quarters to discuss the issue.

Lucas had, at the time, acted like he was handling their knowledge of his abuse quite well. But the second they'd disappeared, Lucas slit his wrists. According to the account given of the episode, Lucas had been terribly confused at their "discovery"; he'd been terrified that they'd send him home. Thankfully, though, the child's best friend (Ben Krieg, one of her prisoners) had found him in time to save his life . . . but just barely.

Hmm. Ben Krieg was his best friend. That meant she had two people very close to the child as her prisoners, and perhaps three, considering Westphalen's relationship with Lucas. Alicia again scanned the information, feeling her jaw tense as she read the file once more. With a blink, Alicia knew what she had to do. She had to protect Lucas Wolenczak, at whatever cost. She'd be worse than the UEO itself if she didn't try to keep harm from this child.

And she'd do it because Nathan cared for this child. And because she couldn't harm a child-especially a brilliant, previously abused child.

Her crew wouldn't like it, but she didn't care. They'd have to live with her decision.

With a decisive nod, Alicia called Nelson in to her quarters. They spoke intensely for several minutes as Alicia carefully outlined her plans to Nelson; he quickly nodded. After he left to call the crew together, Alicia sighed. This was the right thing to do, for all of them: it was right for her crew, for-though they'd grumble-they weren't murderers . . . and they certainly weren't murderers of children. It was right for Nathan's crew, for Lucas Wolenczak was obviously well loved on the seaQuest. And, above all, it was right for Lucas Wolenczak himself, for the child didn't deserve anger for doing only what she herself would have done. Nathan had been right: she'd be proud to accomplish half the destruction Lucas Wolenczak had produced if their situations were reversed. In his mind, they were the enemy-not the other way around.

So, knowing she was doing the right thing and comfortable in that knowledge (though she knew she faced an uphill battle), Alicia walked to the brig. She'd decided that they'd assemble in front of the brig, knowing Nathan and his comrades could hear every word discussed; for this, she thought they should overhear the discussion. She cleared her throat as she looked at the twenty assembled crewmembers, their eyes holding various levels of curiosity. They hadn't assembled as a group since right before the hijacking.

"Hello again, my friends," she began, smiling. She glanced over at Nelson and watched as he slowly inclined his head: yes, he had the files ready for access. She nodded slightly, then looked back at her crew. "Things haven't gone quite as smoothly as we all would have liked, but we're getting back on track. Miles has informed me that repairs are well underway, perhaps as much as half completed. While this may seem an insignificant amount, given the damage, I think we should be happy to be half through. "And then we have some new information, too," she paused dramatically, looking at each face. She lifted her voice to be sure that Nathan and crew heard her clearly. "We should be able to capture our saboteur very soon. We now know who and what he is."

She watched as her crew muttered among themselves, then gestured to Nelson. He simply nodded, quickly punching a few buttons on his computer. A screen suddenly lit up on a metal panel to her right, and she watched as Lucas Wolenczak's picture flashed in front of her crew. The hushed murmur abruptly became quite noisy.

Lieutenant Boston, her third in command, at last broke through the jumbled voices: "But, Captain Noyce, this young man can't be over sixteen! Surely there is some mistake here. Sixteen year-olds don't blow up submarines!"

Alicia smiled slightly: this was exactly the question she'd been waiting for. Again, she nodded at Nelson and watched as he tapped in a few more words. Abruptly, Lucas's picture was replaced by his biographical information-beginning with his birthdate and current age.

She gave her crew a moment to digest the information, then said, "As you can see, Lucas Wolenczak is a child; he is fifteen years old. And he is our saboteur." Glancing at the astonished expressions still held on her crew's faces, she gestured at Nelson; he scrolled up to Wolenczak's brief history. "Lucas Wolenczak is the seaQuest's physics and computer expert. He's consulted for just about everything, it would seem: some experimental dolphin program, earthquake predictions, tides, mapping. Most importantly, however, he is also working on something called vortex engineering. According to Commander Nelson, a vortex is exactly what we saw unleashed in our ship just hours ago. Or, rather, an unstable vortex." Nelson nodded slightly.

"A vortex is theoretically a gravity tunnel built through water, providing, in theory, a great source of energy and a faster pace of travel. However, no stable vortices have ever been produced. To my knowledge, excepting what we have seen here, no unstable vortices have been produced, either. Both types of vortices have been greatly discussed, but no one has been able to produce the theories, instrumentation, and exact calculations to create one of these beauties.

"Until Lucas Wolenczak, by all appearances," he paused, again staring at the teen's data with amazement-and awe. He then looked back at the crew. "Using some unknown combination of lasers and water, Lucas Wolenczak unleashed an unstable vortex in the middle of our ship. We are all still dealing with the wreckage left behind by this force. There is no reason to think that he won't pull another surprise out of his ingenious mind-and relatively soon."

Nelson scrolled through Wolenczak's data, at last highlighting his academic career. He looked again at the crew. "Wolenczak specializes in computer science and physics, people: that means he has a mind capable of doing just about anything on this boat. I speculate that he'll try to access the ionizer next; I sure as hell would if I were him. I've already locked it down, so he won't be able to use it short of a miracle. It would take him several uninterrupted hours to start the ionizer up again, and he doesn't have that kind of time.

"This ship is a technological marvel, so that also means Wolenczak has access to just about every piece of equipment he could want. We'll station crewmen in front of the primary equipment labs, and we'll move all other equipment to these same labs. That will make his job that more difficult . . . and it will give us a much higher chance of finding him." He glanced at Noyce, inclining his head slightly. She nodded. "And finding him is the name of the game, folks: not killing him."

She watched as the crew stared at one another, at her, and then-uncomfortably-at the information still glowing on the screen in front of them. Nelson had scrolled back to the young man's picture, pasting his age and birthdate right under the very young face. She looked at each crewmember, meeting each gaze, holding eye contact for several seconds. She then said, "Lucas Wolenczak is fifteen years old, people; he is a child. Furthermore, he is a brilliant, ingenious, incredibly gifted child. He is a graduate from Stanford University. And he is most certainly not going to be murdered by us."

As this last statement floated through her crew, she continued, "And for those of you who wish to exact revenge on this child for the pain he may have caused, I will have you consider the following scenario: you are fifteen. You are on a boat with your captain and a skeleton crew, trying to fix said boat. A group of twenty unknown, highly armed hijackers captures your friends and fires deadly lasers at you. You manage to escape, probably frightened out of your wits. You later discover that these hijackers are heading the ship towards enemy waters. What do you do? If you're honest with yourselves, you answer exactly as I did: I'd hope to God I could do half as well as this child has at thwarting my 'enemy.' If you're honest, you admit that you admire the courage this child has-and the audacity."

She paused, watching her crew, seeing their eyes deep in thought. She added, "People, our saboteur has not invaded our worlds. We have invaded his. He has the right to try his hardest to fight us, and we must accept the consequences until we are able to capture him. It does no good to harbor hatred against an 'enemy' who is only doing what you yourselves would-especially when that enemy is probably scared to death of us. Lucas Wolenczak is a child. I will not and do not condone injuring children, even if they have injured us. I most certainly do not condone the killing of children. Again, Lucas Wolenczak has not invaded our ship; we have invaded his ship. You will not injure this young man. This is an order. Mr. Wolenczak will be captured, not killed."

She paused, looking at her crew carefully. "You are now all ordered to turn your weapons to stun. If I find anyone with his or her weapon charged to kill, I will relieve that person of duty. Anyone who does not feel they can follow my orders may stay here. Again, Lucas Wolenczak is not to be injured or harmed in any way. If we do so, we are worse than the UEO itself."

She watched as slowly, thoughtfully, her crew nodded; laser weapons were pulled from holsters and set to stun. After a moment, and watching carefully to make sure everyone followed through on her orders, she let out a charged breath.

Her crew had accepted her orders.

Standing next to the door to their prison, Nathan Bridger closed his eyes, quietly thanking the Lord above that Alicia Noyce, though the enemy, was not cruel or inhuman. He breathed in relief as he realized that Lucas would not be killed.

As he turned, he saw the same relief in his crew's eyes. Sometimes he managed to forget that he wasn't the only one who loved Lucas dearly.


*******
He blinked his eyes quickly.

Oh, God. Wrong move.

With a shudder, he peeked out the panel. Moments ago, after cautiously peering through the very same grate to his left, he'd carefully, silently moved. The wires dangling in front of him he'd pushed out of his way, the metal panel currently blocking his view he'd guardedly slid open, and--looking twice before moving--the final effort he'd made: with twisted, almost tormented motion, he'd slipped out of the venting duct. But just as his toe touched the floor, he'd heard them: voices. These voices approached him at an alarmingly fast rate. Cursing his luck, he'd quickly thrown himself back into the vent, pulling cables and panel back in place behind him in one panicked motion.

That had been close.

Especially since his left arm was broken, his head was bleeding, and his ribs hurt with each breath, not to mention each stretch of the muscles.

Lucas was just about as miserable as he'd ever been. His enemy was everywhere; suddenly, it seemed as if they knew exactly where he'd be moving, exactly what his mind was thinking, perhaps even before he knew. In the past hour alone, he'd had three almost dead-on encounters with the enemy. The only thing he could imagine was that, because of his latest demonstration with the vortex, they knew who he was. And if they knew who he was, they could easily predict where he'd head next.

Such as . . . oh, say the ionizer.

If not the ionizer, anything even slightly scientifically oriented.

Damn.

With a sigh, Lucas thought about what he should do next. He could just stay where he was. Though they might look for him in the ventilation system, it was unlikely they'd find him. There were over one hundred separate passages in the ventilation system alone; there was no way for them to guess exactly just which one he was in.

Unless, of course, they happened to spot him as he peered through a ventilation grate.

Inwardly, he groaned. Staying where he was and doing nothing had exactly zero appeal, too. He was supposed to be sabotaging the damned boat, not hiding out in a ventilation duct twiddling his thumbs--or, since his left arm was broken, twiddling his toes. Some saboteur he made, sitting here doing nothing . . .

Well, he supposed if he couldn't blow anything else up right off, he could do something just as important: work on contacting the seaQuest. He'd tried twice already, but with absolutely no success. Though he could patch himself through any communications system on the boat, he still couldn't figure out how to get this strange, technologically over-advanced communications system to beam a message outside the boat. So . . . maybe that was the thing to do.

Sighing tiredly, Lucas painfully slid towards the communications grid he'd discovered near main engineering. He was sure there were more of them on the Ulysses, but the simple fact was he didn't know where they were--while he did know where this one was. He also knew how to work this grid . . . at least, relatively well.

The passages twisted and turned in every direction possible; Lucas figured the designer of this tub had been having a really bad nightmare when he designed the ventilation system. Either that or a terrible hangover. Anyhow, he followed the meandering passageway as quickly as he could, trying to ease the pain in his arm and ribs by crawling on his right side. He just wished he could get some aspirin for his head.

Grinning suddenly, Lucas realized that he was there, quite suddenly and--to his complete surprise--without attracting anyone's notice: he was at main engineering. Again, he peeked through the grate carefully--the proverbial mouse looking for the proverbially wicked, sly, giant, waiting-to-pounce fat cat. No sign of hijackers (or fat cats, for that matter). With a groan, he eased the panel to the floor and untangled himself from the multitude of debris and wires wrapped around his legs, finally dropping to the floor as the last wire released his ankle. He sneaked to the communications console, bent at the waist and half-afraid someone would be waiting for him in the dark. However, no one was there. He was alone. In relief, he sighed.

Lucas nervously flipped on the power, then fiddled with the relay adapter. Hmm. He'd already tried numerous methods of reaching the seaQuest. His enemies had somehow buffered his every effort. He'd tried piggy-backing his signal to the hijackers'; relaying it through NORPAC emergency channels; feeding it through CNN and ABC News; broadcasting it over the InterNex; and splicing it into UEO satellites of any and every type. Nothing had worked. His mind searched for anything, anything he could do to reach his friends on the seaQuest. Staring numbly at the relay adapter, Lucas's eyebrows suddenly shot up half an inch. Of course!

Sometimes, Lucas swore he was a complete idiot. This was one of those times. Why hadn't he thought of it in the first place? It was the obvious solution to his problem. He hadn't tried breaking his signal into the UEO weather satellite, bouncing it off the UEO sub-zone satellite, and, finally, bouncing that signal off the UEO military emergency channel. Since none of this would be direct, Lucas suspected it'd work: it'd bounce back and forth for a few minutes, but, with the right codes (he grinned at this), it'd be a piece of cake. And the codes . . . well, they wouldn't be much of a problem. He'd "signal bounced" on the seaQuest before, "borrowing" the official relay codes from supposedly unhackable sources. He'd be amazed--no, genuinely stunned, positively appalled--if anyone caught him. Signal bouncing would mask the communication before the hijacking fools on the bridge even had a chance to figure out a communication had been relayed in the first place.

With a happy smirk, Lucas opened the relay adapter and honed in on the weather satellite frequency. He quickly snapped his computer on-line with the communications relay and smiled: now to try it. Using his right hand only and engaging in the "hunt and peck" method of typing (one he'd hoped he'd never be forced into using again), Lucas began pounding codes into the little computer, watching as the coded information flipped back and forth between satellites. He then grinned as the military emergency channel's menu suddenly focused on his screen: bingo!

Five codes and one minute later, Lucas was staring at the amazed face of Commander Ford, who simply blinked at him for several seconds, completely speechless, as if Lucas were the first sign of the Second Coming. The expression, though priceless, was well founded. Lucas was positive Ford had expected a command for a nuclear launch or something, for the military emergency channel was never used. Silently, he apologized, but there'd been no other way.

"Lucas Daniel Wolenczak, what do you think you're doing on that channel?" Ford snapped, face reddening as he stepped towards the viewing screen. "That's not for playing around with, young man!"

"Commander, I'm sorry for this, but I had no choice. Right now . . ." The signal began breaking up. Lucas suspected the enemy had found his satellite beam. Hell . . . they were better than he'd thought. Who on earth was working for them on their communications and computer analysis? He (or she) was damned good: frustratingly good, in fact. His thoughts returned to Ford: "We're in the middle of a crisis. I don't have time to get into details, but the Ulysses has been hijacked . . . I'm the only one free. I've disabled it for some time, but I'm not sure how long it'll hold."

Ford immediately tensed, eyes widened. "Hijacked?" Ford swallowed hard, then, "Who is it, Lucas? Do you know?" Lucas nodded.

"Yeah. We're heading towards Dominia: the Non-Allied Powers, I'd say. Lots of people on board . . . I'm not sure how many, but at least twenty or so. Damn . . ." Lucas paused, seeing the signal fade. "They've tracked me. Gotta' go, Commander. Help, please!"



Part 3

With that, he disconnected the line, snapping his computer off-line and grabbing it. He then tucked himself back into the ventilation system, pulling the panel behind him and moving as quickly as he could away from the engineering station. Already, he could hear voices approaching. Damn. He'd stayed too long on that one.

Moving with a measure of speed through the convoluted passageway, Lucas suddenly felt lightheaded--then almost as if someone had hit him in the head. Blinking his eyes quickly, Lucas tried to steady his swaying vision, to make sense of a world suddenly turned topsy-turvy. His head was heavy, his ears ringing; slowly, his vision darkened. Then, abruptly, he collapsed, unable to move. Spots danced before his eyes, floating in his vision--now the only thing he could truly see.

He swallowed hard, convulsively. Something . . . something smelled. It smelled--strange. A faint, almost metallic odor tingled against his nostrils. His arms became numb, then his cheeks, then, finally, his legs.

Terrified, Lucas tried moving his arm, but found he could not.

He was paralyzed.

Wide-eyed but utterly blind, Lucas listened as the panel to his immediate right abruptly lifted away. God, he couldn't see anything; everything, everything was black. Tears slid down his cheeks unhindered, unfelt as something . . . touched him. As if from miles away, he could vaguely feel two hands pressed under his arms, pulling at him. There was no pain, just . . . a strange, queasy sensation as he was moved. He cried out, frightened; he wasn't even sure if the sound was actually made, but his mind cried out, his soul screeched in fear, tearing within him against the blackness. What had happened? God above, help . . .

Locked within his own paralyzed mind, unable to speak, unable to see, unable to move, barely able to feel, Lucas trembled in terror, in a nightmare of horror.


******
Moving his burden carefully, Commander Dean Nelson heard the tight, strangled cry of fear; quickly, he looked at the boy. Unseeing blue eyes stared back at him, hugely wide, starkly frightened. Gently, he brushed away tears as they streaked the teen's pale skin; again, a soft, smothered cry emerged from Lucas Wolenczak's throat, a cry of absolute terror.

"Easy," he said softly, squeezing Lucas's good hand. "You'll be okay. Don't be frightened."

He pressed on, lifting the slim figure into his arms and leaving the engineering section behind him.


******
Deep in a world of darkness, of shadows through which he could not see, Lucas heard the gentle words, "Don't be frightened . . ." Inwardly, he clutched at those words as if they were the only things keeping him alive. Someone, though he didn't know who, was at least with him. He wasn't alone in this mental landscape of utter blackness, of utter terror and horror.

He felt movement, then something soft pressed around him. And then his world darkened into a complete void of non-sensation. Dimly, he could think, he could feel himself breathing, but he could do nothing more. He was entirely helpless.


*****
He was dropping, plummeting below.

No, he was falling.

Suddenly, he struggled within. He was drowning.

Water trickled across his forehead, down his cheek.

Everything was so black. Why was it so dark? Where was everyone?

Where was he?


*******
Nathan gently stroked the hair back, bathing the wound in the teen's forehead with sterilized water. Disconcertingly, Lucas's blue eyes stared back at him--but they didn't see him. He didn't even know if Lucas knew where he was--or if he was conscious of anything. Lucas was so heavily drugged that he didn't even feel the enormous pain he should have felt as Kristin set his badly broken arm. Nathan supposed good things came in strange packages sometimes.

He heard the bones cracking, popping as Kristin moved the slim arm one way, then another. The arm was black and blue, swollen, bent at all the wrong angles, and very painful looking. He continued stroking Lucas's blond hair away from his face, gently talking to him, hoping the words comforted the teen in his world of darkness. Carefully, he wiped away tears as they trickled down Lucas's cheek.


******
Floating in the terror of his mind, Lucas suddenly felt something sharp--something incredibly sharp in his arm. The left arm. Burning fire pierced through his flesh; he cried inwardly.

But he couldn't move, couldn't make a sound, as the pain tore through him, ripping through each muscle, each tendon, each bone. It was fire devouring him from within, fire that he couldn't hope to stop. God, it was torture. In torment, Lucas screamed inwardly, agony flashing through him. Just a moment's respite, just a moment free from pain, free from this eternal burning--oh, God above, help.

He writhed inwardly, huddling within his mind, seeking anywhere, anywhere, he could escape the pain. Oh, God, someone stop it . . . help . . .

But the pain only continued.


*******
Hours later, he awoke to a general feeling of peace. Coolness surrounded him, blanketing him in its gentle embrace. Something soft touched his skin, its texture soothing. On his forehead, he could feel something cold, something somehow comforting in its coolness.

Suddenly, his mind awakened to the strange sensations. He felt. He heard. He sensed. Carefully, he tried wiggling his toes. Slowly, though somewhat sluggish, his toes responded. He could move again. He could move his toes!

Things were still . . . dark . . . but he abruptly realized that his eyes were closed. Lord, his eyelids seemed so--heavy. As if they were bricks. With effort, he slid them open a fraction.

And wished he hadn't.

Everything was blurry, moving, fluctuating with strange colors and a vibrancy that hurt his eyes.

With a soft moan, he closed his eyes, wanting only to recede once again into sleep.

He felt something touch his hand--a gentle touch, a gentle press--but he was already falling sound asleep as the presence registered itself on his mind.


******
Anxiously, Ben paced beside his friend's cot. He watched as Bridger spoke softly to Lucas, holding his hand, trying to again open those eyes, if even for just another brief moment. Lucas had looked at them; he had seen them. They just had to be patient. They just had to give him a bit more time to come out of the heavy drugging even now wrapped around his mind.

He growled inwardly. Wrapped around his mind. More like leaching his mind. The bastards! They'd used Diphorline-Pyroxine on a child . . . on a fifteen year-old child! The bastards should be hung by their testicles from the highest mountain top.

Diphorline-Pyroxine, he thought with a disgusted snort. Yeah, let's give a child the most potent, the most damaging mind control drug known to man. Yeah, let's just try it and see what happens . . . He could kill them. He could wring each and every one of them by their scrawny little useless necks.

How could they?

But damn them, they were the ones in power right now--they were in control of all of their lives. NAP: the Non-Allied Powers. The most ruthless, cruel people he'd ever opposed. And they had all of them--Captain Bridger, Lucas, Kristin--in their hands.

Ben snorted, again glancing at Lucas's pale figure, at the broken arm now nestled across the boy's chest; he'd get them out of this. One way or another, Ben would get them free.

And they'd pay for what they'd done.

It was somewhat humiliating to call for help . . .

Alicia paused mid-thought, then sighed. Euphemism, though comforting, certainly didn't squeeze someone out of a touchy situation.

So, rephrased, the comment went as follows: it was damned humiliating to plead for help. Especially when that help would likely come at the hands of no other captain than Brigg. She hated Captain Brigg.

It'd all happened some three years ago when Alicia'd first "migrated" to the Non-Allied Powers. At the time--understandably--she'd been quite the catch. Daughter of Admiral Noyce, fleet captain of the Defender (the most powerful submarine with the exception of the seaQuest), she'd joined NAP with quite the honors parade. NAP had outfitted her with their top submarine, the Hellion . . . the ship Brigg had aimed at since his induction into NAP's forces two years before hers. And he'd been furious, of course. Alicia understood his anger, his fury. He had an excellent record; he was always ready for combat; he was a superb strategist. She, on the other hand--at least in his eyes--was only a UEO fleet captain in the first place because of her father, Admiral Noyce; she was only a captain in NAP's forces, too, because of her infamous treachery against that very same father. According to Brigg, she had no skill for battle, and even less brains for command.

Alicia, however, knew the truth: she was good at her job, and she needed no one's help to advance in the ranks.

She just bloody well wished Brigg weren't here to see her fall flat on her face because a child--a genius, no less--had sneaked behind her back and blown up half her ship. The Ulysses would have been NAP's prize catch; she likely would have been its captain. Would have been, though, were empty words when the elusive prize simply slipped right through her fingers.

Or should she say blew right through her fingers?

Damn. She was going to have to face that smug, conceited, half-witted fool of a captain. And she was going to have to do it smiling.

Smiling. Yeah, right. She'd just as soon put a bullet through Brigg's fat head than smile at him . . . though she might just put a bullet through his fat head with a smile upon her face.

Speaking of bullets . . . she truly worried what Brigg would do to her prisoners. He was ruthless, cunning: cruel. She had no doubt his tactics would be equally inhumane . . . particularly with the boy. Though she wasn't a humanitarian by any stretch of the imagination, she also wasn't a sadist; she couldn't see hurting a fifteen year-old child who just happened to use his brains in the wrong place at the wrong time. She would've been proud to accomplish a tenth of what he'd done under the same circumstances, especially at his age. However, she doubted Brigg would see it her way. And, Lord, this worried her.

But the Apache was on its way even now, as was its captain. She really had no choice, for Lucas had left her with none. The Ulysses was her enemy's crème-de-la-crème of ships, and she was hijacking it . . . or, well, she'd been trying to hijack it before Lucas and his little "vortex run amuck" had whirled into her life. Naturally, that enemy would do just about anything to regain possession of the ship. She was stuck on this stupid boat until she could either be "rescued" by Brigg or captured by the UEO . . . though she seriously wondered which would be the worst fate.

However, at the rate her luck was going, the boat would sink like the bloody Titanic before she saw Brigg or any UEO personnel, for it was leaking at the seams.

And, to top off her already perfectly hellish day, Commander Nelson had informed her of two very dire omens: one, Lucas had been captured outside main engineering, right by a communications console; and two, a signal had somehow bounced off their heavy communications security grid to the seaQuest . . . which could only mean that Lucas, the devil himself of wizardly techniques and miracles, had somehow, some way managed to link up with the seaQuest before his capture. Thus, obviously, the seaQuest knew the Ulysses had been hijacked and, equally likely, all ships even marginally equipped for a submarine hunt were even now prowling her way, the seaQuest included. Nice.

She wondered what she could've done in a previous existence to deserve this.

Again, her thoughts returned to the problem at hand: Brigg. If it'd been any other captain, she'd have been perfectly comfortable with his "rescuing" her; however, with Brigg, she was frightened to death for Lucas's welfare. He was a child, damn it; a child! She couldn't let good old John hurt him.

But what on earth was she to do, truly?

With a sigh, Alicia sat back in the chair: her chair. The captain's chair. This was her responsibility, her command. Though Brigg was rescuing her and her crew and her prisoners, though they'd be on his boat among his crew, they'd still be one thing: hers. She'd be damned if she were going to let a petty imbecile like Brigg take over her people--if she were going to let him dictate her decisions to her. And that included her decisions regarding certain prisoners; they were hers and hers alone.

Quietly, she set her pistol to heavy stun--then, considering the nature of her opposition--she set it to kill. It was a terrible feeling, this: setting a pistol to kill against your own people. That it should be necessary simply to do what was right her. To be forced to kill simply to protect an innocent, to be forced to consider such an action against what should have been her comrade . . . it was unthinkable.

Why had NAP promoted Brigg in the first place? Did they not understand that placing him in a position of control, in a position of power, was dangerous--was, indeed, tackling a storm of fire? Why had NAP overlooked Brigg's dementia when the UEO had years ago refused him a command? In fact, she remembered that Brigg had even been expelled from the UEO Armed Services . . . expelled!

And the UEO by no means had a highly rigorous qualification system for command when it came to psychological weaknesses; if an officer was brilliant on the high seas, they were perfectly willing to overlook any "psychological idiosyncrasies." That the UEO had expelled him was enough evidence of psychological impairment to warrant extreme concern. NAP forces never should have let him set one foot into command shoes. Never.

It was madness. Plain, simple madness.

Or greed--greed for power, for acquisition, for political and military prestige.

Disturbed, Alicia sighed. Somewhere out there, out in that expanse of freezing waters she loved to travel upon (or call home), was Brigg. He was heading towards her even now.

There was no doubt in her mind. Trouble lay ahead: deep, intense, shattering trouble.

Lucas's eyes fluttered open. He looked around himself.

He was in what looked like the brig. And it wasn't pretty, either: no windows, the standard brig toilet in the corner of the room, several cots lined up on the floor. Panels and remnants of some white material--Lucas wondered if it was plaster--were scattered across the floor. Trash was piled in a corner beside the toilet. It was a large brig, but doubtless a brig: the bars spanning the main entrance were symbolic of the brig's main function, keeping people locked away from the rest of society. Except for the overall messiness of the place, it even looked exactly like the brig on the seaQuest. Of course, had the seaQuest's brig looked this messy, Chief Crocker would have hunted down the culprit and had his or her head on a pike within minutes.

Hmm. This all brought up an interesting question: what on earth was he doing in a brig?

Tiredly considering the question, Lucas yawned, stretching his muscles . . . until he suddenly found himself staring at his left arm. His eyebrows shot up several inches. What was this? A sling restrained his arm's movement; plaster encased it from his fingertips to his forearm. He struggled to remember what had happened; for some reason, his mind simply kept chasing itself in circles. The last thing he remembered, he'd been swimming laps with Darwin, trying to work off some much-accumulated stress. He certainly hadn't been anywhere near a brig, and he definitely hadn't had a broken arm.

And where was he, anyway?

Lucas's perplexed expression rapidly changed to horror as the events of the past few days rushed into his mind. He shuddered. The Ulysses. He'd been on the ship with Captain Bridger and friends when, out of nowhere, they'd all been hijacked by the Non-Allied Powers. Lucas, though, had managed to escape. His shudder became almost violent as he considered who had done this and where they were going. The NAP agents had set sail aboard the Ulysses, heading straight for Dominia.

Dominia. Hell.

Dominia was about the last place he wanted to be going. Ruled by a dictator who liked to consider himself intelligent and wise, Dominia was at the mercy of a madman's wiles, if anyone asked Lucas's opinion. Sergei Nartovich loved power; he loved wealth. He also hoarded weapons and armies. In fact, he had one of the largest armies on the planet, second only to the UEO. This was alarming, considering the amount of virtually undiluted power this man enjoyed. No one opposed him, for no one could afford to complain if they wished to live. Politics was obviously a simple matter in Dominia. There was one side only to any problem: Nartovich's side. Everyone else simply kept their mouths shut.

Dominia. They were going to Dominia. This wasn't cool.

Sighing, Lucas shook his head. He didn't suppose there was much he could do about their pridicament. It sucked, but it was the situation they'd been dealt.

Still sighing, Lucas sat up slowly and blinked as he tried to recall exactly how, in the middle of a hostile takeover, he had managed to break his arm. Had he tried to resist? Been hit from behind and knocked down too hard? Simply fell? His brow furrowed as he fought to remember the shadowy events of the past few hours--or was it days? He didn't even know the timeframe he was dealing with. Puzzled, Lucas tried to remember anything from that day: the day the hijackers had come aboard. He usually remembered just about any detail, but now . . . everything was fuzzy. It was almost as if part of his brain had been wiped clean.

Why, why was everything so damnably confusing? Why was his mind so hazy?

And then Lucas inhaled sharply, staring straight ahead with shock. Wow . . . now he remembered. He'd actually done it: he'd made a vortex, right here, in the middle of a ship held by an enemy power! He remembered waiting in one of the many passages lining the ship; he'd been waiting for the enemy to leave so he could climb out and put together his vortex. After what had seemed ages, he'd seen a chance to get to work . . . he'd snuck out, watching his opponents, who were only feet away . . . and he'd done it. He'd actually initiated a devastating vortex. His beloved renegade vortex had blown holes right into the ship. He didn't know exactly how many holes he'd created, for he'd been stuck crawling around in the ship's access tubes, but he did know one thing: the vortex had made a mess of what had once been a beautiful ship. Of course, he'd practically blown himself up in the process, but, right now, that was beside the point. Though he knew he was lucky to be alive, Lucas could only focus on one fact: he'd succeeded in creating his vortex. At last, he'd done it!

The riddle of where he was now solved, Lucas again looked at his surroundings. Sprawled haphazardly around the room were his friends: Kristin, Ben, Katie, Miguel, and Tim. They looked to be sound asleep. Slouching in a hard chair beside him, snoring lightly, was a much-exhausted appearing Captain Bridger. Somewhat guiltily, Lucas studied the dark shadows lining the captain's face. He knew he was responsible for placing at least a few of those shadows there, and probably a whole new streak of gray in his hair, too. Though he hadn't exactly invited the enemy aboard, Lucas had blatantly defied the captain's orders, engaged in some rather dangerous activities, and nearly gotten killed. Bridger would probably send the bill for any ulcers incurred from this episode straight to Lucas's parents . . . not that Lucas would actually mind on that count.

For a moment, listening to the soft breathing of his sleeping friends, Lucas pondered trying to go back to sleep. He then shook his head at the idea. Not a chance. It wasn't as if he could actually sleep with NAP agents lurking outside, planning God alone knew what. Not to mention his arm; right now, it was throbbing in tune to his heartbeat.

Hmm. Maybe he could bug Ben for awhile. He glanced behind him, then at Ben; with a slightly mischievous glimmer in his eyes, Lucas grabbed his pillow and threw it at the sleeping lieutenant. Ben jumped in his sleep, snorting (and almost sounding like a pig when he did it) as he mumbled something unintelligible. He grabbed Lucas's pillow and stuck it under his head, rolling over and almost instantly starting up a snoring session that reminded Lucas of a chainsaw stuck smack in the middle of a tree. Lucas rolled his eyes. "Ben!" He whispered with a worried glance at Bridger. Thankfully, the captain was still snoring. "Ben!"

Ben again mumbled. This time Lucas thought he heard, "No . . . leave her alone, you bastards," before Ben stuck Lucas's pillow over his head. He continued to mumble whatever, though now Lucas couldn't understand a word the lieutenant said. The pillow acted as a pretty good muffler.

Carefully, Lucas swung to his feet and wobbled over to Ben's side. For a moment, the world span around his eyes, moving at a crazy tilt. Finally reaching his destination, though, Lucas plopped down beside his friend with a relieved sigh, then shook Ben's shoulders. He removed the pillow from Ben's face and stared down at the sleeping lieutenant. "Ben! Come on, wake up!"

Snort . . . cough. Lucas restrained a grin, knowing now was neither the time nor the place. But he had to admit--Ben was the noisiest sleeper he'd met. He wondered how Katie had managed to live with this. On second thought, though, perhaps she hadn't. They had divorced pretty fast . . .

"What? What'd I do now?" Ben mumbled, eyes flickering; one eye slowly popped open. The eye stared at Lucas for a good five seconds, its owner obviously nonplussed, before, suddenly, both eyes flew completely open and the lieutenant sat up.

Lucas watched, amused, as Ben ran a hand across his eyes and over his hair. Ben's hair was sticking straight up in just about every direction. He reminded Lucas of a porcupine.

"Lucas! What are you doing up? How are ya' feeling?" Ben asked, jumbling the questions together. He ran another hand through his hair, then looked at Lucas with concern. "You okay, kid?"

"Yeah. Just a little shaky. My arm's hurting a bit, too." Lucas paused, glancing again at his sleeping companions, then looking back at Ben. He bit his lower lip anxiously. "What's been happening, Ben? Do you know if my vortex did its job? Did it manage to stop the ship?"

Ben stared at this. He blinked. "Well, yeah . . . probably better than you can imagine." Ben yawned, running a hand behind his neck and stretching. "We even felt it here: it blew several of the panes right off the wall. The ship's dead in the water. It seems to be leaking, too. I'm not sure how badly. Unfortunately, our hijackers haven't exactly felt like keeping us posted on anything."

Lucas frowned. Absently plucking at the hem of his shirt, he considered their situation: hijackers, leaking ship, no sight of seaQuest yet . . . at least, not that they'd been told of. However, their captors could simply be keeping the news from them. Still, none of it was good. He again looked at Ben. "I reached Ford before they caught me. He knows what's happened."

Ben's eyes widened; he glanced over at the captain. "Did you tell Bridger yet?"

"Nah." Lucas shook his head. Seeing Ben's eyebrows lift, he ducked his head as he explained with a guilty look askance, "I thought he looked like he needed sleep more than information."

"Probably right. He was still up when I finally went to sleep, and I was the last to finally turn in." Ben paused, glancing at the captain before he added, "He's been sitting with you since they brought you in. You had him worried there for awhile." Another pause, then Ben corrected in a tight voice, "Actually, you had us all worried. If those bastards ever give you Diphorline-Pyroxine again, I'll skin them alive."

Lucas's eyes widened. Diphorline-Pyroxine explained a lot. Though he knew he wasn't supposed to have heard of it before, Lucas knew what Diphorline-Pyroxine was. A few months ago, when he was bored and looking for something to do, he'd hacked into the "unhackable": the heavily guarded Section Seven computer network. Once he'd finally managed to break the anti-hacker codes, Lucas had stared, aghast, at the information displayed before him. The information he'd found had completely reshaped his view of UEO's internal security division. He'd always suspected Section Seven performed some rather illicit activities, but this . . . this had been shocking.

Just where had his hacking landed him? Well, somehow, he'd managed to plant himself deep within the files of the Section Seven "Research and Development" Department--and what a "Research and Development" department it had been. Everything a covert agent was likely to need was there: invisibility shields; undetectable poisons; weapons of every variety. Among these interesting "developments" had been Diphorline-Pyroxine, a drug supposedly invented for "experimental purposes only." Mentally, he snorted at the idea. Section Seven never developed anything for simply "experimental" uses . . . at least, not that he knew of. He could easily bet they'd use the stuff as soon as they produced it, and most likely for their "questioning sessions" (AKA "interrogations").

Obviously, they'd completed the drug's formula. He was living proof of it. But somehow it had wound up in NAP hands. An interesting connection . . . one that Lucas thought worth following if they'd not been stuck on the Ulysses in really hot water.

The Diphorline-Pyroxine did explain one thing, though: how he'd been caught in the first place. Lucas vaguely remembered crawling through the ship's entrails, hoping to keep out of the enemy's sights, when he'd suddenly been unable to move. It'd been a terrifying experience; he hoped never to experience anything like it again. Unable to move, his sight dissolving into nothingness, his hearing warped and strange . . . just thinking of it caused gooseflesh to crawl along Lucas's skin. But the drug also explained why his head hurt so terribly. From what the Section Seven reports had said, the drug's effects were something like a really bad hangover. The way his head was hurting now, Lucas figured a heavy drinking bout just wasn't worth the price of a really bad hangover. He'd be sure to remember that when he at last reached legal drinking age.

Providing they ever got off this stupid boat, of course.

With a sigh, Lucas refocused his mind on the situation: one sinking ship, a bunch of bad guys, and no computers in sight.

Certainly not an ideal situation.

In fact, it down-right sucked.

Lucas suddenly felt a shake at his arm. He looked up, surprised. Ben was looking at him with concern. "Hey, kid, you okay? Lucas . . . ?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." He blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Just thinkin'."

At this, Ben sighed, nodding his head. He tapped his fingers on the side of his bed, a dark frown carved across his face. "Yeah, I know the feeling. I've been thinking the whole time we've been in here." With a loud hurumph, Ben irritably shook his head. "Not that we had much choice but to sit around thinking. Being stuck in here, nothing we can do, waiting for someone to come rescue us . . ."

He left the thought unfinished, shrugging. Lucas continued to pick at his shirt. They sat in depressed silence for a moment.

Lucas finally asked, "What now?"

Ben looked at his friend, then at their sleeping companions. After a moment, he shrugged. "I don't know. I honestly don't know if there is anything we can do." Again, he glanced in Bridger's direction, then added, "I'm hoping the captain will have an idea or two on this when he wakes up. Other than that, I guess we just hope for a lucky break."

Well, they could be lucky, Lucas supposed: if all their luck managed to change drastically . . . and if it changed well before any further catastrophes struck.

But Lucas wasn't holding his breath. That sounded suspiciously like divine intervention to him.


******
Alicia Noyce was sitting quietly in her captain's chair, staring blankly at her desktop, when Commander Dean Nelson cleared his throat. She looked up to see her computer expert and most-trusted advisor standing anxiously in the doorway. Nothing--except, perhaps, a renegade vortex smashing through their ship--upset Nelson. She'd known him for about a year now, and she'd never seen him this upset before. Hmmm . . . Curiosly, Alicia frowned, her body leaning forward in the chair as she gazed at the Commander.

It took Nelson less than a second to interpret her frown as permission to speak. He crossed to her desk, meeting her eyes and tapping his fingers across her desk. He again cleared his throat--and then again. Finally, after a silent moment had stretched uncomfortably between them, Nelson began, "They'll be here in about ten minutes, Captain. The Apache, that is. Brigg is almost here."

Ah. Of course. Commander Nelson was just as concerned about Brigg as she was. Alicia leaned back in her chair, eyes studying the man before her. They were shaded, almost like someone had planted two fists in his eye sockets. The stress was getting to him, as it was getting to her. And she suspected the news of Brigg's arrival only worsened Nelson's stress levels. Not that this was at all surprising: the Captain had a reputation for cruelty, one that just about everyone had heard the rumors about. From all the evidence she'd seen, that reputation was well-deserved. "I'll be right there. Let me finish up a few things."

Nelson nodded, then, hesitantly, headed towards the door. He stopped just before leaving. "Captain, permission to ask a question?"

Alicia's eyebrows rose sharply; Nelson knew such formality wasn't necessary with her. However, Alicia simply responded, "Granted."

Nelson looked back at her. He frowned. "Captain Brigg. He's not known as the nicest Captain in the fleet." That was putting it mildly, of course. One could just as easily say Brigg was a flaming, raving lunatic and still be softening the truth. "What are you . . . no, what are we going to do about the prisoners?"

It was a good question. Naturally, she didn't have a good answer for it. She'd simply have to settle with the best answer she could give: the truth. Alicia sighed, then steepled her fingers, holding them lightly beneath her chin. "I've been thinking of the same problem most of the night. What I've arrived at as my answer isn't pleasant in the least."

Alicia paused, trying to think of how to phrase her decision. Nelson quietly shut the door behind him, then returned to her desk, quickly taking one of the chairs and settling in for what looked to be a heavy discussion. Alicia finally continued: "They're my prisoners. We captured them, in our mission, on our boat . . . well, what would have been our boat had the plan succeeded." Pulling a strand of red hair from her eyes, Alicia nervously chuckled. "Now, before you say it, I know for a fact that Brigg isn't going to be happy with my answer. He's going to think my stupidity, my lack of command experience, my karma, my flaming astrological sign . . . God knows whatever pops into his demented little brain at the time . . . anyway, he'll state that is what caused the problem in the first place, and, obviously, any decisions I made should be considered suspect. That's how Brigg's mind seems to work. Blame something, then try to take advantage of it. I imagine he'll also ask NAP for . . . a command over-ride: basically, for me to be shuffled to the side so that he might command my crew and my ship."

Abruptly, Alicia stood, pacing. She looked at Nelson. "He's not going to get that. There's no way on freaking earth he's going to wrestle this command from me!" She pulled her gun from its holster. Nelson watched, eyes widening, as Alicia rechecked her weapon. She met his stare with a steady, unrelenting gaze. "I don't plan to let him steal my position, my crew, or my prisoners. Not for any reason."

Nelson could think of nothing to reply with.

He continued to simply stare after her as she marched out of the office and towards the docking bay, determination gleaming in her eyes and tightening her mouth into a thin line. Finally, after a moment's silent contemplation, Nelson followed her, wondering how the day's tense situation might resolve in anything less than a blood bath.


********
A man of distinguished appearance with his graying hair and his perfectly trimmed beard, Captain John Stewart Brigg drew nearly every eye in the room. He had an aristocratic, highly chiseled face, one that rarely seemed to smile. The eyes, too, dark in their intensity and forbidding in their glare, were sharp, perhaps even piercing. He was tall, large in build. Commander Nelson would have estimated he stood at about 6'5", maybe 250 pounds. Not a cell on his body appeared to be loaded with fat. Even beneath his crisply pressed gold and black uniform, it was easy to see muscles rippling with each movement.

If nothing else, Captain Brigg was intimidating. He towered a good one and a half feet over Captain Noyce's head, a grimace pulling the muscles tautly across his face as he gazed down at the red-haired Captain.

Nelson started towards Alicia's side, but suddenly froze mid-stride. Dear God.

Even as he watched in amazement, confusion erupted in the docking bay of the Ulysses. Confusion . . . and gun fire.

Voices raised in shouts of alarm; arms moved quickly, reaching towards sidearms; bodies bolted for safety. Horrified, Nelson saw one body tumble to the floor . . . then another, to be rapidly followed by another. He couldn't tell if the victims of these shots lived or died, only that they fell with startling thumps to the floor. More wrestling caught Nelson's attention. He turned his shocked gaze away from the floor to two opponents locked in furious combat. Alicia aimed a kick at Brigg's chest. Brigg ducked.

More confusion, people rushing at each other. People hit each other, moving their arms in silent, angry struggle. Weapons fired.

Nelson's view of the melee abruptly cleared: the two Captains were again visibile. As Nelson stared, wondering what the hell he could do to help Alicia, Captain Brigg swung his arm around Alicia's neck until she was firmly grasped within his arms. Brigg ruthlessly twisted her head towards him, eyes narrowing at the hatred he saw reflecting in her eyes. Alicia reached for her weapon, but he smacked her hand away easily, as if she were merely an annoying child.

The only sensible thing for Nelson to do right now was to escape.

Perhaps if he escaped, he could try to reach some help. Nelson knew it might seem the actions of a coward, but was it cowardly to try to escape when being caught might mean death? He didn't think so. He sure couldn't help his comrades if he, too, was sitting in the brig . . . or dead, whichever it was. Nelson couldn't imagine Brigg ordering Alicia's crew to be killed--no, flat-out murdered--but, then, he also couldn't imagine Brigg ordering such a raid in the first place.

Slowly, Nelson carefully retraced his steps, walking backwards in fear of someone spotting him. One, two, three . . . just a few more . . . Just a few more steps, and he'd be out of sight. Come on, luck, hold out just a bit more.

He continued to back away from the fighting. Alicia was still trying to overpower her captor. One of Nelson's friends, Harry BeLon, was trying to fight his way to her side, but uselessly. There were simply too many of them. Because Alicia hadn't expected Brigg to act so quickly, she hadn't thought to bring more of her crew with her. Most were still on the bridge, completely unaware of what had happened. And Nelson knew that those who were there might not fight Brigg. They were tired, injured, and afraid; their once-glorious prize was leaking, their supposedly "easy" assignment was on the brink of disaster, and most of them hadn't had any rest since the assignment began.

At last, he felt the wall behind him, bumping against his back. He held his breath, praying fervently that no one would stop him. Just one more step . . . that's all . . .

Nelson took the final step around the corner, then fled down the hall like hell's flames were licking at his very heels.

It suddenly occured to Nelson as he yanked an access panel open and crawled within its tunnels that he was in exactly the same position Lucas Wolenczak had been earlier: hostile enemy boarding boat, taking captain hostage, he alone (at least apparently) escaping.

He simply hoped he was both as lucky and as ingenious as his predecessor had been . . . for he had the nasty suspicion that ingenuity and luck would be his only chances of survival.



Part 4

He was swimming in a sea of gray, freezing water, struggling towards land with at least one hundred miles stretching before him. His arms, heavy as lead, plunged slowly, tiredly through the water, pushing the water behind him as he lifted his arms for yet another leaden stroke through the equally leaden sea . . .

Captain Nathan Bridger suddenly bolted upright, arms flailing against an unseen attacker, his body unconsciously mimicking the movements of his dream. He jumped to his feet, eyes widening with amazement, with shock.

Before him slumped the badly beaten figure of Alicia Noyce, formerly Captain of the Ulysses. Barely holding her up by the collar of her shirt was a tall, gray-haired, angry-looking man. With a loud smack, the man dumped Alicia on the floor. He wiped his hands on his slacks, as if to rid himself of the taint of having touched her.

The penetrating, cruel eyes then slid from one face to the next, stopping for several heart beats on Lucas. Nathan felt his blood chill.

But the man simply turned and left, slamming the door behind him.


*******
Opening her eyes to the feeling of something cool pressed against her cheek, Alicia Noyce carefully looked around herself. Beside her sat Dr. Kristin Westphalen; she was holding the cold compress against her cheek. Beside her sat Tim O'Neill, who offered her a small smile as he saw her awaken. Miguel Ortiz sat next to O'Neill, his face expressionless as he met her eyes. In the back of the room, Lucas Wolenczak, Ben Krieg, and Katie Hitchcock sat quietly talking. Ben saw her looking their way and began to nervously tap his foot--or, at least, Alicia thought he certainly looked to be nervous as he shuffled restlessly beside Lucas and Katie. A few feet away, Captain Bridger paced the confines of their small prison. He saw her eyes focused on him and frowned, simply continuing to pace as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Several seconds later, Bridger's fingertips began dancing across the wall as he stared at it: simply stared at it, as if the gray wall would answer all his questions and solve all his problems.

Alicia laughed at this thought. Fat chance. Nothing short of a battering ram or a cauldron of boiling oil could take care of their problem: Captain John Stewart Brigg. And a huge problem he was going to be if they didn't do something quickly.

Bridger at last turned away from the wall and faced Alicia, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied her battered face. He absently ran a finger over his lower lip, then curled his fingers below the chin. His eyes were sharp onyxes when he finally said, "So . . . here you are, Captain Noyce. Here with us." He paused, then continued, "What brings you to our part of the ship?"

Alicia glanced around the room, looking for a kind face. The only non-hostile face in the entire party seemed to be Tim's, so she focused on him instead of Bridger. Nervously, she cleared her throat. "Because of the recent . . . difficulties . . . we've been experiencing, we ended up calling NAP for help. They sent the Apache after us to . . . recover the mission."

Bridger stared at her, visibly blanching at her information. His fist suddenly pounded into the wall behind him--hard. The absolute silence in the room was deafening. "The Apache? You can't be serious."

Alicia merely stared at him, eyebrows arched haughtily despite the bruises swelling her face.

For a moment, Bridger continued to stare, then he shook himself, as if from a bad dream. He narrowed his eyes. "That's Brigg's ship. Was Brigg the pleasant fellow who dumped you in here?"

Again, Alicia remained silent. She simply nodded.

"Damn," muttered Bridger as he continued his pacing. He shoved his hands behind his back, tightly clasping the hands together, the muscles tautly corded. For several silent seconds, he continued to pace, refusing to look at anyone in the room. Alicia shut her eyes, waiting for Bridger to accept the unacceptable: that Brigg was now their captor.

Her eyes snapped open as Bridger bent over her, roughly tilting her face up towards him. "You let Brigg do this? You let Brigg come aboard your ship?"

"And what was I supposed to do, Bridger? Tell him to take himself and his crew on a long journey through hell?" snapped Alicia, meeting his eyes with equal fury. "It wasn't as if I had much choice on this. We needed help; we requested it from NAP; Brigg came aboard. Believe me, I didn't roll out the carpet for the bastard."

"How did he take you, then? How did he manage to take you and your entire crew? Weren't you expecting something like this from him?"

Having heard enough of Bridger's outrageous accusations, Alicia pushed herself away from Kristin and faced Bridger with eyes blazing. She stood a good foot below Bridger, but her anger more than made up for the discrepancy. "Look, Bridger, I'm not the only captain here who's had their boat hijacked. So don't you dare ask me how I could let this happen!"

Bridger shook his head, then snapped, "You had more people. I had a handful. You can't even compare them."

"Yeah, and my crew has been hit pretty hard by a certain young man's inventions." She glanced at Lucas, who watched the conversation with interest, then looked back at Bridger. "Accept it: I was taken by surprise. I didn't expect Brigg to do this. Not even Brigg, Neanderthal-head though he is, hijacks NAP ships! It's like . . . like Ford hijacking the seaQuest!"

Bridger inhaled sharply, then nodded. He studied the floor for a moment, then looked back at her. "If Brigg is crazy enough to pull a stunt like this, what will he do with us? We're not exactly his comrades-in-arms." His frown lengthened as he looked at Lucas. It was obvious to Alicia what the Captain was remembering: the stare Brigg had knifed through Lucas earlier. She'd be worried, too, if she were Bridger.

"I don't know, Captain. It's hard to say with that man. He's unstable, at the best of times." She sighed, then settled to the floor as her head began throbbing. After a second's consideration, she admitted, "I'm not sure, but I think one of my men may have escaped. If so, we may have a chance . . ."

Eyes widening, Bridger began, "Who? Would they be able to . . ."

Even as Bridger's question slipped from his lips, the door hurled open, striking against the wall with a loud, intimidating crash. A figure strode in. Alicia placed a staying hand on Bridger's arm, her eyes keen, as she saw anger color Bridger's face.

Beside her, Alicia heard Doctor Westphalen curse softly.

It was Brigg.

And judging by both the crashing door and the callous twist to his lips, he was furious.

Brigg moved all too quickly. Before Bridger could intercept his path, Brigg stormed to Lucas's side and grabbed the boy by the arm. Eyes wide and face white, Lucas was yanked from the floor and hauled away from his friends. Brigg's hands dug into the teen's shoulder like iron claws: controlling, omnipotent. A startled yelp tumbled from Lucas's lips as Brigg wrenched his good arm behind his back and started dragging him towards the door.

The yelp rapidly turned into a frightened "No!" as Ben leapt to his defense--and as Brigg pistol-whipped the lieutenant. Blood trickled down Ben's forehead as he slumped to the floor, his hands reaching frantically towards his head. Katie ran to his side, then stared at Brigg, venom in her gaze.

Brigg only smiled. The smile spread as he looked from Katie to Ben, a menacing, almost mad expression on his face. He chuckled. "Eldon! I think I may need your assistance after all." A wiry, unkempt man joined Brigg's side. He looked at Katie and Ben. "They seem unusually keen to leave this place. By all means, why don't we take them with Mr. Wolenczak!"

Bridger warily walked towards the Captain. He stopped beside Lucas, his eyes slipping to the youth's, trying to reassure Lucas that he would handle this mad captain--that he could handle this mad captain. Lucas breathed deeply, eyes icy blue globes against blanched skin. Fear struck from the blue depths of his eyes.

"Leave them here, Brigg. All of them."

Brigg's eyebrows rose several inches. After a second, a dark, cruel chuckle filled the silence. "Captain Bridger! What an amusing little thought." Abruptly, the chuckle died. Brigg stared at Bridger. "To think you believe you have a say in this, Bridger." Something suddenly seemed to amuse him, for he leaned towards Bridger, tugging Lucas's arm further behind his back and smiling as he heard Lucas choke back a moan. "Really, they must be feeding you Captains some great drugs back at UEO headquarters, eh, Bridger? Only a drug-crazed idiot would think he had a right to order his captor around."

Bridger ignored the man. "Let them go. Now."

Brigg tilted his head. Quickly, in almost a blur, he pulled out his gun and pointed it at the bleeding lieutenant. Bridger stared at him in amazement. "There's only one way they're staying here, Bridger. And that's after I've fired this into them. Is that better, Captain?"

Bridger would have given just about anything he owned to wipe the bastard's smirk from his face; as it was, though, he was stuck silently nodding his head. If he didn't, he had no doubt that Brigg would kill Ben, then Katie, then Lucas. And then probably all of them.

Bridger had heard of this nut case before. He knew what he was capable of. He also knew he couldn't take chances. Bridger was their captain: their lives depended on his ability to act carefully.

Even if it meant letting the jerk have his way.

But, God, his fingers ached to kill the man.

Thirty minutes later, in a different part of the ship thoroughly separated from the prisoners, his body huddled over a tiny computer he'd managed to steal from the Ulysses' property room, Commander Dean Nelson stared at his screen. He stared at the images glaring back at him, video transmitting from his connection to the ship's communications network.

His eyes were horrified.

After a second of silent, speechless staring, Nelson leaned back. Momentarily, he forced his eyes away from the screen.

But though his eyes were no longer watching, he could still hear the screams.

He could still hear the pounding.

Brigg's sneering voice cut through the pounding, through the screams. Nelson heard that voice demand, "How did you do this to my ship? Answer me, boy: how did you destroy my ship?"

Ludicrously, Nelson focused on the man's words--on the completely irrelevant--as screams of pain followed Brigg's question. What could Brigg mean by my ship? With the screams playing in the background of his mind, shoved to the hidden corner's of his brain to preserve what little was left of his sanity, Nelson pondered the question as systematically as he could. Had he misunderstood, perhaps?

More screams clawed at his awareness. Nelson pushed their knowledge away, refusing to identify them, to acknowledge them. He returned his mind to the question at hand: how could Brigg call the Ulysses "my ship"? The Apache was his ship, not the Ulysses . . .

More cries, more screams of agony . . .

God, when would the seaQuest get here . . .

The Apache was Brigg's, not . . . not . . . not . . .

Sharp, violent pain. Nelson's faltering shields ruptured, snapped. His eyes froze on the screen.

Brigg plunged a needle into the young man's arm. The needle was full of Diphorline-Pyroxine.

Nelson swallowed hard. Earlier, when they'd captured Lucas Wolenczak, he'd only used a quarter of the amount Brigg was using. And he'd been careful not to harm the young man. Without doubt, Nelson knew Brigg wouldn't be careful. The wretch wouldn't care if he hurt his prisoner. He simply wouldn't care.

Silence passed as the teenager struggled against the drug's effects. Nelson knew, however, that it was a losing battle. Diphorline-Pyroxine was strong. Eventually, Brigg would learn what he wanted to learn. Give it about an hour or two, and Lucas, though he fought as hard as could be, would rattle off anything Brigg asked for. Even if Alicia hadn't used it in this fashion, the drug had been designed for interrogation and torture.

Nelson shut his eyes for a moment, mentally silencing the pained cries Lucas was beginning to make. He blanked from his mind the angry shouts of Lieutenant Krieg and Commander Hitchcock as they stood by, helpless, chained to the bulkhead, utterly incapable of even comforting their friend. He ignored Brigg's dark questions, ignored the mad gleam in the Captain's eyes. He pushed it all away from his mind.

He focused inwardly, calmed himself.

His eyes then refocused on the screen. He squelched the anger that immediately burned within the pit of his stomach as he saw Lucas doubled over in pain, Brigg pulling his head up by the hair.

Calm. His fingers trembled as they moved across the keyboard. Keep calm. Lucas's sharp scream was abruptly erased from his computer as Nelson terminated the connection. Nelson was sure, though, that he could still hear the agonized cry whispering around him, a silent, haunting call. He plunged forward, fingers now flying comfortably across the keys.

A brief whirring . . . lights dimming, flickering.

The red emergency lights flashed. Sounds of confusion swarmed from outside the door: "What the hell happened? . . . I don't know, just went down . . . Power's out everywhere . . . Brigg'll be furious . . . The SOB who did this better run now . . . Brig'll have their balls for dinner . . ."

The voices drifted towards Nelson's hearing, but he ignored them. Right now, they were inconsequential.

His fingers continued to type.

He suddenly smiled. Thanks, kiddo, he thought silently, wishing that "kiddo" were with him right now rather than staring at the end of Brigg's fists. The electronic path Lucas had traveled to contact the seaQuest was still there; Lucas hadn't had the chance to erase it. Nelson figured the timing for the teen's capture must have been preordained. If he'd captured the boy any earlier, Lucas wouldn't have finished the pathway; if he'd captured him any later, Lucas would've erased the pathway. And Nelson wasn't so sure he'd be able to work such a pathway to the UEO by himself. He simply didn't have the codes to do it.

Quickly, he followed the pathway, then clicked *send*.

Seconds later, Commander Jonathon Ford's startled face appeared before his eyes. Ford blinked before snapping, "Who the hell are you?!"

At any other time, Nelson would have found the greeting humorous; however, today wasn't any other time. He glanced warily around himself, then looked back at Ford. The Commander had obviously followed Nelson's glance; his eyes were staring with interest at the darkened background and flashing red lights. Nelson simply replied, "I'm a friend. I'm also on the Ulysses."

Ford's eyes widened even further. He nodded after a second's thought. "Who are you? You're obviously not UEO."

That much was obvious. Nelson pushed his frustration to the back of his mind, trying to keep calm. "No, I'm not UEO. I'm NAP . . . or, at least, I was."

A second's pause passed between them. Finally, Ford asked, "Oh?"

"Yeah. Long story." Nelson glanced at the computer's clock, then winced. He didn't have time for this nonsense. "To make that long story short, the crew that originally hijacked the Ulysses has been hijacked. I'm part of the original crew."

Ford crossed his arms, eyebrows shooting towards the top of his forehead. "The hijackers have been hijacked?" At Nelson's nod, Ford shook his head. "That's absurd. Who would do it?"

"Absurd or not, it's obviously happened. Look around me." Ford did, his frown deepening, but he didn't say anything. He merely regarded Nelson with an inscrutable face. Nelson sighed in frustration. "Have you heard of Captain John Brigg before?" Ford's reaction told him enough: yes, Ford had heard of the man. Nelson explained, "He's the one who hijacked us. That, of course, would be inconsequential to you . . . except that he's interrogating your crewmembers."

Ford began to pace, dark thoughts obviously twisting in his mind. Whirling towards Nelson, he asked, his voice sharp, "How do I know this isn't some trap? How do I trust anything you say? I don't know you."

Nelson thought for a moment. Softly, he answered, "Lucas Wolenczak has been working on something called a vortex . . . actually, a renegade vortex." Though Ford clearly tried to hide his surprise, Nelson could easily see a flicker in the man's stony expression. He continued, "Your young genius used that vortex to cripple the ship. It worked--beautifully, in fact. We called NAP, and they sent in Brigg to help us. He then proceeded to hijack us. Right now, he's literally pounding into that genius scientist of yours to find out what he can about the renegade vortex. And, of course, being the bastard he is, Brigg is using Diphorline-Pyroxine. Is that enough to convince you, Commander? Hmm? If not, I don't have any other proof for you. I don't have time to gather proof."

Silence. Ford studied him. The moments ticked by before the Commander abruptly said, "Okay, Nelson. I believe you. For now." He paused, leaning into the screen. "But if you betray me . . . if you try anything . . . I'll attach you to the end of one of our torpedoes and launch you into the nearest rock. Got it?"

Swallowing, Nelson nodded. It was probably nicer than whatever Brigg would do to him. "Yeah, got it."

Ford nodded. "Do you know your coordinates right now?"

"Yeah. We're about 36.5 degrees south by 156.1 degrees east. That's where we were the last I checked."

With a brief nod, Ford looked at his charts. He looked back up. "We can be there in about thirty minutes. What's the status of the ship right now?"

Nelson actually smiled at this. "Crippled. The power's out. No lights, no engines: no anything. Communications are down, too, except for this line. I'll make sure all weapons are down, too, though they should be. The main computer's still down."

"Good." Ford briefly discussed something with a stocky man. According to his ID tag, the man was named Crocker. Ford turned back to him. "We'll have a full attack team with us when we reach the Ulysses. Again, about thirty minutes. Keep out of sight until then."

Though that was obvious, Nelson nodded obligingly anyway. He then cut the transmission, stowing away his computer as he prepared to check on the weapons systems.

With a last glance around himself, Nelson crept towards the door.


********
Back on the seaQuest, a nightmare of activity bustled through the corridors. Red lights flashed through the gray halls as the crew was called to battlestations. Security personnel ran in several directions, dressed in full combat gear. MedBay checked over its supplies, looking at every piece of equipment that might be needed with hostages involved. The seaQuest itself swept along at 170 knots, speeding towards its destination.

Amidst the general rush and clamor, Chief Crocker briefed his staff on what might be expected once they managed to reach the Ulysses. As they all walked off to finish last minute preparations, he shook his head and muttered to himself, "Hijackers hijacking hijackers . . . What will happen next in this crazy world?"

Flinching, Crocker stopped himself the moment the words were out of his mouth. He certainly didn't need to tempt fate into answering his question with something even worse . . . it had done its damage already.


*******
A loud voice erupted violently, painfully, through his head. He winced, then moaned softly as his head whacked into something hard. A slight pause. Strange sounds, voices he couldn't quite place, whirled in his mind. They seemed important, like something he should remember. But, unfortunately, he couldn't understand their significance. Just noise . . . just sounds . . .

Lucas shivered. Darkness surrounding him, he struggled to recall where he was, when he was . . . God, who he was.

That nasty voice again. It breathed near his ear. He could barely make out the words: ". . . vortex . . . ship . . . explode . . ." The words were warped, curling around one another, blending until Lucas couldn't hear anything but confused, jumbled sounds.

His lungs burned. For a moment, he blanked out the voice assaulting him, his mind trying to understand why his chest hurt so badly, why it hurt to breathe. His stomach also felt raw, like something was tearing him apart from the inside.

There was that damnable voice again. "Exaccctttllyyly . . . vvvooorrrrttteexxx . . ."

Nausea struck as the man's words stretched, twisted into an indecipherable code. He forced the nausea down, concentrating on breathing instead of on the nonsensical world around him. Breathe. Breathe. Oh, Lord . . . Lucas's silent litany broke as the nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He curled onto his side, again concentrating on his breathing. Just breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Pain again, this time in his joints. They throbbed, like tiny knives were repeatedly slamming into each joint. It felt like his muscles were tearing--ripping apart, maybe disintegrating. With a moan, Lucas rolled onto his back, only to find the pain rolling with him.

He felt hot breath against his ear. "I'll make the pain stop. I can do that." The words drifted towards him. Lucas struggled to understand them, to comprehend who was saying them and why. "It won't huurrrttt . . ."

God, the sounds were sickening. Lucas wanted to be ill, but couldn't move. His whole body burned with some internal fire he couldn't begin to identify. He mumbled softly, unaware that he was actually speaking, "Hurts. Hurts. Stop."

The voice was perched near his ear again. Words trickled towards him. "Tell me about the vortex. Tell me about what you did to this ship. I can stop the pain. It won't hurt anymore."

Lucas shivered. He shook his head. "Can't. Told them I wouldn't tell anyone..."

"But they're not here. You are," the voice coaxed. Lucas frowned, wishing he understood what was happening. Why was this man talking to him when all he wanted to do was sleep? "I can stop this from hurting you. All you have to do is tell me about your vortex."

Lucas tossed his head, the throbbing intensifying. He swallowed hard, then whispered, "Vocorder project . . . Darwin. Language . . . language . . ." He choked back the rest of his sentence as the nausea surged. Moments later, he continued, "Can't tell . . . Darwin . . ."

The voice disappeared. Something sharp pierced his skin. Ice poured into his veins.

Seconds ticked away: silently, deadly. Then the silence exploded. Lucas screamed as the most brutal pain he had ever known to exist pulsed through his body. It exploded in his mind, in his skull, in his bones, in his flesh. Something shattered, tore open, bled deeply within, a gash widening into a chasm. He reeled, throbbing with endless, inconceivable pain: torture.

Heat like fire burned through his blood, roaring inside his veins and blasting his cells apart. He could feel his blood disintegrate against the heat.

"The vortex. What is it? How did you create one here?" hissed the man's voice. His questioner had returned. "Tell me, and there will be no more pain. Just tell me."

Vaguely, Lucas thought he heard Krieg's voice in the background; he couldn't understand the words, though. But Krieg's voice was comforting. He listened to it, trying to anchor his pained mind to that sound. His friend was here. He wasn't alone.

He swallowed hard. Softly, he answered, "No."

Blackness suddenly surrounded him as his body was lifted and thrown against the nearest wall.


*********
Luridly glowing lights flickered in the blackened halls. Commander Nelson ignored the lights as he carefully slid around a corner. His eyes shot warily around him: no one. Thank God. The halls were still empty.

He doubted he'd be spotted, anyway. Brigg's team had serious problems on their hands. As he'd waited for the hall to clear, he'd seen Brigg's crew scurrying around like a bunch of rats in a maze. No one knew what was wrong, no one was familiar enough with the Ulysses to know where he or she was, no one bothered to look at anyone else, and everyone worried about running into Brigg. It was perfect for Nelson's needs.

Nelson continued treading warily down the hall, squinting to read the doors as he passed them: Aquatic Engineering, Science 1D, Artificial Intelligence and Robotics, Mammal Engineering, Aquaculture. A small smile played along his lips as he at last came to the right door: Weapons.

He glanced at the unguarded door, then breathed deeply. Guards had to be somewhere; not even Brigg's men were foolish enough to leave the weapons room unguarded. He supposed that, if they weren't outside, they had to be inside.

For the fifth or sixth time that hour alone, Nelson checked his gun. It was set on kill. The power was completely charged. The safety lock was off. It was ready; if only he were, too.

One more deep breath, and Nelson very carefully began to open the door. He moved the door handle up without sound, refusing to breath as he listened for the slightest click. No sound yet. He continued to move the door handle, swallowing hard, sweat trickling between his shoulder blades and down his back. Just a bit more . . . a tiny bit more.

The handle reached the end of its circle. With a quick prayer, Nelson shoved the door open and crashed inside the room.

Two men stared up from a game of cards played under the dim glow of an auxiliary light; their eyes were large, startled, as Nelson pointed his gun at them and fired. Before they had the chance to arm themselves, the two guards crashed forward. Cards tumbled everywhere, now completely forgotten on the floor.

Nelson strode past them, stopping only to relieve them of their keys and guns. Several computer panels met his eyes, all lined up and identical in shape and coloring. He frowned. If he recalled correctly, the design specs for the Ulysses set the third panel as weapons control. However, he could be wrong. Nelson closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember the layout as precisely as possible.

Of course, he could do one other thing. Nelson's eyes flew open, a smile again forming, as the thought struck home: he could simply destroy them all. That way, Brigg wouldn't have any chance of accessing his weapons.

All or nothing, he thought. He'd take all right now. Without further thought, Nelson simply charged his weapon to full power, aimed, and fired . . . and fired . . . and fired. The smell of burning wires immediately hung in the air. Sparks flew. Nelson continued to shoot. More sparks, more smoke: next, hot, twisting flames charged through the air itself. The air burned. Nelson ran, shooting towards the door as fast as his legs could carry him. He could feel the heat blasting up his back as he slid past the unconscious guards and jumped through the door's welcoming shape. His body flew past the door and crashed onto the floor. Hissing flames licked out towards him, raging, as he forced himself to his feet and continued to run.

Warning lights flared, flashing as fire was detected. However, Nelson knew the sprinklers wouldn't kick in this time. The entire computer was probably down now. He was even amazed the fire detectors were working.

He continued to run, darting past several crewmembers as they ran towards the fires. Fear flashed frantically across their faces. It didn't take Nelson much to understand why: the mad ass that he was, Brigg would probably nail someone's hide for this fire. As the crew ran through the halls, fire extinguishers in hand, Nelson sailed right past them. No one threw a second glance his way, so Nelson simply shrugged and continued running right in open view of anybody that bothered to look.

Sometimes, chaos was an ally. This was, apparently, one of those times.

On to step two: Bridger and Alicia.

And with any luck, the two of them hadn't managed to kill each other yet.



Part 5

When he heard the door crash open, Bridger fully expected Brigg to stride through the entryway, triumph dripping from his features. However, it wasn't Brigg. It was the same bearded pirate look-alike Alicia had addressed as "Nelson" when the original hijacking party had captured them . . . in what seemed like another lifetime to Bridger. The man looked haggard, his shaggy blond hair falling loosely into red eyes lined by dark smudges of exhaustion. Nelson paused in the doorway, eyes searching for his Captain's red hair; he smiled wearily as he handed her a gun. Nelson then walked towards Bridger, throwing him a gun, too. Bridger's eyes widened as, startled, he caught the weapon.

Nelson met his eyes, clearing his throat self-consciously. He glanced at Captain Noyce, then back at Bridger. "I'm sorry this has happened, sir. It wasn't our plan." He pushed a string of hair from his eyes, his look straying towards Dr. Westphalen's cold eyes. He sighed. "I'm trying to free us all from the murderous bastard currently in charge of this mission. Like I said, I'm sorry it happened in the first place. I can't change that. But I can help change how this whole mess ends."

After a second, Bridger nodded. It truly wasn't as if he had much choice in the matter . . . besides which, it did seem that Nelson was sorry for what he'd done. Anyhow, Bridger knew placing blame right now would do no good. "Can you give me an update on what's been happening?"

Nelson nodded, glancing at Noyce. "Yeah. I've knocked out the weapons system. I've also managed to contact the seaQuest." He smiled slightly at Bridger's sharply raised eyebrows. "I only followed Lucas's trail. Couldn't have done it any other way . . ."

Miguel Ortiz spun Nelson towards him. His eyes were intense, sharp, as he demanded, "Where is Lucas, by the way? And what about Lieutenant Krieg and Commander Hitchcock? Do you know?"

Nelson paused for a moment, then carefully answered, "The last I saw, Brigg was . . . interrogating . . . Lucas. The other two were tied on the side. Krieg and Hitchcock were okay, just mentally . . . stressed."

Bridger's fists tightened, clutching uselessly at his side. It didn't take a genius to understand the implications of Nelson's words: Krieg and Hitchcock were okay, but Lucas wasn't included in the lists of the "okay." He'd kill the nut. He'd strangle him. He'd skin him alive . . .

Abruptly, Nathan stopped himself, shocked. Where the hell had that thought come from? He'd never wanted--truly wanted--to skin someone alive. The violence of the thought sent warning bells ringing in his ears . . . but Bridger simply ignored them. Brigg would pay for what he'd done. He'd pay for whatever pain he'd caused Lucas. And he'd pay hard.

Nelson cleared his throat, seeing the hard glint to Bridger's eyes. He anxiously looked between Bridger and Noyce. "Anyway . . . anyway, I talked to Commander Ford. The seaQuest . . ."

Nelson's voice broke as the boat suddenly shimmied. Together, they listened, captivated, as a loud plink resounded through the ship. Another plink immediately followed the first, then a second, then a third. The Ulysses shook with each hit.

They were under attack.

Nelson turned back to Bridger, smiling slightly. "That, I believe, is the seaQuest. Ford promised to get here as fast as he could."

Bridger blinked, then asked, "Ford? Here?" Bridger's grim expression lightened somewhat as he saw Nelson nod. "What's the plan of attack?"

"Well . . . Ford's bringing in an attack squad. I think someone named Crocker is going to head it. It looked that way, at least." Nelson cleared his throat, then said sheepishly, "I was supposed to stay out of sight. But the timing was just too good to come in and get you."

With a slight nod, Bridger thoughtfully ran a hand across his chin. He looked back at Nelson. "With the seaQuest attacking and with an attack squad on its way, Brigg's crew will have its hands busy. We can use their confusion to our advantage. Nelson, do you know where Brigg's holding the rest of us?"

"Last I saw, they were in MedBay." He glanced towards the door. "We can go ahead and make our way there. The halls are almost pitch black. I suspect people will run past us even if they do see us. Several people ran right past me on my way over here. They didn't even stop to ask questions."

"Good." Bridger glanced around. "We'll see if we can free them in MedBay. Keep your eyes open, though. As anyone knows, people get all the more dangerous when the situation starts looking hopeless."

With one last glance at his crew, Bridger headed towards the door. After a brief pause, he glanced outside, smiling slightly at the two unconscious forms slumped across the floor: Nelson's work, without question. Cautiously, he stepped into the hall. No one was there; it was deserted, silent--almost eerily so. He wondered where everyone was; they had to be somewhere.

Eyes alert, Bridger started towards MedBay, his crew slipping in behind him with their weapons both fully charged and ready to fire.


*******

Five minutes later.

Bridger stared at the door in front of him, pausing long enough to look behind him. Everyone was still with him, eyes anxiously watching him.

Their escape had been without conflict. No one had bothered to confront them; the only person they'd passed in the halls had been running at break-neck speed and hadn't even bothered to notice them. He'd simply run right past, a gun in his hand, as if Bridger and crew were just ghosts. It was probably the oddest scenario Bridger had ever encountered.

Again, his eyes swung towards the door. He pushed in as he heard a loud, shrill scream.

The scream was in Lucas's voice.

The door swung open, clattering to the side. Bridger followed only a second behind. After him came Ortiz and O'Neill, Ortiz swinging inside with a hot, angry expression on his face. Not a second behind was Westphalen, followed shortly by Nelson and Noyce.

In front of them stood Brigg. Perched over his victim, fist ready to strike, a startled Brigg looked up.

The second froze.

Hatred seethed within Bridger's mind: living, writhing hatred. Blood ran from the corner of Lucas's mouth, from the side of his forehead. Bruises stood starkly against his overly pale skin. Softly, as Bridger watched, Lucas whispered, "No . . . won't tell . . . won't . . ."

The moment broke with Lucas's whispered words. Bridger launched himself at Brigg's throat, hands clasped like claws. He pounded into Brigg's body, tumbling to the floor. Fury drove him, a rage he'd rarely felt before: this bastard had tortured Lucas. This bastard had hurt Lucas. He'd kill him. He'd rip the man's throat apart. He'd rip into the man until there wasn't a recognizable shred of him left.

He pounded his fists into Brigg's head. Brigg struck back, grabbing a pair of scissors from the floor and aiming at Bridger's eyes. Both captains rolled across the floor, locked in their struggle. Ortiz tried to draw the two men apart, but was almost rewarded with a slashed wrist from Brigg's hand. He jumped back, then circled again, looking for a way to separate the fighters.

As Bridger and Brigg continued to strike insanely at one another, O'Neill moved towards Ben and Katie, looking for anything to cut their ties with. Nelson soon appeared at his side, handing him a pocket switchblade. O'Neill nodded thankfully, then glanced towards the combatants. Nelson silently slid away as he joined Ortiz, who was still trying to stop the fight. Kristin and Alicia moved to Lucas's aid. Her eyes nervously darting towards Bridger and Brigg, Kristin began anxiously searching for a blanket to keep Lucas warm and out of shock.

The fight continued. Brigg slashed at Bridger's neck; the scissors plunged into Nathan's shoulder. Bridger groaned but continued to struggle, reaching his hands towards Brigg's head. Sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging; he blinked, but refused to shut them.

Frightened shouts drifted in towards the MedBay. Kristin peered out into the hall. "No . . . this way! They haven't breached the hull over here yet . . ." She could barely see several men rushing past, arms toting weapons. More shouts. "No . . . the other way, idiots! They're coming in here, too!"

This time, Kristin saw the same men come running the opposite direction. Alicia moved towards the door, gun poised to shoot. Ben and Katie soon joined her, Ben wielding Nelson's knife as Katie held a scalpel. In the halls, new crewmen joined from side passages. The angry voices rung in the panic-heavy air: "Where the hell is Brigg, anyway? What'd he do, sell out?" One sarcastic reply echoed towards them as the speakers ran out of sight: "Probably jumped ship the second trouble showed up. Sounds like the coward. Couldn't face a real threat if he had to. Someone shoulda' killed that stoneless idiot years ago."

Kristin looked down at Lucas, then across at Bridger and Brigg, a worried frown on her face.

Her worried frown turned into utter shock as Bridger's hands snaked around Brigg's forehead and began to slam the man's head into the floor. Once, twice, thrice . . . Brigg's head banged into the hard floor. Kristin heard a grunt of pain. Bridger continued his attack, now bodily lifting Brigg and smashing him into the nearest wall. Ortiz tried to stop the fight once more, but was knocked back by Bridger's own hand.

Brigg slid bonelessly to the ground, moaning softly. Blood oozed from the side of his forehead, trickling around his ear and down his neck; more blood trickled from his nose and mouth.

Bridger tread softly towards him, eyes hard, created from steel itself. His hand reached down for Brigg's hair. Slowly, as if enjoying every second of his opponent's fear, Bridger lifted the head until it was a good foot away from the wall. He moved his other hand towards Brigg's neck, fingers spreading, a cruelly hooked talon swooping towards its prey . . .

"Stop that, sir. You don't want to do it."

The voice sliced through the silence, through the amazed apprehension as Bridger prepared to break Brigg's neck.

"Come on, Cap. You know you don't want to do this."

Kristin swallowed hard, looking from Bridger to their latest arrival: Security Chief Manilow Crocker. The stocky Security Chief stood silhouetted against the door, his hand urging fellow members of the attack squad to stay behind him. Slowly, he walked towards Bridger. He stopped at the Captain's side.

There was a short pause as Bridger stared, rage shooting through his mind, at Brigg. Crocker softly said, "You aren't like him, Cap. You never will be. He could kill in cold blood. You can't. It isn't in you." Crocker paused, then carefully placed his hand over Bridger's wrist. "I've served with you ten years, sir. I'm not about to think you've changed this much overnight. Just . . . let him go. The UEO can take care of him."

Bridger blinked quickly. A charged silence clung to the room. All eyes in the room trained on Bridger, waiting to see what the Captain would do.

Slowly, Bridger dropped his hand. The hand hung limply at his side, as if it were a part of his body he didn't wish to admit as his own. He stared at Brigg: simply stared. His head tilted downward.

As the strained silence continued, Bridger finally lifted his head. He lifted shaking hands to his forehead, then--blinking quickly--looked over at Crocker. After a long stare had passed between the two of them, Bridger patted Crocker's shoulder, nodding slightly. "Thank you, old friend. For more than you could know." He swallowed hard. He met the eyes of his crew. They stood silently around him, simply staring at the scene. Bridger could almost swear he heard a silent horror screeching from every corner of the room, a silent horror that screamed from their minds and eyes as if shouted. There was fear, anger, disbelief. There was terror at the unknown: the Captain losing control. And Bridger knew the fear was well justified.

What he had done . . . what his hands had ached to do, what they had demanded to do . . .

Bridger shivered, a cold ache spreading through his chest: he'd almost killed someone in anger. He'd almost killed someone with his bare hands. He'd almost become a monster.

He'd almost become Brigg.

And that thought rocked him to his very core.

Voice unnaturally rough, as if he hadn't spoken for ages, Nathan turned to Kristin and asked, "Is he all right?"

Kristin jumped. She blinked. "He? Who . . . ?" For a second, Kristin simply stared at him in incomprehension before she gasped. "Oh, Lucas . . . yes, he's . . . all right. All things considered, that is."

Nathan nodded. He stepped next to her, seeing her wide eyes following his every movement. With care, he lifted Lucas into his arms. A second later, he looked back at Crocker. "Is everything secured, Chief?"

Crocker nodded, crossing his arms slightly. "Yes'sir. All secured. There shouldn't be any trouble."

Bridger nodded. He cleared his throat. "If you could simply show us to the nearest shuttle, Chief . . ."

They followed Crocker as the man briskly started walking towards their shuttle, Brigg's stumbling figure in tow. The halls seemed abandoned, almost dead; even the red light of the warning klaxons had faded to nothing. Each member of Crocker's team had small flashlights, the circular lights casting haunting shadows across the walls. The boat itself creaked and moaned, as if in pain, while they wandered its bowels.

They were nearing the shuttle when Brigg finally made his move: suddenly, he pushed his captor aside and reached for the man's weapon.

Kristin stared in horror as Brigg aimed the weapon at Bridger, his eyes gleaming madly, eerily, against the flashlights. From the right, Krieg tackled Brigg, pushing the weapon up until its barrel pointed at the ceiling of the boat. Ortiz tackled from the left, knocking Brigg's feet out from under him.

As if in slow motion, Bridger moved to help his crew. He gently deposited Lucas on the floor, then reached for his gun. It slid smoothly into his hand . . . no shaking, no worry about motives or intentions. He ran to Krieg's aid as the lieutenant suddenly found himself looking into the barrel of Brigg's weapon.

Ortiz kicked Brigg in the liver. O'Neill whacked at the mad Captain's head. Krieg fought as the barrel lowered yet another inch.

Bridger lifted his gun, aimed.

A shot fired.

Someone screamed in agony.

Bridger stared in horror as he realized that the shot had not been his own.


*******
With a low moan, Krieg rolled over to his side. He threw the heavy body off his chest. It flopped onto the floor like a dead fish, arms uselessly lolling to the side.

Shaking, he stood. He raised trembling fingers to his bleeding nose, then asked hesitantly, "Who . . . who shot him?"

Eyes instantly turned towards Bridger. However, Bridger shook his head. His weapon was still fully loaded.

Slowly, Alicia stepped forward. She waved her gun slightly. "I did." Surprise shot through the eyes trained on her, and she smiled harshly, lips twisted into a thin-lipped grimace. "If Bridger didn't kill him, I was going to. The bastard deserved it."

She walked past them, heading down the hall towards the shuttle. After a second, she turned back to look at them. Her face was grim. "He killed my crew. Every one of them . . . excepting myself and Nelson. Do you understand? Every one of them. They didn't have a chance. He slaughtered them. And he laughed! He laughed!"

Boldly, she met each pair of eyes. Bridger wondered if she were challenging them to even try arguing with her. "The bastard deserved to die slowly, in pain: in an acid bath, skinned alive, left to burn to death in a fire." Bridger frowned at this. It sounded too much like what he'd been feeling earlier: all too much. "He didn't deserve the easy death he just got. But, at least that way, I know he'll never do to anyone what he's done to us."

As she twisted on her heels and stepped rigidly away from them, Bridger followed, mind whirling. Where did it end? Where did the taste for revenge, for another's blood, stop? And where, truly, was the line drawn between self-protection and cruelty? Where did the line exist between the necessary and the monstrous?

Grimly, Nathan settled himself into the shuttle. He waited as Katie piloted the shuttle away from the ship, then watched the radar as the Ulysses slowly disappeared from sight.

Silence filled the shuttle, broken now and then with the sound of a cough or a soft moan as someone moved.

Bridger's gaze slid across the faces of his crew. They seemed a crew of shadows: Kristin, exhausted and worried, simply held Lucas's good hand as she stared at nothing; Lucas, his face white, lay unconscious beside Kristin, moving sometimes in pain; Ben Krieg tiredly rubbed his hands across his eyes, a haunted expression flashing through his eyes when he, at last, looked up; Katherine Hitchcock pressed her lips into a thin line, her ice blue eyes staring ahead expressionlessly as she piloted the shuttle; Miguel Ortiz sat beside her in the copilot's chair, empty eyes staring at the instruments; Tim O'Neill sat beside Ben, but simply sat without words. All of them . . . shadows.

They had won.

They had defeated the enemy.

They had triumphed over the worst odds.

But why did the words seem so empty right now?


********
Three computers open before him, each one rapidly crunching numbers and processing theories, Lucas sat with an old-fashioned notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other.

He had a puzzle to solve.

Of course, it wasn’t any ordinary "puzzle": no box of wooden or cardboard chips to put together in the hope that it would reasonably approximate the picture of some object. No, his puzzle was a bit more complicated than that.

"Hmmm . . ." he mumbled, twirling the pencil between his index finger and thumb. "I wonder why it did that . . ."

That, naturally, referred to his latest mis-experimentation with the vortex. He was beginning to think he should just go right back to his Vocorder project and dump any and all knowledge of vortices from his mind. It would sure beat wondering what on earth he'd done to turn his level two vortex into a level twelve renegade vortex that wanted to eat him alive for dinner. Not to mention that it'd practically blown some holes into the science lab. Oh, Doctor Westphalen would've loved that . . .

Restlessly, he began thumping his notebook on the edge of his desk. By a minute or so, he was even starting to pitch in a few musical notes and tapping his toes in time to the "music."

A tap sounded from his door. He sighed, still thumping the notebook. "Yo . . . c'mon in."

His visitor's eyebrows rose as he stepped into the room. Captain Nathan Bridger squinted his eyes against the harsh light of several overhead lights. "'Yo'? That's a new one for you . . ." Bridger didn't bother to add that, as a youth, he'd used the same expression. Lucas would have been offended to know it wasn't his own invention. He glanced around. "What's all this stuff for?"

Making a face, Lucas groaned. "I'm trying to figure out how my vortex grew from a small bean to a giant overnight. Unfortunately, nothing's immediately obvious." Lucas stretched, then tapped his left fingers against the desk. He smiled up at the Captain. "The arm's not hurting today. I'm just glad I've got that stupid cast off finally. No more itching."

With a slight smile, Bridger sat at the edge of Lucas's bunk. "I'll bet. If I recall, you were threatening to tear it off yourself if Doctor Westphalen didn't take care of it first." A mischievous smile briefly flashed across Lucas's face, but he quickly hid it. Bridger shook his head. "Anything else up?"

Lucas looked up at him, surprised. He simply shook his head.

"Ah . . . well, that might be good. We just got a request for some help . . . actually, more like a plea." At Lucas's curious expression, Bridger filled him in, "Well, there happens to be a ship that won't run. The UEO can't seem to get it operating again. Actually, they've never been able to get the engines to run."

Lucas stared at him, color very slowly slipping from his cheeks.

Seeing the teen's reaction, Nathan quickly added, "However, I told those idiots that we weren't interested. Period. I also told them that if they wanted my advice, they'd simply sink the Ulysses and start over again. That project was a mess from the very beginning. I think that ship was doomed to simply sit in someone's harbor."

Lucas laughed slightly, brushing a hair away from his eyes. He nodded. "Thanks, sir. I didn't . . . want to go back there. And I think you're right: it looks real good in someone's harbor. Let them keep it there."

Well, at least Lucas was now able to talk about the Ulysses without wanting to crawl into the nearest wall panel. That was a definite plus. Bridger smiled slightly, knowing that he, too, had been just about as bad. Actually, all of them had been: Krieg, Hitchcock, O'Neill, Ortiz, Westphalen. All of them had walked lightly around any mention of the ship. Too much had happened: too many painful events had struck and too many unanswered questions had arisen. Things were getting better, but slowly; Nathan knew that, with more time, they would heal. It would take time, though.

However, he did have a way of encouraging that healing. The thought had struck him as soon as he'd delivered a resounding, absolute "NO" to the UEO's request for help with the Ulysses. Besides, they were overdue their shore leave. "Hey, I did have a proposal for you, kiddo."

Lucas looked at him with serious eyes, wondering what this might have to do with the Ulysses.

Bridger smiled. "I was thinking of taking a few of us out for some ice cream or something. Some shore leave, in any case, spent together. A little unwinding exercise."

Lucas gave him the "that-sounds-like-real-fun" look teenagers of every century had seemingly mastered . . . the rolled eyes, the unhappy pout, the disgruntled slump of the body. Bridger grinned. "Let's see, on the guest list I had Kristin, Tim, Katie, and Miguel. Oh . . . and, of course, we need our irrepressible Lieutenant Krieg. Someone's got to get you into trouble . . ."

Lucas almost stuck his tongue out at the Captain, but he restrained himself. Instead, he simply groaned. "A shore leave filled with adults . . . well, except maybe Ben . . ."

Bridger outright grinned at this. He tapped Lucas's knee. "Did I mention it involved computers?"

At this, Lucas's head fairly snapped off his neck as he looked up. The teen grinned. "Cool! I'll be right there. When are we leaving?"

Bridger laughed, then headed towards the door. "In about an hour. See you there. And remember to haul Krieg with you if he tries to get out of this. He kept mentioning something about 'Lucas and computers . . . we'll never hear anything from him but strings of computerese.'"

Bridger heard Lucas snort as he left the teen's room. Satisfied with the boy's reaction, Bridger smiled. It seemed to have helped. He knew Lucas had had a lot of pressure put on him about his renegade vortex. The UEO was seriously interested in its development as a weapon now that the Ulysses disaster had thoroughly demonstrated its destructive capabilities. Several Generals Nathan knew were practically salivating over the mere idea of the weapon's power. However, Lucas could only deal with vortices and theories so much . . . he needed a break, too.

And the remaining team from the Ulysses could also use a break, he suspected. It had even been Kristin's idea. They'd come through a lot together during their captivity, but they had rarely mentioned it over the past six months. Even Nathan, though he was certainly not a psychologist, knew that this was unhealthy. They needed to talk over what had happened. And they needed to reconnect to one another without worrying about treading on the other person's feelings. The Ulysses mess had been bad enough, but they didn't need to hide away from it now, too.

Nathan hoped that, as the issues came out into the open, as the questions finally were asked and the air cleared, the invisible tension he'd felt for several weeks would finally release. He prayed they would slowly learn to work past this.

They were a good crew. They cared for one another. Somehow, Nathan knew that their concern for each other would eventually bring them past the hidden shadows the Ulysses still managed to cast upon them. It had been a nightmare . . . but even nightmares finally needed to end.



The End

Well, folks, there it is: THE END! (*Sigh* . . . the end of another seaQuest journey . . .)

So . . . what did you think? Did you like it? Hate it? Want to run send penned lightning my way? If so, here's where to write me:

E-Mail addy: afsad@uaa.alaska.edu

And, remember, I love feedback. I could especially use feedback on this story, for it was a little different from my "normal work" (e.g., basically internal). I also had trouble ending this (as you may have noted…). J