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!"