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.