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