Disclaimer: This is an amateur work meant in no way to infringe upon the rights of Amblin Entertainment or the Sci-Fi Channel. Lucas Wolenczak, Nathan Bridger, seaQuest, etc., are all the sole property of Amblin Entertainment and its cohorts in Hollywood. The Non-Allied Powers are the products of this author’s own deranged mind . . .
* READ AUTHOR'S NOTE*: some elements have been changed from canonical tradition. For example, Lucas Wolenczak graduated from Stanford with an M.S. in Artificial Intelligence, as well as a subject concentration in physics/mathematics. Some dates may appear suspiciously outside canon. In addition, because of the Non-Allied Powers (situated in a place called "Dominia," another element outside the seaQuest canon), this work can be seen as an Alternative Universe piece.
Rating: PG-13, rated as such because of some adult themes and language.
Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn
Wires sprawled everywhere. Dangling, looping over crossways, coursing up walls, spiraling into tiny, dark crevices, they seemed alive, like metallic, plastic-skinned ivy crawling in a maze of twists and turns-trying madly to cover every inch, every centimeter of space. But this was most certainly not ivy: reds, blues, yellows, purples, blacks, greens, oranges, grays, whites-all hues jumbled crazily together, without thought, without pattern, without order.
Unless, of course, one understood the system behind the colors, behind the sprawling clash of shapes.
One such individual was even now happily sifting through the twisting, turning wires. The form was barely visible in the dim, fluctuating, florescent light. Dark clothing, dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. The dark eyes, however, were lit with triumph as the figure dramatically plucked one tiny, almost invisible turquoise wire from its nest of other tiny, almost invisible turquoise wires. Flourishing the wire proudly in front of him, the man grinned at his companion, a smug smile slipping across his face. As promised, he’d done it. He’d found the culprit; out of thousands of possible culprits, he’d found the defective wire.
His companion groaned, kicking ill-humoredly at the wires nearly entangling his feet. The wires merely bent, then regained shape as his feet at last retreated. Instead of stupidly kicking at wires, he simply glared at the man next to him, wishing silently that he could wipe that smirk right off the man’s face. It was bad enough that he’d been dragged into this. But putting up with this man’s smugness was just too much to expect from anyone. He only wished that cooling someone’s ego was as easy as cooling someone’s body temperature. If such were the case, he’d dump a bucket of ice on his companion’s ego any day.
Still smiling, the wire-bearer grinned arrogantly and began fusing turquoise wires with red wires and red wires with purple wires . . . and finally purple wires with blue wires, hoping to hell that they’d not blow up in his face or electrocute him. Well, no fire quite yet . . . he hoped one didn’t suddenly materialize, for, truthfully, to catch half a thousand wires on fire in front of his grumpy companion would not only be embarrassing-it would also be deeply humiliating.
It would be humiliating for one very simple reason, too, a reason for which he was completely responsible: for hours, he’d lectured his companion on how to do this, how to do that-essentially, how to assemble any and every component a ship’s wiring might need. Of course, during his lectures, as any instructor would, he’d highlighted his years of experience and his “vast” knowledge of mechanical engineering.
So . . . well, he’d basically painted a portrait of himself as the god of engineering.
Okay, so he’d exaggerated a bit. But who wouldn’t when confronted with an intelligent, sharper-than-a-whip disciple? Moreover, who wouldn’t exaggerate when that sharper-than-a-whip disciple was required to listen if he liked it or not? Having a captive audience had its definite benefits, one of which was parading a slightly overblown list of his accomplishments before his listener’s ears.
Captain Nathan Hale Bridger of the United Earth/Oceans Organization’s flagship submarine, the seaQuest, suddenly grinned. He cast his “devoted disciple” (or his “drafted drudge,” if all truth were known) a glance. The aforementioned drudge was even now distractedly playing with a pile of discarded wires, sculpting them into the shape of a dolphin, astutely ignoring every word and movement Bridger made. Nathan could see what looked like the snout of a dolphin forming; doubtlessly, this was supposed to be a sculpture of Darwin. With imagination, he could even say it somewhat resembled the real Darwin.
He sighed, shaking his head. Kids. When one got right down to it, they made the worst disciples. This seemed true even when their presence was mandatory.
Yawning, Nathan’s drudge looked up, casting his Almighty Teacher a bored, disgruntled look. He then glanced at the instrument panel, rolling his eyes. He pointed at it, wagging his finger impudently. “Ha! You call that engineering, sir? I don’t see any lights blinking.”
Nathan glared at his supposed protégé. “Ha yourself! I don’t see you fixing it!” He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot, refusing to look away from his crewmember. “Besides, there are a few other areas that could be wrong.”
Nathan’s alleged disciple-one Lucas Daniel Wolenczak, the seaQuest’s resident fourteen year-old computer and physics geek-outright laughed. His captain had dug himself into a pit on this one.
“Sir, there could be any number of things wrong here!” He finished shaping Darwin’s snout, then looked back at Nathan. “The ship could be having a bad wire day, for all we know.”
Laughing softly, Nathan glanced at the wires sprawling in every direction. Yes, one could say the ship was having a bad wire day. It would take him at least ten hours of fully concentrated effort to put this tangle of wires back in order. Even with Lucas’s help, he doubted the wires could be reassembled in less than six hours. And he still hadn’t found the faulty wire . . . if there were one. It could be something else, as Lucas had “innocently” suggested several hours ago, suggesting the unthinkable even as his captain was elbow-deep in wires. However, Nathan had to examine the very real possibility that the “unthinkable” might very well need consideration. It might not be a wire problem.
Damn.
He’d been so certain that he was right. This should teach him to listen to Lucas before embarking on a twelve-hour tour through a ship’s entrails.
Lucas caught the look of self-disgust on his captain’s face and shrugged lightly, trying to cheer him up-even though the look of disgust was well worth the twelve hours of toiling through corridors and instrument panels.
“Sir, I don’t even see the problem here. This isn’t our ship. Have them call in the engineers or something. Surely they can get in touch with the original designers of this beast.”
“Well, Lucas, they can’t get in touch with the designers: they’re all ignoring the phone. And that isn’t even the point. I said I’d fix it. When I say I’ll fix something, I mean it. In fact, when I say we’ll fix something, I mean it-which, by the way, means it’s now your turn to take a whack at this.” He grinned as he watched Lucas’s jaw all but drop to the floor. “You had some ideas. Perhaps I should’ve listened to them before I got all carried away here. Obviously, my turquoise wire hasn’t made a bit of difference. Where were you thinking of starting?” Quickly, Lucas wiped out his dolphin sculpture with his foot, now all business. He shrugged.
“Probably the computers, the simplest item on board. It seems if propulsion is down, even though this is a new ship, we could take a look at the central processor for routine or subroutine degradation.” He paused, then grinned happily, rubbing his hands together. “If not, we can take a look at the ionizer. I’ve never seen one on a ship, but the principle should be the same as on shore. It could be that we have an anti-gravity ionization problem here. God only knows, actually, given the technical nature of this monster.”
Lucas paused, eyeing the instrument panels with something approaching awe. Nathan hid his smile, imagining that pilgrims possessed the same star-dazed expression when they at last arrived at Mecca. But then, the Ulysses was Mecca for Lucas; the computer hacker and physicist in him thrived in such environments.
“So, sir, does this mean that I get to play with the big toys now?”
Nathan stared at him. “Toys? These ‘toys’ cost the UEO several billion dollars worth, young man. You’d best keep your fingers off as many of the Ulysses’ toys as possible.” Seeing the crestfallen expression on Lucas’s face, the captain relented. “Okay, maybe a few toys. Let’s just be careful what toys we play with. We don’t want to break anything here.”
Nodding eagerly, Lucas couldn’t agree more.
With a sigh, Nathan pulled out his comlink and patched his voice through to the rest of his Ulysses repair team from the seaQuest.
“Bridger here. Lieutenant O’Neill and Lieutenant Commander Hitchcock, I need you down on Port 5 to reassemble the wiring. It would appear that we don’t have a wiring problem. Lucas wants to check on the computer and then the ionizer, so we’ll be heading towards the bridge. Lieutenant Krieg and Chief Ortiz, I’d like you to meet us there. Doctor Westphalen, I’ll have you take a look at anything that looks like it needs checking: I leave that to your discretion. Captain out.”
Bridger switched off the comlink, sighing. The Ulysses: a multi-billion dollar, high-tech ship dead in the water because no one on earth knew how it ran. Great. What brilliant move would the UEO make next?
Following Lucas as the teen ran excitedly towards the ship’s main computer interface, his eyes practically glowing at the prospect of playing with such advanced technology, Nathan shook his head; they’d practically need a genius to command this ship. Hadn’t the UEO even considered how difficult it would be to pilot a ship this technologically advanced? Hadn’t they considered that most of the crew wouldn’t know the difference between an ionizer and a tow beam?
Unfortunately, Nathan had a bad feeling that the answer was a resounding no.
Feeling like the proverbial stick-in-the-mud, Nathan stood out of the way and watched as Lucas tapped strange equations and even stranger numbers into the computer. Well, at least Lucas had figured how to turn the damned thing on; not even Hitchcock had gotten that far. If he could keep Krieg and Ortiz from both killing each other and distracting Lucas, they might just get off this boat sometime in the next century. He only hoped that Kristin was having more luck with her search than they were; as yet, Lucas hadn’t quite found a problem with the computer. Of course, that was at least partially because the computer was behaving in a most non-user-friendly fashion. It’d already knocked Lucas-the whiz of computers and numbers-from its auspices three times.
With a sigh, Nathan sat down. His feet were killing him, and it looked like this was going to be one long night.
Three hours later and nothing had changed. The computer was still being cantankerous. Lucas was glaring at its technologically superior faceplate and devising multiple plans for torturing the machine (assuming it could be tortured). Ortiz was noisily tapping his foot, obviously wanting to leave the Ulysses as soon as possible; Nathan wondered if the man had a date or something. And Krieg . . . well, he was doing his very best to be obnoxious to any and everyone. He was even getting on Lucas’s nerves. If Krieg didn’t shut his mouth soon, Nathan swore he’d tape it shut. How Lucas could concentrate with the man chattering in his ears hour after hour was beyond him. He suspected even Lucas was on the edge of losing his concentration, especially when he saw the boy roll his eyes and beat his fist angrily against the computer, glaring at his friend as if he wished he’d just struck the lieutenant instead.
Even Kristin had returned with little news from her search for possible problems. Everything seemed to be working fine. The engines just . . . wouldn’t start.
Nathan suspected the next move was to check the ionizer. That, of course, worried him. He wondered if he should evacuate the boat of his skeleton crew before Lucas tried playing with that piece of equipment. He kept imagining giant holes blasted into the ship’s shell. Though a brilliant computer whiz and scientist, Lucas was still a kid-and kids and ionizers gave Nathan serious indigestion.
Looking at the clock as he stretched his aching limbs, Nathan finally decided that they’d had enough for the day. They could all use a break. So, with a sigh, he flipped open his comlink and said, “All right, folks, the day is well past done for us. Let’s go grab a bite to eat and call it a night. See you all in the Mess Hall in a few.”
As he heard excited “Yes, sir’s,” he wryly reflected that this was one order his crew was more than happy to follow . . . probably because they didn’t know what dinner would consist of. He’d wait to fill them in on that tiny little detail until they were all gathered together in the Mess Hall. From experience, he suspected that the last thing they’d want to hear was what dinner would be: dried beef, dried bread, and dried milk. Umm . . . appetizing.
So, surprised to find that he didn’t need to pull Lucas from the computer after all, Nathan and company traipsed off to the Mess Hall.
On their journey towards dinner, they didn’t spot the shadows following them.
Sitting beside his captain with his feet propped up on one mess table and his head rested against the back of his chair, Lucas stared at what had been set in front of him. It had to be a joke. What he saw defied interpretation: three small rectangular cartons, each with the word dried inscribed across the surface.
This had to be a joke: a malicious joke, but a joke nonetheless. As he looked up, he saw variations of the same expression on the faces surrounding him. No, he wasn’t the only one miffed at this. They’d just spent over ten hours on this tub of a technological showpiece, and what did the UEO’s kind chefs provide them to eat? Dried supplements! Not even semi-dried, semi-identifiable supplements-such as vitamin supplements that suspiciously tasted and looked exactly like oranges-but cartons of powdered food. Zikes!
Pushing the cartons to the side, he decided he really wasn’t that hungry after all.
And then he caught the captain’s glare. As he watched Bridger actually tear his carton of dried beef open, add water and a straw, and-God above, the very bravery of the act!-drink the mixture, he shook his head. Bridger was still glaring at him; the glare intensified as Lucas, acting like the bratty kid he was supposed to be, charitably pushed his carton of dried beef towards the captain.
Bridger’s glare focused even more, so, at last, Lucas snapped, “What? I don’t see anyone else eating this . . . stuff. If you’d like, you can have mine. In fact . . .” he glanced at the officers surrounding him, then said, “I think you can probably have all of ours. Enjoy, sir!”
“So much for setting a good example for the rest to follow, Lucas!” Captain Bridger huffed, still hunched over his dried beef and periodically chugging at its contents. Lucas tried to hide his laugh each time, for the captain’s face said it all: it squished up, his nose wrinkling, his eyes watering, his mouth curling down. No, thank you-he’d do without eating that.
“What? Me? Set an example?” Lucas echoed, laughing softly. “I’m a kid, captain. I’m not supposed to set examples. Except maybe for pranks. But then, for pranks, you’d probably want to talk to Ben.”
Krieg grinned, smoothly juggling his three cartons of dried meals with few mishaps. He glanced at Lucas between the flying cartons. “Who? Me? I’m honored.”
Bridger snorted, catching one of Ben’s cartons and holding it squarely in front of the lieutenant’s nose. “Mr. Krieg, don’t you have anything better to do-such as eat, for example? There are plenty of cartons for you to use.”
“But, sir . . .”
With a sigh, Bridger interrupted, “Look, folks, I’m no happier about this than you are. But we do need to eat. At least get one of these down; we’ve all been working hard, and we need the nutrients. I’ve already hollered at the seaQuest to bring some real food over as soon as possible. They should be able to stop by sometime tomorrow.” He looked at Lucas, then pushed the boy’s dried beef back towards him, ignoring the disgusted expression on his face. Bridger then glanced at the rest of his small crew. “Now, since you’re all navy men and women, I think you can handle this. I have faith in your courage.”
Lucas was about to argue that no, he wasn’t a member of the navy, but he caught Bridger’s glower and decided to keep this little argument to himself. So, glaring at his captain, he added water to his dried beef and swallowed the chalk down all in one gulp, not daring even to breathe until the substance was completely down.
He then desperately swallowed three glasses of water.
He only hoped the sleeping accommodations were better than this. His third glass of water in hand, Lucas finally followed as everyone began drifting out of the Mess Hall. But like an idiot, he suddenly remembered his computer was sitting on the dining table-his treasured, beaten, somewhat abused personal computer, his beloved instrument of computations and formulae. So, quickly, hoping to avoid becoming lost on this maze of a boat, he dodged back into the Mess Hall for his little computer and grabbed it. With a happy sigh, Lucas headed back towards his friends, knowing full well that they’d give him a hard time over his love for his computer. Some things just couldn’t be sacrificed. His computer was one of them.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
What the hell?
He clearly saw Ben’s back only feet in front of him, his shoulder’s tense. Lucas stared. What looked like the barrel of a gun was pointing at his friend’s chest. To his friend’s side, Lucas could see a darkly clad, hooded figure, its head turned towards the hall in front.
Stunned, Lucas simply stood there, wondering what he should do. He swallowed hard.
Carefully, slowly, Lucas began to back away, gliding as soundlessly as possible to the Mess. Only a few feet. Ben could do it in his sleep. He could do it now; he had to. Lucas didn’t know who the hell was on the ship, but they certainly weren’t friendly. They certainly weren’t here to help put the ship back together.
God Almighty, guns. Guns!
He continued backing up, desperately searching for the hatch to the Mess. All he found was panel after panel of metallic wall. Sweat dripped down his cheeks, down his chin. His hands trembled. It hadn’t seemed this far before . . .
And then, suddenly, he saw a red beam of light flash onto his arm. Oh, God. They’d spotted him.
“Stop right there.”
He heard the voice just as he found the hatch to the Mess Hall. Licking his lips in pure terror, Lucas sprang with all his force into the hatch, slamming it behind him as he tumbled into the room. He smelled something burning next to him: a newly-created hole smoked in the Mess. Convulsively, he shuddered, slamming himself against the floor as more laser fire penetrated the wall. What the hell were they using, anyway? He’d never seen laser rifles capable of shooting through a ship’s walls.
Quickly, knowing it was his only chance of escape, and perhaps their only chance of survival, Lucas tore open an instrument panel attached to the Mess Hall’s refrigeration system. Probably for the first time in his life, he thanked the Lord above that he was so thin. He climbed into its entanglement of wires and fuses, then snapped the panel back into place behind him. The door to Mess Hall banged open.
Trying not to hyperventilate, Lucas closed his eyes, terrified. Talk about your miraculous timing. His timing was as unreal as the rest of this mess was.
As Lucas waited, panting, he felt something wet trickle into his eyes. Wiping it away, he realized it wasn’t sweat. It was red. It was blood. His blood. Damn, he was bleeding all over the place. He couldn’t imagine where he’d managed to hit himself; actually, now that he thought about it, breathing quickly and listening for any sounds of pursuit, it could’ve been just about anywhere. It could even be from the gunfire, though he doubted it: if he’d been hit by their guns, he’d now be one very dead Lucas Wolenczak.
Carefully, he slid through the tight passage cut into the ship’s body. The ship, he knew, was riddled with these small, hidden passages: air vents, refrigeration units, bypass valves. Like a medieval castle, hidden passages went everywhere. If he could only figure out the design behind the passages, he could use them to his advantage.
Providing his unknown enemy didn’t find him and/or shoot him first.
Damn. He suddenly wished he’d listened to the captain a few more times when he discussed ship schematics. This would teach him to ignore pertinent information.
He pressed on.
Bridger sat rigidly on the floor, hands cuffed before him. They were on the Ulysses’ bridge, staring at each other in shock. As of yet, their captors had said nothing to them but “Move” or “Stay still.” Nothing had been mentioned of why they were on board the Ulysses, or of what they planned to do with their hostages. They hadn’t even questioned Nathan on anything: on crew, on weapons, on computers, on engines. Nothing at all.
As far as he could tell, there were eleven of them on the bridge itself-all fully armed, all fully organized and systematic in their handling of the ship. The Ulysses wasn’t running any more than it had been moments earlier, but Nathan wondered if they knew how to operate the ship. The very thought frightened the hell out of him.
If these were members of the Non-Allied Powers, the renegade power in international politics, they could have no purpose in stealing this ship but to engage in warfare. They’d been threatening war against the UEO for months now. With the UEO’s most technologically advanced ship in their fleet, Nathan knew the Non-Allied Powers would have an excellent chance at maiming or destroying the UEO.
A red-haired, hazel-eyed woman suddenly entered the bridge, and Nathan watched curiously as their captors stood at peak attention. She looked to be about thirty or so, small strands of gray peppering her otherwise fiery hair. Briefly, she spoke in soft tones to the men and women around her. Then she proceeded directly to the captives.
Well, if he knew anything, he knew this was the leader of their captors.
She looked immediately at him. “Captain Bridger. I see the rumors are true. You like to play with wires and fuses. Such habits can get you into trouble.”
Bridger rose one eyebrow. “I have found knowing my ship to be a habit most necessary for command.”
She nodded. “Of course. So have I.” She then looked at the rest of his small crew, smiling slightly. “Lieutenant O’Neill. Lieutenant Krieg. Lieutenant Commander Hitchcock. Doctor Westphalen. Chief Ortiz.” She paced back and forth in front of the hostages, then abruptly halted once more in front of the captain. “I see we are missing one of your crew. Who?”
Bridger looked from one face to another, stupidly examining his crew-as if he wasn’t quite sure who he was missing. “Hmmm . . . O’Neill. Hitchcock. Ortiz. Westphalen. O’Neill. Ah. We must be missing Krieg. I don’t see him here.”
The leader’s voice snapped at him, “Don’t play the fool, captain. You’re not generally known as an idiot.”
Bridger shrugged. “We’re missing crewman Orson. He took off like a stag as soon as he saw the guns. Wise decision on his part.”
Briefly, the lady turned to a tall, blond-haired, gray eyed, unevenly bearded accomplice at her side. After a moment’s conversation, the man typed something into a computer resting beside him, then abruptly laughed. He gestured mockingly at the screen.
The leader turned back to Bridger. “Orson seems to be the seaQuest’s cook, captain. I’m sure you didn’t have any need to haul a cook with you for this little mission of yours. I’m especially sure of this considering the ‘food’ you were just moments ago eating. Hardly what you’d eat if you had a genuine cook on board.”
Bridger shrugged. He had plenty of lies to go through before the truth could be guessed. In fact, he had about two-hundred twenty-five lies to go through: every name of every crewmember on the seaQuest. Lucas’s name wouldn’t pass his lips. “I’d have to agree. Maybe I should fire him for his cooking. What do you think?”
She simply turned to her assistant. “Nelson, take them to the holding cell. Keep them there. Be sure they get plenty of real food . . . not the garbage their dear UEO provided for them.” She glanced back at them, then at Nelson. “And run a database search. Look for a crewman with blond hair. That much was seen before he disappeared.”
Inwardly, Bridger winced. That narrowed the possibilities considerably.
“Also look for someone with an engineering background. That seems most likely.”
At this, Bridger had to hide a smug smile. Not quite right on that one.
“Scan the officers first. He’ll most likely be one of them.” Wrong again, fire-head, Nathan thought. Just keep on thinking along that track.
She looked at the captain, trying to judge his reaction to her statements. She then smiled slightly. “By the way, I’m Alicia Noyce. How is my father lately, captain?”
At the casual mention of her name, Nathan stared in shock. Alicia Noyce? Little Alicia, who he’d watched growing up? Alicia doing this? He shook his head, refusing to believe what she’d said. But the eyes . . . they were definitely her mother’s eyes. As was the hair. What the hell had happened between Bill and Alicia? What had driven Alicia to the other side?
Seeing his startled, disbelieving look, Alicia gestured for Nelson to take them to their quarters. She watched them leave, smiling somewhat wickedly as Nathan turned in his tracks and outright stared at her.
But then there was still the matter of that one missing crewmember. If she knew her father’s best friend, Bridger wouldn’t divulge the person’s name if the very devil himself came to collect his soul. So . . . well, they’d just have to find him themselves, wouldn’t they?
Excited, she turned to her work. Things were going splendidly. She had the best ship made on the face of the planet, she had excellent hostages, and she had an outstanding crew. They’d oust the UEO before the UEO even knew what had hit them.
Then she’d talk to her father and convince him of the error of his ways. And Bridger and O’Neill and Krieg and Hitchcock and Westphalen and Ortiz and whoever the missing crewman was . . . she’d convince each and every one of them that the UEO was too powerful for its own good. It was in need of some good old-fashioned iconoclasting.
But now, there was work to be done.
The “holding cell” was actually the ship’s brig, an immense room converted to hold more than fifteen hostages relatively comfortably. There were cots and blankets and extra clothes. Food was stock-piled for them in a small refrigerator: apples, oranges, chicken, turkey, synthetic ham and synthetic beef. There was even a stereo with soft, calming music playing. They’d been listening to the same disc for over five hours.
Lieutentant Ben Krieg, however, wanted to take that damned disc and shove it up their captor’s . . .
Frustrated, he slammed his fist into the wall. Damn! He felt completely useless. Like a bunch of idiots, they’d let themselves be captured while Lucas-young, untrained Lucas-had managed to escape.
God, Lucas was out there by himself.
The very thought frightened the hell out of Ben. Especially given the firepower their captors were using.
He caught Bridger’s worried, equally frustrated glance, then forced himself to look away. It did no one a bit of good if he lost his cool. It didn’t help them get out of this hell-hole. It didn’t help them contact the seaQuest for help. And it certainly didn’t help Lucas. He circled the room, trying valiantly but unsuccessfully to ease his nerves.
Lucas: out there alone.
The very thought rankled.
Minutes later, his face red with anger, Krieg decided it was time to hit the wall again before he hit one of his comrades instead. In frustration, Ben found a nicely sized, solid-looking wall panel to pound with his anger. But as he hit the wall panel, Krieg was amazed-no, flabbergasted-when the panel abruptly began to glow. He stared, backing away from it slowly, as if afraid that it’d suck him into its core.
Bridger suddenly stood beside him, staring at the panel with equal amazement. Carefully, he touched the panel-then literally jumped back as he heard a soft voice.
“Captain?” The voice was fuzzy, diffuse. It focused a bit more, as did the panel. Nathan could see a dim outline in the panel: blond hair, slim shoulders, dark background. He blinked quickly, not believing what he was seeing. Metal panels didn’t just begin glowing out of nowhere. Nor did they speak in the voice of one of his crewmembers.
“Captain? Are you there? It’s me. I’m trying to get this monster of a communications system to make sense, but this may be the best I’ll get it to do for awhile . . .” The voice disappeared for a moment, then returned. “Sorry about that. Technology for you . . .”
Finally, Bridger shook his head, as if to shake it of cobwebs. He frowned darkly. This was unbelievable. He’d never seen anything like this. Hell, he’d never even imagined anything like this.
“Lucas? Where the hell are you? And what, for heaven’s sake, what are you doing talking on a damned metal panel?”
A soft laugh was heard, and the picture cleared just enough for Nathan to see a smile on the boy’s face. He also saw one hell of a large bandage wrapped around Lucas’s head. Nathan’s disbelief rapidly changed to concern. He quickly demanded, “Lucas, what happened to your head? Were you shot?”
But the teen shook his head. “No . . . at least, I don’t think so. I’m not exactly sure, but I think I hit my head when I rammed my way through an instrument panel. I was so focused on getting out of the Mess Hall that I didn’t even notice it for awhile.” Lucas paused, looking carefully at each of them as the group of captives gathered around their captain. He continued, “Sir, I’ve made a few jumps into the communications system here. It’s amazing, too: I’ve never seen anything like it. Every room on this ship has a metal panel capable of communications, almost like a camouflaged viewscreen or something. I’m not sure how they rigged it, but . . . well, it obviously works. I’ll need to fine-tune it, of course, but . . .”
Lucas paused, inhaling deeply.
“Sir, I can keep in contact with you almost anywhere they move you. I just have to figure out the exact communications grid for the ship. I’ve also figured out a few more kinks in the computer system. My next stop is the ionizer.” Lucas quickly glanced around himself, then said, “I have a plan, sir. It’s not the best of plans, but it’s the best I can come up with.” He paused hesitantly. This was going to be the hard part.
“Sir, I’m going to play saboteur.”
Bridger’s face practically blazed with shock. Nathan leaned in to the panel, pointing his finger at the boy, his finger trembling slightly. Violently, he shook his head.
“No! You will not! Do you hear me, Lucas? You will not play saboteur. You won’t even consider it. It is too dangerous. These people will likely shoot first and then ask questions later. You can’t do this. Do you understand me?”
Silence met Bridger’s ears, and he watched as his young computer scientist, his young physicist, slowly shook his head. Nathan listened in complete disbelief as Lucas, after a moment’s hesitation, said softly, “I understand you, sir, but I will not sit here uselessly as this ship floats towards the Non-Allied Powers’ headquarters. They’ve plotted a course for Dominia, sir. If I don’t do something now, this ship will reach enemy waters.”
“The ship isn’t even working, Lucas! No one can run the stupid thing!”
“Sir, they’re working on that little problem even as we speak. And with quite a bit more success than we had. I’m thinking the engine problem is actually a result of their previous sabotage. Probably right before the Ulysses was supposed to leave port.” Lucas watched as fear registered on his comrades’ faces, then he looked back at Nathan. “I don’t know what else to do, sir. I can’t free you. They have seven men in front of the hatch, sometimes up to ten. But I can’t sit here and watch them cart this ship off to Dominia, either. I have to do something. If you have any better ideas, I’m listening. Otherwise, I don’t see any choice.”
Nathan felt all eyes on him, but especially Lucas’s. Finally, he shook his head. As the moments ticked by, he shook his head with more determination. He then looked at Lucas. “No. You will not do this. The best thing for you to do right now is to turn yourself in. That way, at least, they won’t kill you at first sight.”
Again, silence: heavy, heavy silence. Lucas slowly glanced at the ceiling, at the floor, and then back at his captain. He, too, shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that. Not with the mess . . .”
“Lucas Daniel Wolenczak, you will do exactly as I say! This is not a request; this is an order. An order given by your captain!”
Flatly, Lucas replied without a blink, “No. Sir, I do understand the penalty for direct disobedience. In this case, I must accept the consequences. I didn’t expect you to agree on this.”
“You’d better damn well bet I won’t agree on this!” Nathan snapped, furiously pacing in front of the metal panel. He glared at the boy, wishing to strangle him right then and there. “And do you truly understand the penalty for disobedience, Lucas? Do you even begin to understand what you’re getting yourself into?”
Leaning into the panel, Lucas held Nathan’s gaze in his own. He swallowed hard, frightened to death but feeling-no, knowing-he was right. “Captain, I would never disobey you if I didn’t think the order was unreasonable. But in this, I think you’re on left field, sir . . .”
“Left field? You think I’m on left field!”
“Yes!” Lucas answered forcefully, trying to ignore the panic he heard in Nathan’s voice. God, he hated doing this to his captain.
“Captain, you’re not thinking. You’re worried about my age instead. You’re thinking as my friend, not as my captain. Damn it, sir, let me continue!” He snapped as Bridger tried to interrupt; surprised, the captain remained silent. “If I were anyone else, you’d not only permit my ‘mission,’ but you’d encourage it. If I were Ben or Tim or Miguel or Katie or Kristin, you’d understand that I’m right; you’d understand that I’m doing what must be done. Sir, for heaven’s sake, I may be fifteen, but I am not a child. In this, at least, I know what must be done.
“The facts of the case are simple. You’ve been captured. You have a crewmember who managed to escape capture. You have an incredibly advanced ship being taken by the enemy. There is only one choice; logic suggests it. You need a saboteur, and I’m it. I have the scientific expertise to throw this boat upside down. I’m free enough to do it. It’s my job, it’s my duty as a member of this crew, to do what I can. And frankly, sir, we don’t have any choice.”
As the captain stared at him speechlessly, his conscience obviously fighting him, Lucas gently added, “I’ll be as careful as I can. And I’ll keep an eye out for where they keep you. They may decide to move you when the fires begin. I may be able to free you, with any luck.” He looked away for a moment, then said softly, “Remember once, sir, you told me that we must act according to our beliefs, according to what we want others to remember us by? That’s how I have to act now. I believe this is simply what must be done. If we don’t stop this ship from reaching Dominia, people-innocent people-will die. I don’t believe I have a choice. My conscience says so.” Lucas suddenly glanced at his watch, then back at them. “The Big Bang is about to begin. I’ve got to go, sir. I’ll keep in touch.”
With that, Lucas’s face disappeared from the screen.
As a group, they stared in amazement at the screen-then turned to Bridger.
As if someone had punched him in the face, Nathan stared at the now-empty screen-at the innocent-looking metal panel. Belatedly, he reached his right hand out to the screen, wanting to touch the boy who’d only minutes ago been on that screen, wanting to say something, anything, to him before he vanished. He wanted to say, if necessary, the good-bye he’d never had the chance to say to Robert or Carol. But the words, as before, went unsaid, unspoken.
Nathan was sitting motionlessly, still in shock from Lucas's words, still yearning to say something, anything, to the boy, when he felt the first of six explosions rocket through the ship: The Big Bang, as Lucas had called it. He smelled smoke filling the air, a heavy metallic odor drifting through the ventilation systems. The shock waves ripping through the boat were enough to make the metal moan. He heard the ship's belly creak with each new blast. One way or another, this ship wasn't reaching Dominia. If Lucas had to sink the beast, Nathan suddenly realized that the boy would do it. Lucas not only would know how to do it, but he also would be able to push the button. The teen had more backbone in him than five or six Commander Fords . . . which said quite a bit.
He looked up as Alicia Noyce stormed into the holding cell, her red hair falling loosely into her eyes. She glared at Nathan.
"All right, captain. You've made your fine little show. You've burned holes in several decks, and you've put quite the damper on our trip home. However, this won't stop us. You might as well tell me where your little saboteur is hanging out. That way, I might be able to keep my people from killing him at first glance."
Nathan winced at this, but held his tongue. If Lucas needed time, he'd buy him time.
"I believe he's somewhere around the kitchens. He was getting hungry last I spoke to him." She snorted. "You haven't spoken to him, captain! My men have been outside the entire time."
Nathan shrugged. "Then why are you asking me where he is? Do you think I'm telepathic or something?" Mockingly, he closed his eyes, assuming the lotus position as he hummed softly. Still humming, he then peeked his eyes open. "Ummm . . . looks like I was wrong. Instead of hitting the kitchens, he went instead to the gardens. He always loved jasmine and smoke together. He's a gardener, you know."
"Quit this nonsense, sir," she said with a sigh, glaring at him. She studied his impassive face. "What's his name? Where would he likely go?"
At this, Nathan snorted. "You expect me to give you that type of information? And what, do you think I've lost my marbles?"
"Nelson!" she shouted, annoyed. The assistant peeked in, not even glancing at their hostages. "Run another parameter through the database. I'm betting this saboteur has a scientific background, possibly in chemistry. See what you can find." Nelson nodded, then left without word.
Noyce again glared at Nathan. "You know, captain, that if this ship sinks, you and your crew sink with it. We won't be rescuing you." She watched as he silently shrugged, as if this news was the least concerning bit of information he'd received in years. Noyce sighed, spreading her hands out in frustration.
"If you tell us who and what he is, we'll be able to find him-without anyone being hurt. If you don't, with a ship as armed to the teeth and technologically superior as this, we could all be blown to smithereens because your crewman hit the wrong button." She paused, studying his face-and then his eyes. His face might very well be calm, as it was now, but in her experience, his eyes always gave him away.
Distinctly, she remembered her surprise birthday party when she'd turned seven; Nathan had been "assigned" the duty of keeping her occupied while the festivities were arranged. He'd done a good job, too-she hadn't even been aware that anything was up until she'd seen his eyes: wrinkled mischievously at the corners, laughing, sparkling at what lay ahead. And now, the same was true: his face was calm, but his eyes gave him away. They were frightened, pained . . . almost haunted. Whoever was missing, Captain Bridger was very close to him.
Slowly, she said, "Captain, if you care anything about your crew-for the officers beside you or for the officer missing-you'll help us find him before anything else disastrous occurs. Your life may depend on this. Your officers' lives may depend on this. You're responsible for their lives. Think carefully on it." With that, she turned on her heel and moved towards the hatch, but not before she heard the captain say slowly from behind her, "All of our lives will depend on what happens, Ms. Noyce. But the one ultimately responsible isn't me, but you. My officers know their duties, Noyce-all of them."
She simply opened the hatch and shut it behind her, not looking back at the captain. For a moment, Noyce stared silently, desolately, at the metal hallway; the captain's words, for whatever reason, bothered her. But she knew, she knew she was doing the right thing. She was stabilizing world power. She was bringing hope to a world held in tyranny. She was illuminating, for the benefit of the entire world, the wrong thinking behind the too-powerful UEO.
Finally, she was disillusioning the many deceived followers of the UEO's plans to the reality, the blistering, painful reality of truth: that the UEO was a fraud and a tyrant and that they, though unwittingly and with best intentions, had helped feed that fraud. And then she'd take the disillusioned officers and legislators and workers of the UEO, the genuinely exploited victims of the UEO's tyranny, and forge them into officers and legislators and workers of the Non-Allied Powers. This was the day she looked forward to, the day for which she even now struggled against someone she loved.
Suddenly, she snapped back to the world around her and looked at Nelson. The man was still diligently searching the databases. As of yet, no officers of the seaQuest even began to match her brief glimpse of their saboteur, especially not with engineering or scientific experience.
She frowned. If Bridger was close to this person, where could she find such information? Did the seaQuest keep a personal contact list or any such thing?
And then it hit her. She smiled, abruptly standing behind Nelson and staring at his screen. Her grin widened as Nelson looked up at her questioningly. "Do we have ship logs on file?"
Confused, Nelson shook his head. "For the Ulysses? No, they haven't really even . . ."
She snorted, lightly roughing the side of his head. "No, you idiot . . . the logs for the seaQuest. Do we have them?"
After a few seconds of typing, Nelson simply nodded.
Alicia practically grinned ear to ear as she pointed at one file on the screen. "That one, Nelson. I want that file opened." Yes! She'd find out who they were dealing with, Captain Bridger's help or not. That way, she could both protect her own crew and keep that same crew from hurting someone Bridger cared for. That seemed the best solution.
As the file opened, she was glad to see it was indexed by date. They'd start at the latest entry and work backwards.
"There-start there. Look for any names repeated several times. We're looking for personal contacts, personal comments . . . not official ship business. I think Bridger's very close to whoever's sabotaging our boat; his name should crop up several times in Bridger's personal logs." Quickly seeing her logic, Nelson nodded, setting to work immediately.
Feeling they were on the right track, Alicia exhaled loudly. Well, that was one problem well on its way to solving. Now all she needed to worry about was the boat's propulsion. Damn, if her people didn't know how to sabotage a ship's engines all too well . . .
She found it cruelly ironic that her crew couldn't start the Ulysses' cursed engines. This was cruelly ironic for one simple reason: her beloved Non-Allied Powers had sabotaged the very same engines only a week ago. The sabotage, of course, had been done so that she could commandeer the boat. Wondering how this could've happened to her, Noyce fumed inwardly as she paced behind Nelson. For the irony of it all-the damned irony of it all was that one could not easily commandeer a boat when the engines wouldn't come on-line as described in the instructions! This was certainly the last time she'd place her faith in an instruction manual written by saboteurs!
Sighing, she marched off to find out what, precisely, could be done to start the engines-if anything.