* 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.
* NOTE ON SCIENTIFIC (DIS)REALITY *: Unfortunately, I'm not Steven Hawking when it comes to the sciences. There may be some content in this section (particularly surrounding the creation of a certain renegade vortex) that are absurdly nonrealistic. I'd encourage a dose of "suspension of disbelief."
Rating: PG-13, rated as such because of some adult themes and language.
Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn
Entanglements with the Enemy
Part Five
He blinked his eyes quickly.
Oh, God. Wrong move.
With a shudder, he peeked out the panel. Moments ago, after cautiously peering through the very same grate to his left, he'd carefully, silently moved. The wires dangling in front of him he'd pushed out of his way, the metal panel currently blocking his view he'd guardedly slid open, and--looking twice before moving--the final effort he'd made: with twisted, almost tormented motion, he'd slipped out of the venting duct. But just as his toe touched the floor, he'd heard them: voices. These voices approached him at an alarmingly fast rate. Cursing his luck, he'd quickly thrown himself back into the vent, pulling cables and panel back in place behind him in one panicked motion.
That had been close.
Especially since his left arm was broken, his head was bleeding, and his ribs hurt with each breath, not to mention each stretch of the muscles.
Lucas was just about as miserable as he'd ever been. His enemy was everywhere; suddenly, it seemed as if they knew exactly where he'd be moving, exactly what his mind was thinking, perhaps even before he knew. In the past hour alone, he'd had three almost dead-on encounters with the enemy. The only thing he could imagine was that, because of his latest demonstration with the vortex, they knew who he was. And if they knew who he was, they could easily predict where he'd head next.
Such as . . . oh, say the ionizer.
If not the ionizer, anything even slightly scientifically oriented.
Damn.
With a sigh, Lucas thought about what he should do next. He could just stay where he was. Though they might look for him in the ventilation system, it was unlikely they'd find him. There were over one hundred separate passages in the ventilation system alone; there was no way for them to guess exactly just which one he was in.
Unless, of course, they happened to spot him as he peered through a ventilation grate.
Inwardly, he groaned. Staying where he was and doing nothing had exactly zero appeal, too. He was supposed to be sabotaging the damned boat, not hiding out in a ventilation duct twiddling his thumbs--or, since his left arm was broken, twiddling his toes. Some saboteur he made, sitting here doing nothing . . .
Well, he supposed if he couldn't blow anything else up right off, he could do something just as important: work on contacting the seaQuest. He'd tried twice already, but with absolutely no success. Though he could patch himself through any communications system on the boat, he still couldn't figure out how to get this strange, technologically over-advanced communications system to beam a message outside the boat. So . . . maybe that was the thing to do.
Sighing tiredly, Lucas painfully slid towards the communications grid he'd discovered near main engineering. He was sure there were more of them on the Ulysses, but the simple fact was he didn't know where they were--while he did know where this one was. He also knew how to work this grid . . . at least, relatively well.
The passages twisted and turned in every direction possible; Lucas figured the designer of this tub had been having a really bad nightmare when he designed the ventilation system. Either that or a terrible hangover. Anyhow, he followed the meandering passageway as quickly as he could, trying to ease the pain in his arm and ribs by crawling on his right side. He just wished he could get some aspirin for his head.
Grinning suddenly, Lucas realized that he was there, quite suddenly and--to his complete surprise--without attracting anyone's notice: he was at main engineering. Again, he peeked through the grate carefully--the proverbial mouse looking for the proverbially wicked, sly, giant, waiting-to-pounce fat cat. No sign of hijackers (or fat cats, for that matter). With a groan, he eased the panel to the floor and untangled himself from the multitude of debris and wires wrapped around his legs, finally dropping to the floor as the last wire released his ankle. He sneaked to the communications console, bent at the waist and half-afraid someone would be waiting for him in the dark. However, no one was there. He was alone. In relief, he sighed.
Lucas nervously flipped on the power, then fiddled with the relay adapter. Hmm. He'd already tried numerous methods of reaching the seaQuest. His enemies had somehow buffered his every effort. He'd tried piggy-backing his signal to the hijackers'; relaying it through NORPAC emergency channels; feeding it through CNN and ABC News; broadcasting it over the InterNex; and splicing it into UEO satellites of any and every type. Nothing had worked. His mind searched for anything, anything he could do to reach his friends on the seaQuest.
Staring numbly at the relay adapter, Lucas's eyebrows suddenly shot up half an inch. Of course!
Sometimes, Lucas swore he was a complete idiot. This was one of those times. Why hadn't he thought of it in the first place? It was the obvious solution to his problem. He hadn't tried breaking his signal into the UEO weather satellite, bouncing it off the UEO sub-zone satellite, and, finally, bouncing that signal off the UEO military emergency channel. Since none of this would be direct, Lucas suspected it'd work: it'd bounce back and forth for a few minutes, but, with the right codes (he grinned at this), it'd be a piece of cake. And the codes . . . well, they wouldn't be much of a problem. He'd "signal bounced" on the seaQuest before, "borrowing" the official relay codes from supposedly unhackable sources. He'd be amazed--no, genuinely stunned, positively appalled--if anyone caught him. Signal bouncing would mask the communication before the hijacking fools on the bridge even had a chance to figure out a communication had been relayed in the first place.
With a happy smirk, Lucas opened the relay adapter and honed in on the weather satellite frequency. He quickly snapped his computer on-line with the communications relay and smiled: now to try it. Using his right hand only and engaging in the "hunt and peck" method of typing (one he'd hoped he'd never be forced into using again), Lucas began pounding codes into the little computer, watching as the coded information flipped back and forth between satellites. He then grinned as the military emergency channel's menu suddenly focused on his screen: bingo!
Five codes and one minute later, Lucas was staring at the amazed face of Commander Ford, who simply blinked at him for several seconds, completely speechless, as if Lucas were the first sign of the Second Coming. The expression, though priceless, was well founded. Lucas was positive Ford had expected a command for a nuclear launch or something, for the military emergency channel was never used. Silently, he apologized, but there'd been no other way.
"Lucas Daniel Wolenczak, what do you think you're doing on that channel?" Ford snapped, face reddening as he stepped towards the viewing screen. "That's not for playing around with, young man!"
"Commander, I'm sorry for this, but I had no choice. Right now . . ." The signal began breaking up. Lucas suspected the enemy had found his satellite beam. Hell . . . they were better than he'd thought. Who on earth was working for them on their communications and computer analysis? He (or she) was damned good: frustratingly good, in fact. His thoughts returned to Ford: "We're in the middle of a crisis. I don't have time to get into details, but the Ulysses has been hijacked . . . I'm the only one free. I've disabled it for some time, but I'm not sure how long it'll hold."
Ford immediately tensed, eyes widened. "Hijacked?" Ford swallowed hard, then, "Who is it, Lucas? Do you know?"
Lucas nodded. "Yeah. We're heading towards Dominia: the Non-Allied Powers, I'd say. Lots of people on board . . . I'm not sure how many, but at least twenty or so. Damn . . ." Lucas paused, seeing the signal fade. "They've tracked me. Gotta' go, Commander. Help, please!"
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.
