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, as is the Ulysses . . .
Alternative Reality: 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. Port Dominia and the ONS are purely my own whacky creations.
Sequel: "Entangled Alliances" is a sequel to--yeah, you guessed correctly--"Entanglements with the Enemy." Let me know what you think of the new title (it used to be "More Entanglements with the Enemy"! I'd love to hear them!
Rating:PG-13, rated as such because of some adult themes and language.
Summary: Lucas plays boom-boom once again with his vortex. The only real question is . . .who is his enemy? :-)
Copyright 2000 by SheriAnn
Entangled Alliances
Part Twelve
World Unhinged
NAP waters. They glistened around him, captured through the many eyes of Ortiz' WSKRS. Of course, the water looked like . . . well, like what water looked anywhere else. The same fish that swam in UEO waters swam here. The same underwater plants floated, streamed, through the same currents that pushed UEO waters.
But they were fifty minutes outside of Dominia itself--fifty minutes from the enemy's shores.
For many years, Commander Jonathon Ford had thought he'd never actually cross into NAP waters. They were the enemy. They were the antithesis to everything he believed in, everything he fought for.
Here he was, though, invading NAP waters on a mission--a crucial mission. He was here to retrieve his Captain and missing crewmates.
According to the intelligence reports submitted by Section Seven and passed along to him by General Thomas, the recording delivered to Secretary General Andrea Dre had originated from the NAP Security Administration Building . . . one of the more difficult buildings to enter in NAP territory. It was highly guarded, for it housed, among other entities, the ONS: the Operations for National Security. Operating much like Section Seven, the ONS was almost a law of its own. NAP government barely seemed to have control over it . . . if they even had any. Ford found the likelihood of controlling the ONS highly debatable. It was too powerful, too shady in its activities. He suspected that what the ONS wanted to do, it simply did: no questions asked.
So. This was the building his crewmates had likely been taken to--probably about two days ago. However, the likelihood of their still being there was marginal. Section Seven analysts believed that the hostages would likely have been moved. It was, after all, exactly what they themselves would have done, if they had been the hostage-takers. Ford tended to agree with their analysis, particularly since EarthCast News had blasted the information across the entire globe, courtesy of one Patricia Lacom.
His orders were to follow up yet another "clue" handed him by Section Seven--or, more to the point, by General Thomas, Section Seven's apparent liaison with the seaQuest's crew. According to Section Seven, it seemed plausible that Bridger and crew had been moved to ONS's Holding facilities. They had apparently either uncovered or witnessed the movement of several figures being moved under disguise into the older Holding facilities at Port Dominia. The figures seemed to match the body sizes and shapes of his crewmates.
However, the problem with this whole scenario was . . . it stank. It stank from one end of Dominia to the next. Ford hadn't felt this . . . worried about following an order since he had been ordered--by Noyce, who was now suspected of treason, for God's sake--to "fool" Bridger. The results of that order had been near-disastrous. He was sure as hell going to make sure that the same near-disaster didn't happen with these orders.
With a heavy sigh, Ford ran a tired hand over his forehead, ignoring the concerned glances directed his way. Something was wrong. Something was deadly wrong . . . with the orders he had received, with the information, with everything. Section Seven had refused to expand the details of what they had seen in front of Port Dominia's Holding facilities. They had refused to explain who purportedly saw the disguised figures, citing that they "needed to protect their sources." He was being stone-walled by both UEO administration and Section Seven. Even General Thomas refused to discuss the situation--absolutely refused to give him more information.
Something stank here--something was infinitely rotten. And, God forbid, he and his crew were storming straight for it.
Ford looked carefully at the peaceful waters surrounding him, glancing at the clock. They now had approximately forty minutes until they reached Dominia territory--approximately fifty-five minutes until they reached Port Dominia. He grimaced, stomach muscles tightening. Fifty-five minutes to develop a plan . . . perhaps a plan to disobey General Thomas's orders, perhaps a plan to outmaneuver . . . whoever was maneuvering them. But there was one thing certain: they needed a plan.
The evidence building before him wasn't good. In fact, it was far from good. Mentally frowning, he ran through the list. Bridger and company disappeared on route to Washington, D.C., for an awards ceremony . . . one that, among others, General Thomas had strongly encouraged. For some reason, that had bothered him for some time, a suspicion or uneasiness growing at the back of his mind--particularly in light of who had first contacted him about the disappearance.
General Thomas, quite naturally.
That could have easily been explained away had not other more ominous events rapidly followed. Information had then leaked to EarthCast News and Lacom . . . information only UEO authorities could have possessed at the time. They obviously had an informant inside UEO headquarters, but that was to be expected.
What was disturbing about the EarthCast News incident was that the information had been the perfect makings for a war. It had been too perfect, in fact. Everything had worked too neatly up to one final climax: hostilities.
Silently, Ford reviewed exactly what had happened. Lacom had announced the prior Ulysses kidnapping--another classified catastrophe--then the most recent one. She had then proceeded to discuss the ransom demands and the tape that Ford himself hadn't been told of, implying that the ONS was behind the kidnapping.
Right after that, he'd called Thomas, ranting and raving . . . and, after much talk about the stupidity of peace talks, Thomas informed him that the London and the Brittan had engaged the enemy: that they were now at war.
Most unsettling of all, Thomas had spoken of Lucas's vortex. After declaring that only fools believed in peace, Thomas had actually said that the vortex was the best weapon the UEO had--not the best weapon the UEO was developing, but the best weapon it had. Had, of course, suggested that it was already in production--that it was ready for use.
Then Thomas had mentioned the mysterious "we" . . . suggesting, to Ford's mind, that this "we" in charge of the vortex was not the regular Pentagon. It was this mysterious "we" made Ford's skin prickle.
Finally, Ford's own conversation with his friend Ron Bailey had introduced a new problem: men in uniforms never seen before, apparently in heavy numbers, infiltrating--if that word could be used--Washington, D.C.
No, this wasn't good at all, especially when coupled with the fact that General Thomas had actually said that the vortex was ready for use. Not only had he told this to Ford, but, according to Ron Bailey, he had told this to much of the command staff at the Pentagon.
Through it all, through the tangled mess that had become this most recent crisis of hostages and hostilities, one name continually resurfaced: General Frank Thomas.
The world seemed to be spinning out of control, rocking haphazardly on its hinges all around him, for it seemed that General Thomas was behind . . . everything.
But suppositions wouldn't work in this situation. Ford needed proof: hard, indisputable proof. He needed enough proof to nail the son-of-a-bitch's coffin shut . . . permanently.
*****
Twenty minutes later--approximately fifteen minutes before they were scheduled to reach Port Dominia--Tim looked at him, eyes worried.
"Commander . . . I'm picking up something." He adjusted several knobs at his station, looking back up with anxious eyes. "It's staticky . . . but . . ."
As Tim paused, apparently either unwilling or unable to continue, Ford asked, "But what, Lieutenant?"
Tim swallowed heavily. "It's a distress call." He looked down at his station, carefully avoiding Ford's eyes. "It's a distress call, UEO code."
Immediately, Ford was out of his seat and at Tim's side. He looked quickly at the screen. "Let me hear . . ."
Tim silently handed his headphones to the Commander, pain in his eyes. Ford listened for several moments. He could feel the weight of his bridge crew's eyes on him . . . worried, despairing eyes. He cleared his throat, jaw tightening, clenching.
"Analyze the coordinates, Lieutenant," he ordered, tone flat. Tim quickly nodded his head, setting to work as Ford remained at his side. Ford struggled to keep his face outwardly calm--to keep the fear from showing.
He knew it wasn't working when Katie joined his side, her eyes silently encouraging him even as they gave him strength to continue. His crew couldn't see him fall apart. He was their strength right now. He was the only thing they had to keep themselves from falling apart.
"Sir . . ." Tim began, swallowed hard, then began again. "The coordinates . . . ten minutes outside of Port Dominia."
Ten minutes outside of Port Dominia . . . God. Ford fought the panic trying to raise itself in his mind. He struggled as it shook at his calm, at his reserve . . . at everything within him.
UEO code. Distress signal. Ten minutes outside of Port Dominia.
None of this was encouraging. Damn it, none of it was!
Feeling much like a panther prowling the bridge, Ford paced beside Tim's station, waiting to hear more. He placed his hands behind his back and rooted his legs into one spot when he saw Katie's warning glance; his pacing was making the crew nervous.
Sweat trickled down his face, but he refused to wipe it away. Tension pulsed in his jaw.
"Commander . . ." Ortiz began, voice strained ". . . I've got something over here. Directly in front of us."
Ford stalked to Ortiz' station, Katie at his heels. They stared at the screen.
"Put it on the viewscreen," Katie ordered softly, her voice only wavering slightly. Seconds later, the viewscreen flickered with a new image. Ford could feel the tension gathering in the room, thick enough to touch, to feel. "Magnify it."
Oh, God . . . he wished Katie hadn't done that. The image magnified. Ford blinked moisture out of his eyes--sweat.
Fuck.
He inhaled sharply, aware that beside him, Katie was staring, too, with horror.
Before them was a boat . . . or, rather, what was left of one. It had been a small submersible, the type sometimes used for limited explorations. But this one wouldn't be exploring again. Its debris dotted the waters, harsh and grim against the sea's blue.
The distress signal continued, unerringly repeating, over and over and over and over. But Commander Ford doubted . . . he doubted there was anyone left to rescue.
They stared at the wreckage.
Seconds later, Ortiz squinted at the screen, his eyes narrowing. He walked to the viewscreen, standing right in front of it. Ford watched him, curious, as he all but ran back to his station and started typing commands into his computer terminal.
Abruptly, the viewscreen image flickered and refocused. He stared, shocked.
It was a body.
Carefully, Ford made his way back to his seat, hands groping at the cushions before he lowered himself--his eyes unseeing. His hand visibly trembled--a violent shaking, as if he were falling apart, actually breaking into tiny pieces--when, slowly, he wiped a drop of sweat from his nose.
A tiny noise escaped his throat . . . one he couldn't identify.
Betraying his will, Ford's eyes focused once more on the image floating in the water.
The body was . . . mangled, beyond much recognition. It had been burnt, blackened. But . . . oh, God, his stomach pivoted . . . the blond hair . . .
His hand clamped over his mouth, Ford forced himself to continue looking. Pain hammered at his skull, at his burning eyes.
Blond hair. The remnants of . . . a shirt. A bloody shirt, burnt, too, over most its length.
One he recognized.
He had seen it so many days, its bearer running down the halls, splashing in the water, laughing . . . rolling his eyes, shaking his head in annoyance or frustration . . . staring sullenly at Captain Bridger's back, making a face as someone (most likely himself) undermined his mischievous plans . . . looking, eyes wide with enthusiasm, at some new scene, some new thing he had never imagined seeing--or at his latest project as it actually worked the way it was supposed to work. Many a time had Ford teasingly asked whether that shirt ever saw the inside of a washing machine.
It was Lucas's Marlin shirt.
Two more bodies, equally burnt, slowly drifted into view, their tortured limbs swaying gently with the ocean currents.
Ford's world crashed around him, landing in broken, jagged shards around his feet.
*****
Medbay. Ford inhaled deeply as he stared at the doors. He swallowed heavily before, finally, forcing himself to enter.
Medbay was never one of his favorite places. However, it especially was not so today. As he entered, the three bodies, carefully covered and gently arranged with their limbs in seeming repose, slapped at his sight. He blinked, grinding his teeth together--clenching his jaw until no sound, no cry, could slip past his guard.
Three . . . bodies.
Three. Bodies.
"What--what did you find, Dr. Levin?" Ford forced himself to ask, stumbling over the words. Why did he feel so short of breath, like--something was tightening around his heart, his lungs? Why did he hurt so much inside?
Oh, he knew why . . . God, he knew. He just didn't want to admit it, for . . . to admit it would mean it was true.
Joshua Levin looked at him, his own eyes red, puffy. He wiped at his nose, unconscious, Ford suspected, that he had even done so. His voice was soggy, as if it were coming from under several layers of water-soaked cushions. "Um . . . what we've found . . . so far . . ." he sniffled ". . . isn't much, Commander."
He moved towards the bodies, Ford slowly--unwillingly--following him. Steeling himself, Dr. Levin pulled the first sheet down. Ford's stomach reached his mouth, but he clamped it tightly back down. He could not be weak. He could not be weak. The words repeated in his mind, a mantra . . . a mantra for his own sanity and the protection of his crew.
A crew that now seemed to be . . . permanently . . . three people . . . short.
Levin was at great pains not to meet Ford's eyes; Ford understood. Right now, he wished only to howl in pain deep within himself, far away from the intrusion of others. Grief of this sort . . . it was something to keep inside, to bury. It wasn't the grief that could be shared. It was the grief of something ripped away from the soul.
"The . . . the bodies," Levin swallowed hard, but continued, trying to bring a clinical objectivity to his voice--and failing. "The bodies were burned . . . severely. I would expect this sort of . . . burning . . . with a torpedo. There are also trace elements of chemicals often associated with torpedo tracers, which would . . . verify our . . . hypothesis on what happened."
Simply stated, the current hypothesis was that Bridger, Lucas, and Dr. Westphalen had somehow managed to escape their abductors. They had probably stolen the vessel--the Hyperion--from the Holding facility itself; there were markings on it that suggested such a conclusion, though the markings were anything but clear. From there . . . they were probably hit by NAP forces. Torpedoed right out of the water. Whether their attackers had known who was in the Hyperion was something they likely would never know; all they did know was they had fired upon and utterly destroyed their target. Ford imagined that, once their hostages' disappearance had been discovered, NAP issued an order for their destruction for fear that they would escape to UEO waters with whatever knowledge of their keepers they had gained.
The ONS, like Section Seven, didn't like loose ends.
Angrily, he struck his hand against the bed, unwittingly jarring the charred remains of . . . God, what appeared to be his Captain. He looked apologetically at both the body and at Levin. He knew what he'd just done had been inexcusable.
"Is there . . . is there positive identification?" Ford demanded hoarsely, turning from Levin's searching eyes.
Levin cleared his throat. Slowly, he shook his head. "No. A positive identification won't be possible given the . . . condition of the bodies."
Ford stared at this. "No identification?" He shook his head, refusing to believe what he was hearing. "But . . . DNA? Blood analysis?"
Again, Levin shook his head. "No, Commander. We can't obtain verifiable data from the . . . bodies. Their condition is too damaged." He paused, inhaling deeply. "However . . . however, sir, the body statures and . . . gender of the bodies seems to indicate that--that it was them. The dental records . . . appear to match, from what we can tell."
Ford could only stare at Levin.
"We will only be able to tell for certain, Commander, when UEO's forensics department . . . analyzes the bodies. They should be able to determine for certain if it is them. But it will likely take them weeks to do so, even with their more advanced forensics equipment."
Slowly, brokenly, Ford thanked Levin and staggered out of medbay. Tears masked seaQuest's halls from his sight, but he forced them back, moving slowly through the halls until he had made his way to his own quarters . . .
Quarters that would eventually be Katie's when he took . . . the Captain's. The Captain's--Bridger's.
Feeling aged ten, twenty years, Ford shuffled towards his desk. His body dropped into the chair, bones tired, aching. He shut his eyes, squeezed them shut against the images.
The bodies.
Charred, arms broken, dangling . . . Lucas's blond hair--somehow escaping the fate of its owner, somehow perfectly clean and shiny, perfectly healthy--waving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth in the water. Lucas . . . it had to be him, didn't it? It had to be. It was the right shape, the right hair color, the right clothing . . . it had to be him.
Right?
Ford abruptly pounded his fist into his desk. It shook, almost imperceptibly, as his fist connected.
Ford choked back a cry. With shaking hands, he rested his head in his arms . . .
There was already such pain in the world, such agony . . . why did three more deaths have to be added to it? Why did his Captain now sit in medbay, his body so burned that he couldn't even be positively identified? Why did Dr. Westphalen, a tight ass if he knew one, but a good one . . . a woman he would trust--no, would have trusted, God, past tense--with his life or with his father's life, why, why did she have to die? Why?
His fist slammed into the desk.
And Lucas? He suddenly stood, anger tearing at his temples. What had Lucas done to end up . . . to end up a blackened corpse with golden hair? How could . . . how could this happen? How the hell had it happened?
Tim believed in a God, a divine being capable of loving and forgiving its Children. Tim believed in a God of compassion, one who sheltered the weak, the helpless.
Where the fuck was Tim's God? Where was He now?
What could make sense of this . . . this insanity, this injustice?
*****
Something nudged his consciousness, like a fly buzzing at his ears. Head feeling hot and stuffy, Ford carefully sat up, still blinking his eyes--trying to wake himself up fully. His body revolted at even this small amount of movement. His head felt like an anvil.
The bzzzzz repeated. He looked around himself, then realized that his PAL was beeping.
"Yes?" he barked out after a moment, clearing his throat. His eyes felt crusty as he wiped at them. "Commander Ford here."
Tim's voice drifted to his ears. The voice was exhausted, pained. "Commander, I thought you might want to turn on EarthCast News."
"EarthCast New?" questioned Ford, rubbing a hand over his throbbing head.
"There's a story on the Captain, sir . . ."
Without further question, Ford flicked on his screen to EarthCast News. Patricia Lacom's glacially beautiful face appeared, her chiseled countenance staring at the screen. Her words chilled him.
". . . in other news, reports have been verified that UEO sources have recovered three bodies in NAP waters. The three bodies are believed to be the bodies of Captain Bridger, Dr. Westphalen, and Mr. Wolenczak, who were earlier kidnapped in the incident that sparked several skirmishes earlier this week. Secretary General Andrea Dre has released a statement."
Ford watched, amazed, as Andrea Dre appeared on the screen. Her rough, harsh voice scraped across his ears: "Today, we have learned that the Non-Allied Powers, in a cowardly act that shocked every ear across civilized territories, has killed without mercy its three hostages from the seaQuest crew." Her harsh glare settled on the camera. "The UEO condemns this latest incident of NAP brutality and will do everything in its power to win this war so that nothing of this sort may happen again. NAP has violated the procedures of war in this act. We will aim for and accept only an unconditional surrender of NAP forces to end this present conflict."
Ford could hear loud cheering in the background. Andrea Dre's mouth twisted downwards. "Any power that can willfully murder the unarmed citizens of another power deserves no mercy. We will severely grieve the loss of these three minds. Captain Bridger, whose skills at diplomacy have stopped many armed conflicts--many with NAP itself. Dr. Westphalen, who has been renown in her field for innovative research. Mr. Wolenczak, who had the promise of many, many scientific inventions . . . all, now, ended.
"NAP has declared war on everything we hold dear and wish to protect. It will sorely pay for its mistake."
With that, Dre's image disappeared from the screen, replaced by Lacom. As Lacom continued to recap the story, Ford disconnected the feed. He stared at the blank screen.
No mercy. Unconditional surrender. The words repeated in his mind, taunting.
He wondered . . . was anyone in control of the situation now? It seemed with each day that things just spiraled more and more out of control, as if the world was spinning right off its axis and heading straight for oblivion.
The world was unhinged.
Un-fucking-hinged.
