This is a work of fiction and copyright infringement is not intended. seaQuest DSV and seaQuest 2032 are owned by Amblin Entertainment and the Sci-Fi Channel. This work of fiction is owned by the author, and may not be reproduced without her express written permission. Copyright February 1998.
~~~~~
It hadn’t been that long at all , Wendy reflected, since Miguel and I were found. Or discovered, or whatever you might want to call it. She lay, reclining comfortably on her bed in her quarters, thinking about how odd it had all seemed. One minute we were safely on seaQuest , doing what we normally did every day, and the next minute we were huddled together, soaking wet, so exhausted it was hard to think, and sitting in one of the seaQuest ’s life rafts.
Three days we’d drifted helpless on the currents. Not knowing where we were, what had happened, or where the others were. Captain Bridger? Lucas? O’Neill? No matter how hard we tried, no matter how much we struggled, the memories wouldn’t shake loose.
Then, finally, Miguel had spotted a cruise ship passing -- he’d smelled a girl’s perfume, or so he’d claimed -- and we’d flagged it down. Wendy sighed, and took a long drink of hot chocolate, closing her eyes to savor the taste.
But the reactions of those on board!!! Wendy smiled, remembering the expressions she’d seen. Whispers, gasps of surprise, sharp breaths hurriedly taken in. Feelings of surprise, of doubt, of shock, of delight. Since we were almost dizzied with hunger, they gave us a stateroom and a doctor tended us all the way to the nearest port, St. Christopher, in the Caribbean. Loaded onto a plane from there and brought to San Diego . . . which was now an island.
But that wasn’t all that had changed. Ten years!! Ten whole years!! What had happened, where had they been for so long? Why did you two arrive months after the others? Were you separated somehow? The same questions the UEO asked, Miguel and I had already asked ourselves and each other. The answers were all the same, no matter who asked it: I don’t know, I can’t remember.
I don’t know.
I can’t remember.
We had repeated it like a mantra.
I don’t know, I can’t remember.
Then, finally, after batteries of tests of every kind and whole hospitals full of doctors, we were released. We were free. Miguel immediately wanted to go back to the boat -- it was home, he said, and all his friends were there -- and, after some thought, I decided I wanted to rejoin the seaQuest crew. My only lingering question ... was how would Nathan handle it? Wendy picked up a framed photo from her nightstand, and allowed her eyes to wander along its images. Nathan in the foreground, hugging Lucas, with Tony, Tim, Commander Ford, and Dagwood on both sides of them. Forms and shapes sprang into her memory, flickering briefly into her thoughts, replaying the day she had taken that photo like someone’s bad home movie. Running one finger along the outline of Nathan’s likeness, Wendy didn’t want to think about that day right now.
But . . . as it turned out . . . that wasn’t an issue. Nathan was gone, retired and incommunicado. I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him since ... since before. Before whatever happened, happened.
Before everything changed.
Everything.
The whole boat ... felt different now that there was a new captain. I want to say that the boat was more military, but that’s not quite it. More active? No, things had always been pretty active with Captain Bridger in charge. She chuckled at the absurdity of her self-reply. More strict? Maybe. But somehow that doesn’t seem to cover it either.
Lucas met us at the launch bay . . . and you could have knocked Miguel over with a feather. Lucas, an ensign? I never would have believed it if I hasn’t seen it myself. Somehow I never figured him for the military.
A few days later, we found out what really happened. Well, actually, O’Neill told Miguel, who told me. Where O’Neill heard it, Miguel didn’t say. At least, the boat’s gossip grapevine hasn’t changed. Captain Hudson gave Lucas a choice -- stay and join up, or get off the boat and don’t come back. And what’s more is that Dagwood and Darwin were included in the bargain. I was angry when I heard that. As if any of them really had anywhere to go! Well, Darwin could always find a pod to travel with, could rejoin Captain Bridger wherever he is, I suppose, but what about Dagwood? What about Lucas? Lucas hadn’t really had a choice -- he’d been forced to join up and knew it.
It really did explain a lot about his attitude.
Irritable, flaunting his new status, almost ego tripping. But he’s trying to convince himself that this is where he wants to be. Trying to convince himself that he doesn’t mind being here.
And sometimes I think he almost believes it.
Sometimes he doesn’t, and I can see the bitterness and anger just hovering over his head, just hanging on the edge of his mind. Since I’ve been back, I’ve offered to talk to him privately, offered several times, because I can see something at work veiled behind his eyes. Something dark and ugly, something he doesn’t want to share. Maybe it’s something he can’t share.
Maybe he can’t remember either. But there are times -- those rare times when everything is quiet and Lucas is in one of his reflective moods, staring out into the ocean at nothing -- when I’ll swear he remembers, remembers everything, but holds his tongue for fear of what the remembering will do to us. What did he see? Did he see the same things we did? And, if so, maybe that’s why he stays.
I don’t know, I can’t remember.
But this much I know. Lucas’ hair is longer than it was before. Did you notice that? If he was in stasis -- which is where the rest of us supposedly were -- then his hair shouldn’t have grown. But it has . . . so obviously he wasn’t with us the whole time. But if he wasn’t with us, then where was he? And what was he doing?
And why did Captain Bridger imply that Miguel and I were dead?
Maybe he didn’t know either. Maybe he was just reporting what he’d been told. Told . . . but by whom? When? I don’t know. I can’t remember.
But that was nothing to the news we got on our arrival. Brody had ... died ... not two weeks before. Died, gone, passed on ... whatever you want to call it. Died in the successful mission to rescue Ensign ... Lieutenant Henderson. Which is something else I can’t quite figure out, but I guess it really doesn’t matter. Lately she hasn’t been saying much either. She probably blames herself for his death, as if somehow she could have prevented it.
So, so funny, so pathetically funny that after surviving so much ... it’s something as simple as a blast from an energy pistol that killed Jim. I never thought it would happen. I never thought anything could bring Jim down ... he was always so ... strong.
So it’s not really funny, I suppose. It’s tragically funny.
One of those funny things that makes you cry.
But there isn’t any time to cry. At least, not as much as I’d like, not as much as any of us would like. How does it go . . . a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted . . . a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to break down and a time to build up.
A time to every purpose under heaven.
Comments?
I know, I know, it's weepy. Very unlike me.
© 1997 evermore4@verizon.net
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