seaQuest DSV is owned by Amblin Entertainment. Universal Studios, and the Sci-Fi Channel. This work of fiction is owned by the author and may not be reproduced without express written permission. Copyright March 1997.
The idea for this work of fiction came out of an unfinished round robin between the author and Joseph “Hill” Bowers. However, this completed product bears little of the fruits of his work.
“. . . So that’s the situation, Nathan,” Secretary-General Noyce’s words rang out in the silent room. Captain Bridger, Commander Ford, Lieutenant Commander Hitchcock, and Chief Crocker sat around the table, facing the viewscreen carrying Noyce’s image.
Captain Nathan Bridger glanced at the amazed faces of his friends and colleagues, and responded with the comment he knew everyone had on their minds. “You can’t be serious. Pirates? In this day and age?” This has got to be a joke, somebody’s idea of a really bad joke, sighed Bridger. Either that or someone’s forgotten that pirates went out with medicinal leeches.
Noyce’s tone insisted that everything he had told them was the absolute truth, or at least as far as he was able to ascertain as such. “They’re attacking everything from passenger liners on the surface to tourist submarines to freighter ships.” His voice rose in volume. “They attacked Atlantis II two days ago.”
“The dualized agrarian colony?” Hitchcock seemed impressed. “I remember reading about their design.” She paused. “It’s revolutionary -- part of it is on the surface as an island, and part of it is underwater like your standard colony. They’ve been raided?”
Ford sat up in his chair. “There was nothing about it in the media. Are we sure the two events are related?” He didn’t seem convinced.
Noyce fixed him with a look. “The pirates sent a message, scrambled, of course, to my office claiming responsibility for the attack on Atlantis II. I had the message and the report of the attack squashed for a few days. And a few days is all the time I can give you to find the pirates.”
“A few days?” Bridger couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He gestured at the walls of the conference room, and then back at the viewscreen. “In case you hadn’t noticed, that’s a lot of ocean out there.”
Noyce looked at him, trying to give the impression that Bridger was being unreasonable and impatient. “I know that, Nathan. We do have its submarine frequency so you can identify it when you find it. I’ll send the frequency signals we have to you via a secured channel.” He signed off, leaving the occupants of the small room to their own thoughts.
“That’ll allow us to track it,” said Ford, rubbing his cheek.
Hitchcock didn’t look happy about the news. “Sir,” she began hesistantly. “The only problem is that identification requires a WSKR to be within range, and we can’t cover that much area at a time.”
Bridger just looks at her and shrugs. “Then we’ll just have to be everywhere, won’t we?” He glances toward the doorway, and who he sees makes him remember something. “And we all know that Doctor Westphalen is at a conference for two weeks” -- he gestures toward a gentle-looking man with soft dark hair -- “so this is her temporary replacement, Doctor James Korwinn.” The young man nodded to everyone in turn, his dark eyes taking in everything in his surroundings. “We have pirates to keelheel, gentlemen ... and lady.”
Bridger strode down the corridor, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to find pirates. His attention is drawn upwards to Darwin, swimming lazily through the swim tube. “Hello, old friend,” said Bridger in greeting. I wonder if Darwin would have any ideas about pirates, he thought. But how do I explain to him what a “pirate” is? And do I want to spoil him like that? Darwin, as if hearing his Captain’s unspoken thoughts, reversed direction with a finely performed somersault and headed toward one of the science labs where Lucas was supposed to be hard at work on a “special project”. And on that note, Bridger thought, grinning wryly.
Hurrying the few steps to the lab, Bridger entered to find ... controlled chaos. A large computer system was already running its setup program, but piles of scientific equipment sat in boxes all over the room. Measuring scales and electrical equipment covered a table. At the back of the room, Lucas sat in a chair, peering into a microscope.
“I’m glad to see you’re making yourself at home,” Captain Bridger commented, wryly.
Lucas lifted his head and turned around, reluctantly, to greet the captain. “Hiya. This is a pretty nifty setup the UEO sent me. Too bad this isn’t my field of expertise. I mean, come on, this isn’t even close to my field.”
“This experiment is important to them. They need it done quickly.”
“It looks it. There’s just one problem . . .”
Bridger looked the boy over carefully, trying to judge whether he was serious. “And that is . . .”
“The so-called special compound. Neristex.” Lucas looked Bridger right in the eyes, while he gestured at a sealed box resting on the table. “I don’t even want to be in the same room with it. Very flammable, highly unstable, and unbelievably expensive.”
Captain Bridger sighed. “Look, I know it’s not your field and that you don’t feel comfortable working with Neristex, but the experiments they’re asking you to do are simple ones.”
“Then why don’t they do them themselves,” muttered Lucas, as he began setting up the last of the necessary equipment.
“Because they’re busy doing the difficult ones so you don't have to. Believe me, I made sure it would be safe before I okayed these tests.”
Just then, O’Neill’s voice rang out. “Captain to the Bridge, Captain to the Bridge.” Waving a quick goodbye, Captain Bridger left to see what was going on.
“What have you got,” asked Nathan Bridger, as he stepped through the clamshell doors and onto the Bridge.
“Possible sighting of the pirate ship, Sir,” replied Ortiz. “Its signature is reading out correctly and the WSKRs are sending back initial showings of a craft capable of making these attacks.” The dark-haired man looked back at Captain Bridger, and then back at his panel. “A Triumph-class submarine, outfitted for surfacing.”
Commander Ford whistled appreciatively. “Very fast, very light, but well-armored.”
“Yeah, definately a prime suspect in this mystery on the high seas,” commented Bridger. “Go to red alert and let’s see what her captain has to say.”
“Hey, Lucas, whatcha doing?"
Lucas looked up briefly from the carefully positioned material to see Lieutenant Krieg poking his head inside the laboratory. “Go away, Ben. I’m really busy right now.” Trying to get this finished before all hell breaks loose. “I’ve got a delicate physics experiment going here, and I really want to finish it before --”
“Lucas, listen to me. Nothing is more important than free enterprise.”
“No."
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
Lucas looked up again, but now Ben was standing right in front of him, leaning over the experiment table, trying to look him in the eyes. Lucas cringed inwardly, leaning further back from the table, hoping Ben wouldn’t do anything to annoy the compound-from-hell.
“Listen to me, Lucas, there’s no way you can pass this up.”
“Watch me.”
Krieg opened his mouth to reply, when the seaQuest lurched to one side, throwing him into the table, into a flask of water. Lucas opened his mouth to tell Ben to run, but was too late. The water splashed onto two exposed wires, creating an electrical current, the arc of blue and purple light hissing sparks in all directions.
An explosion threw Lucas to the ground, and Ben Krieg disappeared in a flash of light. Throwing one arm over his face, Lucas had just enough time to scream before a second flash of white light swallowed him whole.
Oh, what happened? Ben Krieg woke up with a headache to end all headaches. It wasn’t the first time, by any means, and, no doubt, it wouldn’t be the last, but this one beat all previous by a long shot. It feels like the fourth day of a three-day pass topped off by a weekend visit from my thankfully former mother-in-law. But, really, where have I been? What have I been doing? Then Ben noticed where he was. And why am I in the brig?
“I’m glad to see that you’re awake,” a harsh voice commented. Is that Commander Ford? It sounded like Commander Ford. If it is him, then he’s made some major life changes. Ford stood there, his head shaved bald, his posture ramrod straight, dressed in immaculate black stealths and boots, staring down at Krieg with an expression of utter contempt on his face. “Do you think, Lieutenant, that you can behave for the next week?” The sarcastic edge on his voice cut like a dull-edged razor. Ben could only stare up at . . . his commander, unable to understand what was happening. Last thing I remember was being in the lab with Lucas.
Annoyed at the lack of immediate response, Ford snapped, “I’m waiting for an answer, Lieutenant.” When Ben nodded, Ford looked somewhat more mollified and maybe even a touch disappointed. “Try to remember this from now on . . . drinking, stealing, and fighting are not allowed aboard this boat. I know that thieving is like breathing to you, but --” Ford moved closer, menacingly, his voice darker “-- if I catch you next time, you won’t have that problem anymore. You understand me, Lieutenant?”
Ben swallowed hard. This is not Commander Ford. “Yessir.”
“Then you can go.” Ford stepped forward, slapping the release on the brig control. “It’s time for your shift.”
All the way to his station, all Ben Krieg could think about was this bizarre situation: where was he, how did he get here, what was going on, and how to get back to where he started. And, for that matter, where’s Lucas? Ben hoped nothing bad had happened to the teen. When he finally got to his station, he couldn’t concentrate on the work in front of him. His duties appeared to be basically the same, only there were no rules. ‘Get the items any way you can’ appeared to be the rule here, wherever ‘here’ was. He arranged deals, deliveries, and finances, just like always. Only people here don’t like me very much.
Later, when he saw the Bridge, he didn’t like it very much either. The design is the one I remember, but it’s dark and ... well ... like a battle bridge. Too like. Captain Bridger stood at center stage, bearded and cold-eyed, ranting about vengeance and justice. Katie Hitchcock wore a uniform too small for her, but her hair was long, her cheek was bruised, and there was an eager look in her wide eyes that made Ben cringe. Katie, what happened to you? Miguel with long curly hair, eye patch, and a look on his face like he was sizing everyone up for treachery.
Then his eyes fell on Tim. Oh my God. What has happened here? Ben had noted the old-fashioned Braille notes on the com board, but had assumed it was an equal-opportunity system on a small budget for a injured crewmember. I never thought it would be him. Tim’s face was badly scarred, and dark glasses covered his eyes. He’s blind. Totally blind. The UEO uniform was out of date, and the look on Tim’s face was anger and pure bitterness at everyone . . . at the world.
But Chief Crocker looks the same. Same uniform, same face, same voice, same attitude. One person out of how many? I wouldn’t take those odds in a poker game, no matter how much is in the pot.
Darwin was nowhere to be found. After his shift ended -- finally -- Krieg searched the boat from stem to stern and from bilge to bridge. No Darwin, no Westphalen. In defeat and confusion, Ben went to his quarters, in the same place, the supply room, and found it packed floor to ceiling with boxes and crates of goods. Nothing indicated anything about where he was or who he was or what was going on. In fact, there was no decoration or personal items at all.
What’s going on here?
Lucas lay in bed, in Med Bay, his mind drifting weakly. Where am I? What’s going on? Feebly, he tried to get up, but found he couldn’t move due to the restraints holding him still. He noticed two I.V.s attached to his arms -- great, a twinkie high -- and an oxygen tube led inside his nose. Bandages covered his hands. What happened? Did the experiment blow up?
Struggling to keep his eyes open, he heard Captain Bridger’s voice nearly at his elbow. Managing finally to focus his eyes, Lucas saw that Bridger had a beard. How long have I been unconscious? How badly was I hurt? “Beard?” Lucas was appalled at how weak he sounded.
”I’ve always had the beard, Lucas,” Bridger replied, laughing.
Losing his battle with awareness, Lucas drifted off into sleep.
Moving away from the teen’s bedside, Bridger came straight to the point. “When can he return to duty,” he demanded.
The doctor was unfazed, continuing to type his report into the computer, ignoring the seething captain. “He’s recovering nicely after being slightly electrocuted, and the sedation is having a nice effect, keeping him nice and calm, just the way I like him.” The reedy mousy-haired doctor snorted derisively. “In fact, I like him better this way.”
Bridger growled, low in his throat, threatenly. “When?”
The doctor sighed. “Don’t worry about your pet psychopath, Captain. He can return to duty tomorrow morning in time for his shift.”
What a wierd dream, thought Lucas, walking down the corridor to the bridge. I wake up in the Med-Bay drugged to the gills, a neo-skinhead claiming to be a doctor tells me to get out ‘cause I’m wanted on the Bridge, and I finally wake up to colors and shapes from the good drugs in the MAG-LEV. Lucas trotted cheerfully through the clamshell doors, feeling very happy to be on seaQuest with his friends and associates and colleagues.
He’s grown a beard, Lucas noticed immediately, and decided that it didn’t look too bad, just different. But Commander Ford was as bald as could be, and Ortiz had an eye patch -- something’s wrong here, something’s very very wrong here. Nevertheless, Lucas walked over to Captain Bridger, and asked “What’s with the new beard you’re sporting, Sir?”
Bridger laughed, and said “Very funny, Lucas. I’ve had this for as long as we’ve known each other. You may not be well yet after all.”
Lucas laughed half-heartedly, trying to sort out the difference of opinion between his stomach and his brain, continuing to look around at the sudden changes in his crewmates. Chief Crocker looks exactly the same, but ... God ... O’Neill.
At that very instant, seaQuest’s alarms shrieked and everyone ran frenzied to their positions. Ford was yelling something about “... it’s the UEO again, they’re going to try to take us out ....” Or something like that. Lucas wasn’t sure, but he knew he’d never been more confused. That was, of course, until he looked up at Bridger and couldn’t believe the words that came from his captain’s mouth.
“Mister Ford, lock all weapons on the U.S.S. Washington and open fire --”
His head tilted to one side, O’Neill ran his fingers swiftly over his com board, and said “Sir, they’re hailing us --”
Glancing first at O’Neill and then at Ford, the captain continued. “And fire!”
The blasts shot out of seaQuest and slammed full strength into the U.S.S. Washington. She listed to one side, and then began struggling forward to a firing position. Shocked, Lucas stood there watching as the crew dodged him, running to stations and consoles. How could this be happening? If we’re not the UEO . . . then who are we? Lucas shuddered.
“Here they come again!” shouted Ford.
“Fire another volley,” ordered Bridger. “Now to show the holier-than-thou UEO how the game is played.” He glanced cursorily at Lucas. “Get to work, Lucas.”
“Huh?” Oh God, what does he expect me to do?
“Lucas.” The voice was hard and cold like titanium steel. There was no relation to the Captain Bridger that Lucas knew. Yet, this guy sort of looked like him, sort of sounded like him, and every so often there was a glance or a movement that made the similarities seem that much more eerie. Maybe it was Captain Bridger. But it couldn’t be. “Get to work,” the voice insisted, interrupting Lucas’ confused thoughts.
Lucas gulped. “What do you want me to do?” Oh god oh god oh god.
Bridger laughed, and the sound was not pleasant. “The same thing you always do, of course. Hack into their ship’s computer and override all their functions. Propulsion, helm, communications, life support, the works.”
All the color drained from Lucas’ face. Life support! Now he was really afraid. “Life support too,” he asked, hoping against hope that he’d heard wrong but knowing inside that he hadn’t.
“Yes, of course.” Bridger was suddenly at his shoulder. “Usually you love this part.” The voice was wheedling, calm, but slightly quizzical, as if wondering whether Lucas was all right. “After all, your experiences led you to us. You hate the UEO as much as anyone, maybe more considering the circumstances . . .”
The pause lasted forever, and within it Lucas heard the voices screaming over the com channel, heard the captain of the Washington pleading for mercy. Lucas hesitated over his panel, watching the flashing red light that would cripple and kill the helpless ship, the light that urged him to press it. Please please let this just be a bad dream, please just a really bad dream.
“Lucas, just do what they tell you. I’ll meet up with you later when this all calms down.” Krieg’s voice. And it really did look like Ben Krieg, bending over a nearby console, and whispering in his direction. The lieutenant shot a meaningful glance in Bridger’s direction and disappeared from the bridge.
“Now Lucas.” Bridger’s voice brooked no argument. I’d really like to wake up now, God.
Shaking, Lucas pressed the blinking red button, and watched the screen flickering to its deadly work. He could imagine the circuits snapping into place, controlling the Washington’s systems, killing all of her crew. Ugh. I feel sick. Finally a splash of color flashed onto the screen. Oh God. I designed this obscenity of a computer system. Killing by computer. The blurb disappeared and a grid appeared on the screen. Lucas made a strangled noise in his throat. Dates, names, times . . . the me here, whoever he is, whatever he is, has been keeping a record -- who and when I attacked, and how long it took for them to die under my control. A bugling trill sounded from his console, followed by a note appearing at the bottom of the screen, announcing that he had reached a personal high score. The computer had needed only 2.5 seconds to override the Washington’s computer, and only one minute to kill her crew. A game. That’s all it is to him. A game. Stunned, horrified, Lucas put his head down near the monitor, trying to block out the sight of the hideous truth in front of him. What kind of monster is he? What kind of monster am I?
From the center seat, Bridger watched his young prodigy work. Poor kid, the bastards really fucked up his brain, but the parts that really need to work still work. At least he’s giving them some of what he got from them!! And then some!! “And it’s about time,” he muttered, “so much to pay for, so many lives . . . . “ Seeing the young man’s head drop to rest on the panel, Bridger strode over to him and peered over Lucas’s shoulder to read the message at the bottom of the screen.
A hand on his shoulder brought Lucas out of his daze with the force of a cold shower.
“That’s good, Lucas,” Bridger said. “I know how long you worked on that program to make it do what you wanted it to do.” Lucas could hear the pleasure in his voice, see it in his eyes, feel it in the room around them. Great. He’s happy I’m killing people. “Why don’t you go back to your quarters now? You still don’t look well.” I wonder why, thought Lucas irrationally, agreeing with a nod. I’ll go lay down like a good little homicidal maniac.
With that, Lucas fled the bridge, and stumbled toward where he hoped his room still was. Though the way things are going, I bet the head is there instead. But his room was there, and his bunk was there, and so were a few items he recognized as his own, much of it computer tech equipment -- hardware, half-written scraps of programs, stacks and stacks of printouts, books, trade magazines, and even some pieces of software, probably pirated off the InterNex. However, other stuff, his personal stuff from home was gone and it was as if it had never been there. Lucas sighed, not wanting to deal with it yet, and collapsed onto the familar bunk within the unfamilar room into sleep.
Lucas woke, but decided against opening his eyes. I really hope this was all a dream, it must have been a dream, must have been. But if it isn’t a dream, then I’m . . . . Lucas willingly left that thought unfinished. Okay, I’m opening my eyes now. Swallowing nervously, the boy opened first one eye and then the other, hoping and praying that the room he remembered seeing on entering was only the result of the overactive imagination Doctor Westphalen always accused him of having. But the room looked the same -- unbelievably messy and with practically no personal items anywhere to be seen, except one. That lone item was displayed prominently on a shelf: a silvered frame holding a family portrait of Mom, Dad, a very young Lucas, and two older kids he didn’t know. Long lost siblings, maybe?
A soft knock startled him out of his reverie. “Come in,” Lucas shouted, hoping that nothing bad would happen. Again.
Ben Krieg entered, softly and fidgeting. His eyes looked sad, and somehow it seemed as if he knew what Lucas would find. It looked as if he’d already been dealt some hard lessons here. Lucas didn’t want to know what they were. “So. How’d it go?”
Lucas shrugged, knowing full well that Ben was making small talk. “Awful. But you know that. What happened, Ben? Where are we?”
Krieg sighed, sat on the bed, and dodged the question. “Have you looked at your own records yet?”
Lucas stared at him, seated himself at the computer, and began accessing the records. Easy. ‘Course it looks like I arranged the computer systems here, too. He began reading them, pausing to fight down the crashing of emotions before reading them again. He gasped, unable to think of anything to say. No wonder, dear God, no wonder.
Trying again to summarize the facts displayed on the screen, Lucas fought to ignore the wrenching ache in his gut. “I -- I had a bad time of it here. It was about the same until I was about six or seven years old. Then our home was broken into by some government outfit calling itself UEO Section Seven. They had a warrant for Dad’s arrest, saying that he was working in a field of science that had been expressly forbidden by law. They actually arrested all of us. My dad and my older brother . . . Michael, who was thirteen years old, were shot to death for resisting arrest. Mom, my ten-year-old sister Zorina were sent to a prison camp of some kind. According to these notes, my mom died from pneumonia three or four months later, my sister bled to death after being raped by guards a few months after that, and I was on my own by the time I was eight years old.” Ben Krieg said nothing, just listened. “When I was almost ten, I was considered a ‘brilliant troublemaker’ -- really, Ben, that’s what it says here -- and moved to a special school and taught computer engineering.”
Still stunned from what he had read, Lucas began to see the parallels between what he’d seen. “What I do here is what I did then. It’s just that the targets and objectives have changed.”
The boy went back to reading from the screen. “After finishing at the top of the class, I went to work for them for three years. When I was thirteen, I learned that they’d used drugs, the old potentially dangerous chemical kind, to keep me under control. They considered me a terrible security risk, violent, antisocial, but just so frighteningly good at what I did that they didn’t want to lose me." A cute little kitten, but it’s rabid and has biiiiiiig fangs. “I went on a tear, stabbed three people, killed two of them, and eventually wound up here in Bridger’s fleet. The UEO has an arrest warrant out for me -- the original count, two counts of murder one, and dozens of later counts for mass murder of crewmen during peacetime.”
Lucas slapped a data chip into the slot and set the computer to copy all personnel files onto it. A few moments later, its beep broke the silence, bringing Lucas back to their problem. After retrieving the chip and stashing it in his shirt pocket, he shut off the computer and threw himself at his bunk on which Ben was sprawled. “I can’t believe this.” Lucas flipped over onto his side to face his friend.
“Do you have any ideas?” Ben wanted to know.
“Well,” the teen began thoughtfully. “Obviously, there are here, wherever we are, two people who look and act, for the most part, like us. This might be a parallel world.”
“Come again?”
“It’s a theory in quantum physics. First, the concept of Schrodinger’s Cat says that when there are two possible outcomes to a single problem, the outcome does not decide itself until we look to see what the outcome actually is.” Seeing the look on Ben’s face, Lucas sighed in despair. “Okay, Ben, follow me here. Irwin Schrodinger asked ‘what would be the fate of a cat locked up in a box, with a phial of poison, a sample of radioactive material, and a geiger counter’, all arranged in such a way that if the material decays, it triggers the counter, and smashes the bottle of poison. Thus, there is an exact fifty-fifty chance that this has happened, and when we open the box, we will either find a live cat or a dead cat. But what’s in the box right before we open it?” He looked at Ben, who shrugged. “Another theory, the Copenhagen Interpretation, says that because the outcome of the experiment has not yet been observed the probability wave function has not collapsed. Only when we look does it decide which it should be.”
Lucas looked at Ben again. “Okay,” Ben said. “I think I follow so far.”
“Hugh Everett suggested that the wave function doesn’t have to collapse at all,” Lucas continued. “What the quantum equations really mean, he said, is that there are many worlds -- one corresponding to each possible outcome. In one universe, we open the box and finds a live cat. In another universe -- or parallel world -- we find a dead cat. Both are real, and nothing collapses. Everett called it the ‘many worlds’ theory -- all possible wave functions always exist.”
Ben glanced up at the ceiling, mulling over what he’d been told. “I think I’ve seen this on the holovid before . . . .”
Leaning back against the bedback-board, Lucas grinned. “I’m not surprised. Science fiction writers loved it.” He sighed. “Only the catch is, we’re not supposed to be able to communicate with the parallel worlds.”
“So how did we get here?”
Lucas thought about the components of the experiment he’d been working on at the time all this started. “Probably through a wormhole.”
“A what?”
“A wormhole is like a black hole which hasn’t quite collapsed into a full-blown singularity, but instead opens out into a separate region of spacetime.”
“Can you translate that into English now?”
The boy sighed. “Have you ever read C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe? After seeing Ben nod, Lucas continued. “Remember the closet that opened up into Narnia?” Seeing that Ben was enlightened, Lucas continued. “I think the infusion of electricity combined with the Neristex somehow created a wormhole that . . . exchanged us for our counterparts in this parallel world . . . .” Then a terrible thought struck him. Lucas panted, trying to get his fear under control. The inspiration explosion has been so bright he felt almost shell-shocked by it. “Ben, I just realized something. If you and I are here, then where are the you and I that belong here?”
“Doctor Westphalen, I know you have complete faith in Doctor Korwinn, but I really think you should come back. We’ve got a real problem here -- a soon-to-be ex-lieutenant openly stealing from UEO supplies and from the crew and a psychopathic teenager . . . .” Captain Bridger assumed his best ‘please-help-me’ look as he pleaded with his chief medical officer.
Doctor Westphalen, however, was not terribly impressed. The seminar was proving to be far better than I had expected, so of course a problem occurs . . . Brushing her chestnut hair away from her face, she peered at Bridger, searching for evidence that something really was the matter. “Nathan, are you sure it’s not just a phase? Yes, Ben’s behavior may be odd, but Lucas acting strangely, well, sometimes teenagers are moody at times.”
Bridger sighed, and motioned to the viewer. “Kristen, listen to this.” He activated the audio channel from Lucas’ containment chamber nearby, and the com chirped.
“What the hell is going on!! Lemme outta here now!!” The boy’s screams were insistent, filled with emotion, and rapidly rising in pitch. “Goddammit!! Have alla you lost your fuckin’ minds!! Get me outta this cage now, Bridger!!” The last word was uttered in a screech that threatened serious harm to all within range.
With the demostration over, Captain Bridger punched out the channel. It’s the sort of force he might have liked to use in person, but he would never do that. Nathan isn’t that sort of man. Bridger spread his arms out in mute appeal, watching Lucas’ outrage out of the corner of his eye.
“You see, Kristen? This isn’t just a mood swing. And Lieutenant Krieg hasn’t said a word at all. Please, come back as soon as you can. It’s like they’re completely different people.” Noting the time on the display, he resolved to finish the conversation quickly. “Doctor Korwinn says that Lucas is acting like a typical rebellious teenager. He isn’t worried.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “I am.”
Now concerned, Doctor Westphalen reached for the vidlink control, raising his hopes just as she disconnected. “On my way, Nathan.”
As the channel closed off and Kristen’s image faded from the screen, Captain Bridger peered back into Lucas’ isolation chamber, watching the rages and threats and imprecations continue, and sighed.
“Hang on, Lucas. . . .”
Captain Bridger sat near Lucas’ containment chamber, still watching through the window. Hyperactive, the blond teenager stomped back and forth in the chamber, screaming, muttering, threatening, pausing now and then to pound on the transparent cage. Every time it was the same. Every time, the boy would stare back at him, pound on the surface separating them, and scream soundlessly to be released. Unable to watch further, Nathan put his hands to his face, resting his elbows on his knees. How could this have happened? When did all this happen? And while we’re on the subject, exactly what did happen? Releasing some of his tension with a deep sigh, he picked himself up and glanced into Lieutenant Krieg’s chamber, but Krieg merely lay on the bunk, doing nothing. The lieutenant’s just biding his time. Definately not the Ben Krieg I know.
A squeal from the internal com startled him. Bridger strode over to it and punched the button hard. “Bridger here.”
Commander Ford’s voice came from the wall. “Doctor Westphalen’s arrived, Sir. I’ll meet you at the shuttle bay.”
“Any contact with the pirates, Commander?”
“No, Sir.”
Bridger sighed again. The quicker this pirate-finding mission was over, the quicker they could try to solve this problem. “Well, keep on it, Commander. Send the WSKRs out to their limit, and ask the Lieutenant Commander to go over the data from our last encounter. Maybe something will turn up that we can use.”
“Aye, Sir.” A brief pause. “Is there any change, Captain?”
“None.” Captain Bridger closed the channel. Kristen’s here already? How many speed laws did she break to reach us so quickly? Throwing a last look toward the still-frenzied teen, Captain Bridger hurried on his way.
Good. He’s gone. That’s not Bridger. Bridger wouldn’t have locked me the hell up for doing my job, godammit. Got to get outta here, got to get the way the fuckin’ hell outta here. Outta here. Lucas stopped to survey his prison, paying special attention to any circuitry on his side of the chamber. The fire alarm had caught his eye earlier, and now he looked it over more closely, as best he could, balanced precariously as he was on a chair placed atop a table. Hmmmm. Not too damned difficult, but the tamper alarm’ll have to be fucked with without setting it off.
After climbing down and rearranging the room yet again, Lucas seated himself, curling into a corner between the bed and the wall, barely within view of a nearby monitor pickup. Out of sight, he pulled at the sole of his right sneaker, revealing a hidden opening. And they didn’t find this either, he gloated, exposing a thin sharp diver’s knife in a makeshift holster. After running one finger along the the edge for a few minutes, enjoying the feel of the blade against his skin, Lucas concealed the knife again and resumed his ranting, waiting for the right time to strike.
The shuttle door opened, and Doctor Westphalen stepped outside. Home again. Home again. And both Captain Bridger and Commander Ford here to greet me . . . . Startled by what greeted her, she stopped short and stared up at Commander Ford. “Commander, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your face?”
Ford laughed, but entirely without humor, and touched the swollen black eye gently. “Lucas happened. He fought us when we put him into the containment chamber. He punched me in the eye and followed up by trying to scratch them both out of their sockets.”
My God, no wonder Nathan called.
“Kristen, how did you get here so quickly?” asked Bridger. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow at the earliest.”
“There was an emergency, and seaQuest needed me here,” said Kristen in a matter-of-fact tone. And you wanted me here. “I called in some favors, then begged, borrowed, and threatened in order to get here as fast as I could.” It’s starting to look as if it was a good thing I did, too.
The three of them began walking toward the MAG-LEV. “Has anything happened since I’ve been gone that either of you know of that could have triggered something like this?”
The two men glanced at each other briefly and then turned to her. “Nothing that I know of,” Nathan Bridger answered. “I know Lucas has been a little edgy this morning, but that has to do with the science experiment he was working on.”
Kristen brightened. “Is it possible that the experiment might have caused this?”
“It’s possible, but I don’t see how.”
“Ben doesn’t look too bad,” commented Kristen, peering into the chamber. “Considerably grimmer and much more sly, but the same.”
“Did you spot the tattoos in between his fingers? They’re like the kind you get in prison.” Ford spoke matter-of-factly.
Do I want to know how he knows . . . . The thought died as she crossed to Lucas’ chamber. Dear God. Kristen immediately dismissed the unprofessional thought, as there were more serious problems at hand. “Let’s take a closer look at Lucas, shall we? I’d say, on first glance, that he’s the worst off. Has he been acting out the whole time?”
Nathan Bridger nodded quietly, his exhaustion already showing on his face.
“Then we’ll have to restrain him so that the examination can be carried out properly. She quickly prepared the padded straps and a sleep-inducing headset, and then nodded to the two men now standing near Lucas’ chamber. “Ready.” Bridger keyed in the release code, and with a whirr and click, the door swung open. As soon as Lucas stepped out, he and Ford grabbed his arms tightly.
“Noooooooo,” Lucas screamed, punching and kicking out wildly. “Whatarya doing!! Get off me goddammit!!!” Liberally dispersed with curses, Lucas’ screams deafened Kristen. And I didn’t think Lucas knew that kind of language. The men dragged Lucas to the bed, and thrust him onto it. Lucas took the opportunity to kick Captain Bridger in the stomach. Ford shoved the boy into the bed face first, and tried to hold him still while Bridger gasped for air. Together, Ford and Bridger managed to hold him down in the correct position while Doctor Westphalen wrestled on the headset and restraints.
Slowly, the headset began to have an effect. Lucas’ struggles lessened until he finally lay still on the bed. Bridger and Ford sat, panting heavily from their efforts. She pulled on latex gloves, glanced over at the men, and said “You both can go .... when you can breathe again, and I’ll notify you when I’m finished.” A few long minutes later, the two men returned to their duties.
An hour or so later, the com chirped on the bridge. “Captain, can you come down to MedBay for a few moments, please?” Doctor Westphalen’s voice sounded strained.
Captain Bridger flipped the com control, and replied, “On my way.” As he turned to exit through the clamshell doors, he directed one last comment to Ortiz, O’Neill, and Hitchcock. “Keep scanning for that frequency, and notify me if you find anything.”
After Bridger left, O’Neill muttered, just under his breath, “As if we wouldn’t.”
Looking over at his friend, Ortiz read between what was said to ferret out what was really the matter. “Relax, Tim. He’s got other worries besides the ones the UEO foists on him. He’s worried about Lucas and Ben.”
“So are the rest of us!”
“That’s enough, both of you,” Ford’s voice broke in. “Doctor Westphalen will find what’s wrong with them. We, on the other hand, have a pirate ship to find.”
“Well, Kristen, what did you find? Anything?” After an hour of waiting, Nathan Bridger was impatient, anxiously wanting answers that would explain -- or at least shed some light on -- the frightening changes exhibited by his two crewmen.
Doctor Westphalen took a deep breath. Nathan isn’t going to like this. But there isn’t any way to soften it. Here goes . . . . “I didn’t do a detailed physical examination, but --” she held up a hand to stop his protests “-- I found old chemical residue from some chemical tranquilizers, very strong ones. Thorazine, Haldol, and Halidovine are the three substances I found the most, but he hasn’t used them for about two or three years. There are recent traces of Valium in his bloodstream, I’d say no more than forty-eight hours old.” Kristen couldn’t quite bring herself to look Nathan in the eye. It’s such terrible news, and makes so little sense. When did this happen? And where? “Physically, his health appears to be good. There are some bruises on his arms, some of which appear to have resulted from being forcibly held down in the past.” A pause. “There are also scars on his arms and hands consistent with frequent and repeated use of an I.V. Since Thorazine can be dosed using that method, this makes sense --”
“None of this makes sense!”
Doctor Westphalen crossed to where Captain Bridger sat, his head in his hands, and took his hands in her own. “Nathan. I know how you feel. I do. I’ll get some blood and tissue samples from Lieutenant Krieg, and perhaps something will turn up in the analysis. But if this has gone on for as long as it appears, then Lucas may need more help then either of us can give him.” Another pause. “We may have to send him to Arkham Five for treatment.”
“I really hope you’re wrong about this, Lucas.” Ben Krieg wasn’t thrilled about having his alternate running around on the boat. Or, for that matter, Lucas’ alternate. They’re living the lives we should be living but we can’t because we’re in hell . . . .
“Me too,” the teen replied, interrupting Ben’s confused thoughts. “Or do you think I want to stay here?”
Krieg had just opened his mouth to comment, when the small vidscreen cheeped, informing both that Lucas -- or, at least, the alternate Lucas -- had an incoming call. The pair glanced at each other -- too bad the other Lucas isn’t here to answer it -- and then at the screen, wondering who might be on the line.
Lucas tapped the control for acknowledgement, and got ready to take the call. “Ben, I gotta be in character to answer this. And you better get outta here, or off camera, or something, while I’m on.”
The blond teen hit the control, and squelched a laugh at Ben’s sotta voce announcement. “Iiiiiiiiiit’s showtime.”
The screen popped to life, and Lucas assumed an air of frustration and annoyance. Sort of how I feel after being woken up for stupid computer errors any third-rate programmer who’s three days dead could fix. “Yeah,” he snarled, leting his voice shake a little. “Whaddaya want?” He held up a hand threateningly. “And this better be good.”
The image on the screen startled both of them. Leslie Farina, sans oranguatan. “Wolenczak? Um, it’s Farina.”
“I can see that.” Pretend that Ben spilled a milkshake all over your hard drive.
The figure cringed. “I, ah, you’re not gonna like this.” Then quickly added, “It wasn’t my fault.”
Lucas let his expression darken. Pretend that the milkshake permanently crashed the hard drive. “What? Spill it. Now.” Because of that milkshake, the hard drive’ll haveta be rebuilt from the electronics up. “And everything is your fault.”
Farina paled considerably and gulped. “Ah, it’s about Arionix Inc.’s new holo-imaging program, in beta-test --”
“Yes, yes, what about it,” interrupted Lucas, letting all his frustrations at this completely weird situation pour out all over the figure on the screen. Think angry, Lucas. Think about all the fun you’re missing while you’re stuck in this nightmare. Think about how ruined your life will be if your demented doppleganger is running wild on your seaQuest. Lucas’ expression darkened even further.
Farina gulped again, and stared down as if his shoes had suddenly become extremely interesting. He looked like a condemned man, waiting his turn at the gallows. “I . . . ah . . . couldn’t get it.”
Ben Krieg stood there, out of range of the vid pickup, and marvelled at the teen’s transformation. Lucas is flaying this guy alive, this guy who terrified supply officers everywhere, flaying him into quaking little shreds. Who’d have thought that innocent little Lucas could be so scary? He watched Lucas rage and scream and shout threats, obscenities, and accusations at the little man on the screen. Boy, Farina’s gonna need counseling by the time Lucas’s done. Make a note, Ben Krieg, do not get Lucas Wolenczak angry about his computers. Farina pleaded for a second chance, which Lucas grudgingly gave, and clapped quietly as Lucas closed the channel on the salvagateer’s hysterical sobs of desperation.
“Hey, nice job.” Ben grinned, and continued to applaud the teen’s efforts. “You should see about nominating yourself for an Emmy.”
Lucas snickered. “Sure, right.” He sat back down on the bed with a sigh. “But we should start thinking about how we’re going to get home.”
Krieg shrugged, sprawling on the bed.. “You’re the genius. You tell me.”
Lucas snorted, and shot an exasperated glance at the older man. “Well, I think what we have to do is --”
The com whistled, and Lucas quickly answered it. “Lucas here.”
“This is Bridger. Is your new program almost ready?”
Lucas glances at Ben, who shrugs, and decided to stall for time. “Just a sec. I’ll check.”
“Don’t you know?”
“Offhand, no,” Lucas snapped, and put the com channel on hold. He turned the computer back on -- I might as well leave the computer on -- and called up the most current file. After examining the lines upon lines of code for a few minutes, he returned to the com, and replied, “Almost done. Just a few more sections of code to lock in place, and check for bugs and straighten them. It’s coming along nicely.”
“Good.” Bridger sounded mollified, at least for the moment. “Let me know when it’s finished. That program might be crucial to our cause.”
“Sure.” Lucas closed the com channel and turned back to his friend. “I think what we need to do is to recreate the experiment.”
“That sounds easy enough,” commented Ben. Then he frowned at the boy expectantly. “What’s the catch?” Because there always is one. At least one.
Lucas sighed. “The catch is that we can’t recreate the experiment.” Ben grabbed the pillow, threw it over his face, and groaned. “At least not the same way. We don’t have any Neristex, for one thing.”
“Neristex,” the pillow questioned.
“Yeah.”
“Then we’ll just have to get some, won’t we?”
The lights changed to red, and O’Neill’s voice rang out, through the boat, “Battle stations, battle stations. All hands, man your battle stations!” Both glanced at each other warily --what next? -- and ran to the Bridge.
The Bridge is buzzing with activity as Lucas and Ben enter and take positions. Glancing at the screen, Lucas saw a battered freighter submarine, running at high speed away from them. Go! Get away from here!
“Fire on her,” shouted Bridger. Glancing in Lucas’ direction, he continued in a milder tone. “We won’t need your assistance on the computer today, son.” Not noticing the look of relief that flashed across Lucas’ face, he directed his next remarks to the crew at large. “We want to disable them, not kill.” He paused. “For now."
“We’re being hailed, Sir,” said O’Neill.
“On screen.”
The screen sizzled, and a a dark-eyed man wearing a blue and gray jacket appeared at its center. This guy has just one big eyebrow, the Neanderthal look isn’t attractive to the ladies, thought Ben irrationally. “. . . We are just a supply freighter, carrying goods to Corianus 3, we are not a threat to you . . . .”
“Shut that off,” ordered Bridger, waving his hand in O’Neill’s direction. The blind communications technician’s hands flickered across his board, and the image returned to an exterior view. “Damn them!” shouted Bridger, “How can they say they’re not a threat to us? They’re UEO!! And they know it!”
“They won’t be UEO for long,” hissed Katie, in a low voice. She smoothed her low-cut blue shirt, and crossed her legs underneath her station.
Bridger gazed fondly at her, his eyes traveling along her body, and moved behind her station. “Very true, my dear,” he said calmly, caressing her long dark hair, gazing at the screen. “They won’t be anything for long.” Moving back into the center of the Bridge, he ordered firing on the freighter. All Lucas and Ben could do was watch as the sub was relentlessly beaten with perfectly aimed laser fire and torpedoes until she drifted aimlessly with the current, her engines useless and her weapons used up.
“Prepare an attack sub for boarding,” commanded Bridger. “Chief, Ortiz, you’re with me. Have boarding parties one and two meet us there.” He looked at Lucas, who was sitting on the edge of his seat, gripping the edge of the console tightly. “Lucas, you’re with me, also.”
“I am?” Oh God, no, this place is a madhouse, get me out of here.
“You are. The rest of you -- stay on board and keep her” -- he pointed at the defeated submarine -- “from any dirty tricks her captain might have up his sleeve.”
Lucas trailed after the others as he left the Bridge, throwing a despairing look in Ben’s direction. Ben can’t help me. Hell, I can’t even help me. What do I do now? Lucas continued to trail behind, watching as energy pistols and plasma rifles were handed out. It’s interesting that they want me to come with them, but aren’t giving me a weapon. What am I, a lucky charm or something? Do they expect me to use my bare hands? Memories of what he had read about his alternate rekindled in his mind. Well, okay, maybe they do.
Lucas watched closely as twenty men and women wearing UEO uniforms or pieces of uniforms of various ages filed into the small stream-lined submarine, until he could not stall anymore and boarded. As they zoomed out of the seaQuest, he gripped the bulkhead and watched the ocean swallow them.
A few minutes after the attack shuttle had left seaQuest, Katie stood up and shot a lasviscious look at Ben. “Commander,” she said, turning her attention to Ford. “Although it’s unlikely, I think we should be certain that we have a sufficient amount of medical supplies in the storeroom. Besides, extra room will have to be found for the new supplies.”
Ford gave her a going-over with his eyes, clearly not liking the implication he saw in her expression. Finally, with a nod, he grudgingly gave his assent, his eyes pinioning Ben with a warning.
Katie motioned to Ben with her hands and eyes. As they left the Bridge, all Ben could think about was the absurdity of what was happening. This can’t be happening. Katie and I aren’t even together anymore. But . . . this . . . isn’t my Katie . . . right? This is . . . some other Katie . . . right? He trailed her all the way to his quarters.
Once inside, she pulled Ben past his sleeping area and through the labyrinth of boxes and crates to a tiny alcove hidden away in a far corner. Krieg barely had time to register the pillows and blankets padding the floor before she held him in a firm embrace, pushing him against the wall. “Darling,” she whispered, her breath kissing his ear, “I’m so glad he’s gone and we can be together for a little while.”
Darling?
“We’ll have to be quick,” Katie told him, unbuttoning her blouse. Before Ben could say a word, she was on top of him, kissing him fiercely.
“Katie . . .” was all Ben could say when he could get a breath. She licked one finger sensously and placed it against his lips.
“We don’t have much time, lover,” she whispered, her dark eyes flashing. “It won’t be long before Nathan is back, and I want to be with you.” She took his hands, held them under her own, and slowly began undoing her pants.
Ben struggled to distract himself from this highly erotic strip-show, this woman pressing against him, this woman who looked so like his Katie but acted nothing like her. Don’t look at her. Think about what she said. Nathan? Okay . . . so Katie and Bridger are lovers. But she’s having an affair -- oh God, look at -- I told you not to look -- ah, where was I, right, an affair on the side with me -- I mean, the other me. If Nathan, ah, I mean, Bridger finds out, then . . . don’t finish that thought.
Ben began to get up, in an effort to get away from this potentially very bad situation. Katie, misreading his efforts as an attempt to get more comfortable, kissed him again, only deeper and stronger, and finished removing her clothes. I’m trapped. Held down by enemy wiles. He felt gentle hands deftly undoing his jumpsuit, felt her tongue mesh with his own . . . . I guess all I can do is . . . surrender . . . for a little while.
The freighter’s crew are putting up a fierce resistance, thought Lucas. He had been ordered to move behind everyone else during the brief ride to the defenseless submarine. But it’s not as if they really want to protect me, to them, I’m an investment. Nothing more. He had watched as the seaQuest forces poured out into the sub’s corridors through the hole bored in her bulkhead, watched as shots were exchanged, and watched as men on both sides died. But it looks like more of the freighter crew are dying than of ours -- I mean, the seaQuest crew. They’re not mine, not really.
Lucas spotted something out of the corner of his eye. What a minute -- what’s going on?
The captain of the freighter -- I never did catch his name -- knelt on the ground, bloody and dirt-stained, Bridger’s pistol trained on him, the few remaining members of his crew nearby. Aware of their weapons at the ready, he pleaded desperately for his life and the lives of his crew. “For God’s sake, man, we all have wives and children!! Don’t kill us, we’ll give you the cargo, we’ll even help you load it! Just don’t kill us, for the love of God --”
The sound of the pistol discharge made Lucas jump.
“God has nothing to do with it,” finished Bridger, his voice cold.
Oh my God. Captain Bridger just killed someone. For no reason. No reason at all. No, no, no, I have to get out of here, right now. Lucas felt his mind go numb with the shock of what he had just witnessed. Unable to believe, unwilling to believe, Lucas charged at Bridger, screaming incoherently, trying to take the gun away -- can’t let this happen, this can’t be happening -- felt someone -- Bridger? -- knock him down, felt a knife against his throat, clawed at his opponent, saw the light flash -- no! -- before his eyes, blinding him.
Bridger looked down at the semi-conscious and agitated teenager at his feet. Kicking the corpse of the crewmember off the boy, he bent to retrieve the knife. Sticking it in a belt loop, Bridger motioned to a security person. “Put the kid aboard the shuttle. Dose him up.”
“Aye, Sir.”
Saluting briskly, the security officer picked Lucas up like a mail bag, throwing over his shoulder in a hold like a fireman’s carry, and carried him back to the little shuttle. He sat the boy on the bench, and ransacked the medical bag, looking for the tablets. “Damn kid,” he muttered. “I miss out on the fun because of this damned little brat.” Looking up, bottle in hand, he noted that his charge had slumped to one side, as if trying to wander away. “No, no, you don’t,” he sneered, grabbing the boy’s arm and yanking him back to the bench.
Lucas hit the back of the bulkhead hard, and opened his eyes. “What’s going on,” he shouted, rubbing the bump on his head.
“Shut up, kid,” hissed the officer. Shaking two tablets out of the bottle, he took the boy by the chin. “Open up and swallow.”
“What are those?”
“Valium.”
What? “No.”
“Kid, don’t play games with me. Either you take these, or I’ll force them down your throat. And I won’t be nicey-nice with you, either.”
“No!!” Lucas made a break for it, rolling off the bench and onto the floor. The officer pounced on him, kicking him in the side, and rolling the breathless teen over onto his back. The security man held the boy down by kneeling on his chest, and tried to get the blond teen’s mouth open wide enough to take the medicine. Lucas struggled, gasping for air, turning his head quickly from side to side, trying to wriggle out of the man’s grasp. The officer smacked him across the face once, twice, then a third time. Lucas screamed, and the officer wasted no time, thrusting his hand holding the pills into the boy’s mouth. Feeling the pills against his tongue, Lucas bit down. The officer cried out, and backhanded the blond teen with his free hand. The blow forced Lucas to swallow, and he felt the pills go down his throat. “No,” he gasped again, knowing he’d lost this battle.
The officer smacked the boy across the face again, and Lucas lost consciousness shortly afterward. “Damn kid.” Picking himself up off the floor, he sat down on the bench to await the others, examining the bitemarks in his hand.
Ben made certain to wipe the lipstick off his cheek before catching up with Bridger. I sure hope I got it all, or this is going to be a real short gig. Unless I can convince him that I like the feel of pantyhose against my skin and what high heels do to the shape of my legs. He stopped briefly in the corridor to consider the possibility that it might work. Nah.
“I’m glad you’re here, Lieutenant,” remarked Bridger. “We -- that is, you and your men -- have a great deal of cargo to unload. The Darius just made its last stop.” Amused at his little joke, Bridger laughed, handed a cargo manifest to a stunned Benjamin Kreig, and strode away.
I can’t believe he said that. Ben quickly read the manifest. The Darius, crew of eight, captained by a . . . James Larsen. Hmmmm . . . food, mechanical parts, alcohol, all normal stuff. His finger stopped at a particular entry. What’s this? Nerex? Maybe it’s related to that stuff Lucas mentioned . . . Neristex. I’ll have to ask him.
Turning back to the job at hand, Krieg began to supervise the unloading and placement of the cargo. As he did so, he tried not to look at the bloodstains on some of the crates.
That is the longest shift I have ever put in. Krieg tiredly dragged himself back to Lucas’ quarters, hoping to discuss the Nerex-Neristex connection before he fell asleep on his feet. Not only does everything have to be counted, checked, and put away, but I have to keep my crew from stealing me blind. Boy, some of those guys are real thieves. Arriving at Lucas’ room, he was startled to find Bridger in there, sitting on the bed next to where the boy was sleeping. “What happened?” What now?
“He got upset, and had to be hit with some Valium.” Bridger got up. “His pulse is normal, far as I can tell.”
“Why don’t you ask the doctor?”
Bridger laughed nastily. “Him? Ask him yourself, if he’s sober.” Tossing a box on a shelf, the captain turned to leave. “Tell him the software here and the hardware in Lab Two are his share.” With that, he was gone.
Oh man. Then Ben noticed the bruises on Lucas’ face. Jeez, Lucas, they got you good. Drugged to the gills with Valium and beaten up. What the hell are we going to do now? Unable to think of anything, Benjamin Krieg left the teenager to sleep, and closed the door behind him.
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