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. Dr. Ken Rae Wystin is the product of this author's own deranged mind . . .
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. Why? Don't ask . . . you don't want to know the convoluted logic behind that idea! :) Some dates may also appear suspiciously outside canon.
This is a "pre-seaQuest" story.
Rating: PG-13, rated as such because of some adult themes and language. The language in this part gets a bit heavy.
Please send comments, critiques, polemics, sonnets, et cetera . . .!
Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn
Away from Monsters
Part Two
Nine weeks had passed since Kristin uncovered Lucas's medical records. And she, too, had done nothing.
Oh, she'd planned on saying something several times. But always there was an excuse. First had been the excruciating problems on board: Marilyn Stark and the rogue submarine. Then she just hadn't wanted to disrupt their new captain, telling herself that he needed a bit of time to settle in before such a dilemma was dropped unceremoniously into his lap. Yet still she waited. Once, she'd even plugged through to Admiral Bill Noyce, planning to explosively tell him the truth behind the young man's injuries. But, nervous, she'd forestalled the call, ringing up a good friend instead.
Guiltily, Kristin watched Lucas swim with Darwin, the seaQuest's dolphin. Swimming with the dolphin always seemed to relax the teenager. He'd even taken to playing with Darwin on a regular basis, playing catch or water volleyball (an amusing idea, considering he was playing with a dolphin) whenever the opportunity floated his way. Now, she saw peace on his face, contentment; but she'd often seen other emotions cross his face at horrifying speeds. Fear, when people walked up behind him, unobserved. Anxiety, when people moved too quickly beside him. Dread, when people rose their voices or looked at him even slightly askew. It was purgatory on earth for the lad. Lord Almighty, she had to do something-no child should be allowed to exist in such a world of hell-but what was she to do?
Would it even help?
"Hey, there," a voice said softly behind her. Kristin smiled, not needing to turn to know whose voice she heard. Bridger. She felt his gaze following hers, looking contentedly at the wet dolphin and teen as they swam laps in the moonpool. With a sigh, she looked away from the pair-up at him. She cleared her throat, steeling her nerves. "Nathan, we need to talk. Now."
Nathan looked at her in surprise, then shrugged. "Of course. What's up?"
Anxiously, she glanced at Lucas. Good: he was still with Darwin. She tilted her head towards her office. "Not here-in there. I need a few words with you."
Again, Nathan followed her glance towards Lucas and Darwin; then he slowly nodded, curiosity in his eyes. In silence, they walked towards the office, Kristin too nervous to speak, Nathan too polite to interrupt her thoughts. Kristin couldn't imagine what he'd think of her. He'd probably think her a perfect monster. And rightfully. Nine weeks . . . how could she have waited so terribly long? How could she have waited so long when she knew Lucas was suffering? When she cared for him? When she knew each week was an eternity of torture for a fifteen year-old child haunted by a father's abuse?
"Nathan . . ." she began hesitantly, hearing the door shut behind her. She made a show of checking several of her monitors, not noticing any of the information as it scrolled across the screen. She was only trying to delay for a moment, for one single moment, the truth. She'd never felt so uncomfortable-and so damnably guilty-in her life. "Nathan, I think . . . I fear I've done something very, very, very wrong."
She was glad she couldn't see his face.
There was a pause. At last, Nathan prompted, "Yes, Kristin? A mistake?"
Squeezing her eyes shut, Kristin only nodded. She felt tears building behind her eyelids, threatening to pour out if she didn't control herself immediately. God, it wasn't as if she were the one who had lain in the hospital with broken bones so many times; and yet she felt as out of control as a child. Softly, she replied, "Nathan, I think you'd better sit down for this."
Silently, wordlessly, Nathan took a seat in front of her desk.
Kristin moved soundlessly to her desk, sitting in the chair heavily. Again, she squeezed her eyelids shut-against the guilt, against the self-loathing. Then, finally, she opened her eyes and faced him.
"Nathan, there is something you must see."
With that, functioning on autopilot, her fingers shaking slightly, Kristin punched in the codes. Lucas was someone she cared about, and she'd acted just as selfishly as the many doctors and nurses who'd cared for the boy's injuries in the past and merely sent him home each time. She was as guilty as Lucas's father. As guilty as if she'd raised her fist to him herself.
The screen flashed with Lucas's medical information. Without a word, she tilted it towards Bridger.
Minutes stretched between them. Silence. Heavy, heavy silence.
Bridger's eyes were wide. He stared at the screen in shock.
Slowly, he looked up at her. His fist was balled tightly. "How-" He swallowed with difficulty, forehead creased in anger. "How-how could this happen? Doctor Wolenczak? Doing this?" Bridger stared at the screen, his face horrified. Then: "But who else-what else-could it be? Damn it, Lucas's father is one of our best-and, Lord, this!"
She nodded, speechless, as he leaped out of his chair and began pacing. He ran an agitated hand through his hair, then whirled on her. "How could he do this to Lucas? To Lucas, Kristin! One of the gentlest children I've ever met! Kristin-how could he do this to his own son? His own son!"
Kristin shook her head, jarred by his jagged emotions.
Breathing harshly, Nathan collapsed into the chair, once again studying the records. Horror was etched in every plane of his face. "'Patient admitted for severe fracture of collarbone. Severe strain placed on windpipe; obvious abrasion around the throat, almost indicative of hand pressure. Tracheotomy performed. . . . patient admitted for fractured arm, concussion, and broken ribs. . . . Patient admitted with broken ribs, inexplicable burn marks on back of left palm. . . . Patient admitted with fractured mandible bone; jaw wired shut to contain injury.' A fractured jaw bone! And hand pressure! Lucas needed a tracheotomy-a tracheotomy, Kristin! I can't believe this! The bastard tried to strangle him! Even Machiavelli would've been kinder to his own child! This man has almost killed Lucas! He's almost strangled him to death, and he's still free?"
Kristin was silent, grieving for her past silence.
"I'll kill him! I'll hang the bastard by his . . ." He stopped, staring at her suddenly. His eyes were sharp, piercing. Their dark orbs bored through her skull. "You said you'd made a mistake, Kristin. What happened?"
Unable to bear his pained eyes, she looked away from him. Her voice trembled softly as she said, "Nathan, I-I've known about this for awhile."
There was silence-utter silence. Finally: "How 'awhile'?"
Closing her eyes momentarily, Kristin then forced herself to look up at Nathan-to meet his eyes. Slowly, she answered, "Nine weeks, Nathan. Since Lucas came on board."
Nathan's silence was truly deafening. He simply stared at her a moment, then stared at the computer screen.
Moments ticked by: tick, tick, tick. A bomb counting off in Westphalen's ears.
Nathan inhaled sharply, briskly walking to the window and looking through its manila blinds. Lucas was now playing catch with Darwin, a multi-colored ball whirling in the air between the two. His unruly blond hair was soaking, dripping down his cheek-making him seem even younger than he was. Lucas threw the ball at Darwin, ricocheting it off the room's clock and then watching in delight as it landed squarely on the dolphin's nose. Darwin balanced the ball on his nose, then-looking almost mischievous-bounced the ball right off the very same clock onto Lucas's head. With a grin, Lucas splashed Darwin-only to be soaked in turn by a tail-pounding and chortling dolphin.
Grimly, Nathan turned back to Kristin. He stared at her for several moments, then said softly, "I can't believe you could be so cruel, Doctor. Cruel. Just look-" Raggedly, his voice broke. He paused for several seconds. "-Just look at that boy. Look at him! This bastard of a father has been-"
Unable to finish, Bridger knuckled his lower lip. He blinked quickly. "Damn you, Kristin, how could you not tell me? Lucas . . . he's fragile, delicate. You've seen how sensitive he is to what others say, to what others do. Damn it, if I'd known, I could've worked with him. I could've helped him. I would've at least understood why."
He leaned towards her, angry eyes probing at her like black coals. "He's obviously been traumatized by this creature for years. Years! And nine weeks after you knew the truth-nine weeks after you knew the reasons for his jumpiness, his testiness, his pain-you finally find it within your heart to tell me!"
"I'm sorry, Nathan! I know it's inexcusable. I tried-believe me, I tried-"
"But what? You couldn't find the time, Doctor, to say, 'hey, captain, I think there may be a problem here'?"
She nodded slightly. "I know. There's no way you can possibly forgive what I've done. Not to mention Lucas; he'll hate me. I'll-resign immediately."
"What?" Nathan's head snapped up quickly; he scowled. "No, Doctor, you don't get off that easily. We have a young man in need of aid-and God protect him, you're the only one on this boat capable of helping him. He trusts you. If either of us is to help him, it'll have to be you. He still won't let me get close enough to even give him a hug-much less talk about what's happened to him. And damn it, Kristin, you have a responsibility to this boat. To this crew. To me. But most importantly, to him. Now is not the time to slither away from your duties."
"Slither. How appropriate. I feel like a snake."
Nathan stopped his pacing, looking at her carefully. Her face was tired, lined with worry. Her eyes were red. Her dark hair, usually so precisely combed into place, was untidily tumbling around her face. She'd obviously been crying before he'd waltzed into the medbay. Slowly, he sighed, trying to still his anger. He tried to understand how this woman-this scientist, this doctor, this woman he would have trusted with his life-could have kept such an awful secret for nine weeks. "Kristin, what you did was wrong. It was horrible. But we are all human."
Silence.
He continued: "I just hope nothing along this line ever happens again. You're too good a doctor to lose."
She remained silent, lost in her own world of self-horror. Nathan could see her eyes trained on the floor, focused inward on whatever private nightmare ravaged her mind.
Finally, Nathan whispered, "You're also too good a friend to lose, Kristin. You have to get past this. For Lucas, you must get past this. He needs you."
"No." Bitterly, Kristin shook her head. "No, Nathan, I am the last person he could need! I might as well have pulled the first punch-I might as well have slapped Lucas myself. What I did was reprehensible. There is no forgiving it."
Nathan leaned closer, holding her gaze. He shook his head. "No, Kristin, the truly unforgivable thing would be to leave without trying to make up for your mistake-to ignore the problem. You won't do that. You're not the monster his father is. You'll do what's right."
*****
The computer screen flashed eccentrically at him, colors whirling across its surface faster than anything he'd ever seen. The colors danced, shimmered, solidified into salamanders, into wizards, into castles long forgotten-into treasure seekers fighting a very angry and fire-breathing dragon. He grinned, shoving the salamanders, wizards, and castles into the background and contemplating how best to skewer a hungry dragon. Looking much like some Borg from one of those twentieth-century Star Trek adventures, Lucas's hands were covered with black leather, steel-tipped, wire-entangled gloves. HyperReality gloves. Great for the HyperReality probe . . . or for battling computer-animated monsters. With studied precision, he lifted his left glove and carefully glided the tip of his hyper-reality spear into the dragon's gizzard. Fire breathed around his band of thieves-several turned into well-cooked morsels smoking with the remnants of the dragon's breath-but his main character survived. Iscaliar the Red lived to fight another day.
With a crooked laugh, Lucas launched Iscaliar into the dragon's den, watching as treasure glittered past him. There had to be a princess in distress somewhere in here . . .
And then he heard someone at the open door to his quarters. And he had a wicked premonition of who it was. Damn, the last thing he needed with a princess in need of rescue and a cavern full of gold . . .
"Captain, I know," he began, not even bothering to glance at his door. He just knew it was Bridger. The man had to have radar wired into his brain; whenever Lucas was doing something he shouldn't be doing, Bridger always happened to run across him. It was like some unwritten law of the universe. "I'm not supposed to use this for games . . . But there's this really cool game on line, with dragons and gold and nasty pirates . . ."
To his surprise, the captain didn't seem overly upset. At him, at least. When he looked at the door, he saw that the captain wore an unusually grim expression-and that Doctor Westphalen was with him.
Uh-oh.
This could only mean one thing: trouble.
Had he broken into any top classified files lately?
There was, of course, that little matter with the vortex run amuck . . . that time when one of his latest pet physics projects had literally blasted a hole right through one of the science lab's walls. Bridger hadn't been too pleased with the entire episode, to say the least.
And then there was "Brash Ben's" contact with the Regulator . . .
"Um . . . captain," he paused, seeing the particularly dark expressions on both faces. Hmmm . . . perhaps worse than he thought. He thought of the lab experiments he'd conducted recently. Excepting the vortex incident, nothing too serious-nothing spilled, nothing let loose, no computers crashing with twenty enemy submarines surrounding them. No serious mishaps, either-no explosions, no gouting flames. He cleared his throat. "What can I do ya' for?"
As predicted, Bridger knelt beside him, gazing at his computer screen with exasperation. But the exasperation seemed more for the sake of habit than true exasperation. Lucas was getting worried; the day Bridger didn't yell at him for misusing seaQuest resources was a very dark day indeed. That meant something was definitely wrong. "You know, Lucas," Bridger began lukewarmly, seeming miles away as he broke into his routine lecture on UEO resources, "this is a multi-billion dollar computer system, and it isn't designed for killing dragons. I thought you promised you wouldn't use it for games anymore."
"Well, I was just sitting here, and this game was just sitting here, and these gloves . . ."
". . . Were just sitting there?" Bridger finished for him, seeming-for the first time since he'd entered the room-genuinely amused.
"I know, I know-next time, you're going to take these gloves and skewer me instead of the dragon," Lucas joked, grinning mischievously, quite used to bantering with his captain over computers and computer games-or anything, for that matter. He was, thus, completely unprepared for the reaction he got to this statement: both Westphalen and Bridger paled immensely, looking as if he'd just hit them with his spiked glove. Carefully, he removed the gloves, then looked up at Bridger. He was no longer smiling at the captain. His voice shook slightly. "Sir, what's wrong? Is something wrong with my parents?"
Bridger blanched; Westphalen visibly winced. She murmured, so softly Lucas could barely hear her, "I should think so, considering."
But Bridger quickly shook his head, patting Lucas's knee. "No, nothing's wrong at home. Your parents are fine."
Quietly, Lucas looked from one dark face to the next; obviously, something wasn't right here.
Slowly, Westphalen sat on the edge of his bed, looking at him silently, as if trying to understand him. "Lucas-" she began hesitantly, biting her lower lip. She sighed. "Lucas, we've been looking over your files."
Lucas could only stare at her, eyes uncomprehending, confused. After an uncomfortable moment had passed between them, he finally asked, "Yes?"
Again, Kristin sighed. She glanced at the captain, who only nodded his head slightly. "Lucas, we've been looking over your medical files."
His medical files. Suddenly, he understood. In fact, he understood all too well. His eyes widened-then he hardened his face, steeling himself against anything they might say. They didn't understand. They couldn't understand.
*****
Bridger watched in concern as Lucas's face transformed right before his eyes: transformed into a mask. Lucas refused to look at either of them, his eyes trained stubbornly on the computer's bright screen. But a muscle in his jaw-the very jaw broken by his father's fist-betrayed him; slowly, it pulsed under his skin, strained, the mask shifting ever so slightly as powerful emotions coursed through him. Nathan's eyes wandered to the teenager's hands; utterly white, they were clasped tightly around the edge of his desktop, each bone standing out in sharp relief against the taut skin. A shiver ran through Lucas's body, tightly controlled-barely controlled despite every effort. Carefully, as if treading across the flimsy threads of a spider's web, Nathan placed his hand on Lucas's right shoulder. He felt the shoulder trembling-so harshly held in check by a boy all too accustomed to being hurt by those he trusted most. The trembling quickened, ever so slightly.
"Lucas," he began gently, wanting-aching-to take this tightly composed boy into his arms to ease his suffering. Instead, he kept his voice soft, soothing. "Lucas, don't hide from us. Let us help you. That's all we want to do. We want only to help-never, never to hurt you."
The shoulders shuddered; the mask slipped just one fraction more. Lucas breathed lightly, quickly, eyes pinned to his computer screen-refusing to look at them.
Carefully, Nathan brought his free hand to the computer screen and gently pressed its power off. He then slowly, almost warily placed his left hand over Lucas's, gently, patiently prying it loose from the desk.
The breathing quickened, and Nathan saw tears forming in Lucas's eyes-frightened, terrified tears. Such control. God above, too much control-too much need for it, too much experience using it to protect himself.
Then a strangled gasp, as if the emotions themselves were squeezing out of Lucas's throat, no longer capable of being held in check. "You-" the voice wavered, fought with itself for control, "You do not-do not understand, captain . . ." The voice stopped, unable to continue.
Nathan waited a moment, then said gently, "Talk to me, Lucas. I want to understand."
The wall crumbled a bit more, a single tear rolling down Lucas's cheek. The shoulders were positively trembling. "No, captain . . ." He shuddered, frightened, wanting nothing more than to hide. "You couldn't see . . ."
As the voice hushed, Nathan gently asked, "See what, Lucas? What couldn't I see?"
"See it-what happened," almost choking, he added, "why, why it happened . . ."
The voice trailed off, its owner bowing his head, unable to look at Nathan or Kristin.
"We only wish to help, dear lad," Kristin spoke gently, coaxingly, darting Nathan a look that clearly read don't push too fast. "If you can't tell, don't worry about it. We won't push you, Lucas."
He looked up at her, hope in his eyes. Then he shook his head, as if frightened. He looked up at Nathan. "Please, sir," he began, voice trembling, body suddenly quaking, "please don't make me leave. Don't make me leave the seaQuest. I-I can't-"
Pleadingly, he held Nathan's gaze, then looked away. It would do no good to ask, he knew; he'd pleaded helplessly, hopelessly, so often-and never had his pleas been listened to. He'd always been ignored, the lowest of creatures in existence. It'd be the same now. What he needed, what he wanted, was irrelevant to those in control of his life. He was irrelevant.
But Nathan shook his head in confusion, gently squeezing Lucas's shoulder. "Make you leave, Lucas? Why would I do that?"
Silence.
Nathan again squeezed Lucas's shoulder. "My boy, I'd never make you leave. I'd never send you back to that home. Do you understand me? I'd rather shoot myself in the foot than send you back to him."
Nathan didn't catch Kristin's sharp warning look before the statement was past his lips.
Lucas turned abruptly, staring up at Bridger as if the captain were entirely mad. "Him? My father? It's not his fault that . . ."
The statement hung between them, unsaid. Brow furrowed in pain, Lucas gazed at the floor silently, anger warming his blood, shame chilling it. So often he'd heard it. So often he'd seen that fist rushing towards him-always with an accompanying phrase, an accompanying scathing remark: "You're not good enough for the Wolenczak name"-"you're not my son"-"you're stupid"-"you're useless." Always aimed to hurt, to make him bleed within.
In concern, Nathan studied the struggling teen. Slowly-ignoring Kristin's look of alarm-he tilted Lucas's chin up towards him, refusing to let Lucas look away. "Lucas, you can't believe it's your fault. Do you understand me? You've been hit, pounded into, nearly strangled-God knows what else-because your father is cruel, merciless, ruthless. It's not because you've done something wrong; look at me!" He paused, watching as Lucas's frightened eyes focused on him. "You are the brightest, most gentle, most loving child I've ever known. The thought that he'd hurt you-knowingly-breaks my heart. I can't even begin to conceive how you've remained as sane as you are with a father capable of such cruelty. But you have, Lucas! You have. You, my dear young man, are not the problem; it is your father who's the problem. The monster is not inside you, but inside your father's heart."
Lucas could only think of the fist, the candlesticks, the baseball bats, the knives hurdled at him. A hellish congregation of images flooded his mind: the hospital visits, the broken bones, the humiliating questions nurses and doctors asked, over and over, endlessly. He wanted nothing more than to crawl away from Westphalen and Bridger; Lord, why did they have to share in his shame? Why did they have to find out? It was, somehow, his fault that his father hated him so very much. He wasn't what his father wanted; he wasn't what his father could love. Why did others have to discover his inadequacies? Those he cared for, looked up to, trusted; what could they think him now-a son who couldn't even be loved by his own father? A son who had to be beaten because he couldn't understand what his father wanted-because he couldn't be what his father wanted?
His voice tightly constricted, Lucas said softly, "My father's raised me, sir. He's given me everything. He-is not-the monster." He couldn't look at Bridger; it was too painful. He cursed the day he'd ever walked on to the seaQuest's dock. He'd come to love and trust Bridger and Westphalen, to hope that some iota of that love and trust could be returned. He had come to hope that even he could be loved and trusted. But now, such a dream would never be possible. They knew that his father couldn't love him; they'd be unable to love him, too.
Now, he saw what would happen all too clearly. They'd send him back to his parents; and then his father . . . his father would teach him not to disappoint him again. As usual, he'd be rushed to the hospital by Robert; he'd be asked stupid questions by doctors and nurses ("Did you fall? Did you trip?"-as if merely falling or tripping could cause near strangulation or broken jaws and concussions); he'd be left alone his entire hospital stay, his only visitors Robert or Ken Wystin; he'd return home to be scolded for his clumsiness in again "falling" or "tripping"; and then he'd find himself once more sporting an IV and broken bones when the cycle inevitably repeated itself the next time his father needed a convenient punching bag. Lord, no, he couldn't go back to that . . . anything but that life of hell.
Suddenly, he felt his chin tilted up-forcefully-to meet Bridger's gaze. He flinched in fear, prepared to see a fist heading towards his face or, at the very least, a look of disgust. But the gaze on Bridger's face was unbelievingly kind, even tender-something he'd never seen in his father's eyes. He followed helplessly as Bridger gently pulled him away from his computer to his bunk, forcing him beside Westphalen and then sitting on his right side before he could escape. Lucas was trapped, sandwiched between the two people he loved most aboard the seaQuest. And he couldn't think of anything to do to change the situation-to backtrack to the relationship they'd held before his medical records had been found. Inwardly, he cried softly, no-please don't send me back. Don't hurt me.
Despite Bridger's assurances to the contrary, he knew never to trust the word of someone he loved. Bridger might say he'd never send him back to his father, but he would-because what good was a boy who couldn't even be loved by his own father? Lucas glanced at the softly undulating patterns of blue as they crisscrossed through his tiny quarters, reflections of the water that held Darwin. Never to see Darwin again, to see a port at sunset, even to see Westphalen studiously bent over a school of glow worms . . . the pain was simply too great. He couldn't bear to leave, to go to a home where no one cared for him, where no one even took the time to ask how he was doing, where no one knew he was even alive.
But what choices did he have?
None.
None at all.