* READ AUTHOR'S NOTE*: some elements have been changed from canonical tradition. For example, Lucas Wolenczak graduated from Stanford with an M.S. in Artificial Intelligence, as well as a subject concentration in physics/mathematics. Some dates may appear suspiciously outside canon. In addition, because of the Non-Allied Powers (situated in a place called "Dominia," another element outside the seaQuest canon), this work can be seen as an Alternative Universe piece.
Rating:PG-13, rated as such because of some adult themes and language.
Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn
Entanglements with the Enemy
Part One
Wires sprawled everywhere. Dangling, looping over crossways, coursing up walls, spiraling into tiny, dark crevices, they seemed alive, like metallic, plastic-skinned ivy crawling in a maze of twists and turns—trying madly to cover every inch, every centimeter of space. But this was most certainly not ivy: reds, blues, yellows, purples, blacks, greens, oranges, grays, whites—all hues jumbled crazily together, without thought, without pattern, without order.
Unless, of course, one understood the system behind the colors, behind the sprawling clash of shapes.
One such individual was even now happily sifting through the twisting, turning wires. The form was barely visible in the dim, fluctuating, florescent light. Dark clothing, dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. The dark eyes, however, were lit with triumph as the figure dramatically plucked one tiny, almost invisible turquoise wire from its nest of other tiny, almost invisible turquoise wires. Flourishing the wire proudly in front of him, the man grinned at his companion, a smug smile slipping across his face. As promised, he'd done it. He'd found the culprit; out of thousands of possible culprits, he'd found the defective wire.
His companion groaned, kicking ill-humoredly at the wires nearly entangling his feet. The wires merely bent, then regained shape as his feet at last retreated. Instead of stupidly kicking at wires, he simply glared at the man next to him, wishing silently that he could wipe that smirk right off the man's face. It was bad enough that he'd been dragged into this. But putting up with this man's smugness was just too much to expect from anyone. He only wished that cooling someone's ego was as easy as cooling someone's body temperature. If such were the case, he'd dump a bucket of ice on his companion's ego any day.
Still smiling, the wire-bearer grinned arrogantly and began fusing turquoise wires with red wires and red wires with purple wires . . . and finally purple wires with blue wires, hoping to hell that they'd not blow up in his face or electrocute him. Well, no fire quite yet . . . he hoped one didn't suddenly materialize, for, truthfully, to catch half a thousand wires on fire in front of his grumpy companion would not only be embarrassing—it would also be deeply humiliating. It would be humiliating for one very simple reason, too, a reason for which he was completely responsible: for hours, he'd lectured his companion on how to do this, how to do that—essentially, how to assemble any and every component a ship's wiring might need. Of course, during his lectures, as any instructor would, he'd highlighted his years of experience and his "vast" knowledge of mechanical engineering.
So . . . well, he'd basically painted a portrait of himself as the god of engineering.
Okay, so he'd exaggerated a bit. But who wouldn't when confronted with an intelligent, sharper-than-a-whip disciple? Moreover, who wouldn't exaggerate when that sharper-than-a-whip disciple was required to listen if he liked it or not? Having a captive audience had its definite benefits, one of which was parading a slightly overblown list of his accomplishments before his listener's ears.
Captain Nathan Hale Bridger of the United Earth/Oceans Organization's flagship submarine, the seaQuest, suddenly grinned. He cast his "devoted disciple" (or his "drafted drudge," if all truth were known) a glance. The aforementioned drudge was even now distractedly playing with a pile of discarded wires, sculpting them into the shape of a dolphin, astutely ignoring every word and movement Bridger made. Nathan could see what looked like the snout of a dolphin forming; doubtlessly, this was supposed to be a sculpture of Darwin. With imagination, he could even say it somewhat resembled the real Darwin.
He sighed, shaking his head. Kids. When one got right down to it, they made the worst disciples. This seemed true even when their presence was mandatory.
Yawning, Nathan's drudge looked up, casting his Almighty Teacher a bored, disgruntled look. He then glanced at the instrument panel, rolling his eyes. He pointed at it, wagging his finger impudently. "Ha! You call that engineering, sir? I don't see any lights blinking."
Nathan glared at his supposed protégé. "Ha yourself! I don't see you fixing it!" He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot, refusing to look away from his crewmember. "Besides, there are a few other areas that could be wrong."
Nathan's alleged disciple—one Lucas Daniel Wolenczak, the seaQuest's resident fourteen year-old computer and physics geek—outright laughed. His captain had dug himself into a pit on this one. "Sir, there could be any number of things wrong here!" He finished shaping Darwin's snout, then looked back at Nathan. "The ship could be having a bad wire day, for all we know."
Laughing softly, Nathan glanced at the wires sprawling in every direction. Yes, one could say the ship was having a bad wire day. It would take him at least ten hours of fully concentrated effort to put this tangle of wires back in order. Even with Lucas's help, he doubted the wires could be reassembled in less than six hours. And he still hadn't found the faulty wire . . . if there were one. It could be something else, as Lucas had "innocently" suggested several hours ago, suggesting the unthinkable even as his captain was elbow-deep in wires.
However, Nathan had to examine the very real possibility that the "unthinkable" might very well need consideration.
It might not be a wire problem.
Damn.
He'd been so certain that he was right. This should teach him to listen to Lucas before embarking on a twelve-hour tour through a ship's entrails.
Lucas caught the look of self-disgust on his captain's face and shrugged lightly, trying to cheer him up—even though the look of disgust was well worth the twelve hours of toiling through corridors and instrument panels. "Sir, I don't even see the problem here. This isn't our ship. Have them call in the engineers or something. Surely they can get in touch with the original designers of this beast."
"Well, Lucas, they can't get in touch with the designers: they're all ignoring the phone. And that isn't even the point. I said I'd fix it. When I say I'll fix something, I mean it. In fact, when I say we'll fix something, I mean it—which, by the way, means it's now your turn to take a whack at this." He grinned as he watched Lucas's jaw all but drop to the floor. "You had some ideas. Perhaps I should've listened to them before I got all carried away here. Obviously, my turquoise wire hasn't made a bit of difference. Where were you thinking of starting?"
Quickly, Lucas wiped out his dolphin sculpture with his foot, now all business. He shrugged. "Probably the computers, the simplest item on board. It seems if propulsion is down, even though this is a new ship, we could take a look at the central processor for routine or subroutine degradation." He paused, then grinned happily, rubbing his hands together. "If not, we can take a look at the ionizer. I've never seen one on a ship, but the principle should be the same as on shore. It could be that we have an anti-gravity ionization problem here. God only knows, actually, given the technical nature of this monster." Lucas paused, eyeing the instrument panels with something approaching awe. Nathan hid his smile, imagining that pilgrims possessed the same star-dazed expression when they at last arrived at Mecca. But then, the Ulysses was Mecca for Lucas; the computer hacker and physicist in him thrived in such environments. "So, sir, does this mean that I get to play with the big toys now?"
Nathan stared at him. "Toys? These 'toys' cost the UEO several billion dollars worth, young man. You'd best keep your fingers off as many of the Ulysses' toys as possible." Seeing the crestfallen expression on Lucas's face, the captain relented. "Okay, maybe a few toys. Let's just be careful what toys we play with. We don't want to break anything here."
Nodding eagerly, Lucas couldn't agree more.
With a sigh, Nathan pulled out his comlink and patched his voice through to the rest of his Ulysses repair team from the seaQuest. "Bridger here. Lieutenant O'Neill and Lieutenant Commander Hitchcock, I need you down on Port 5 to reassemble the wiring. It would appear that we don't have a wiring problem. Lucas wants to check on the computer and then the ionizer, so we'll be heading towards the bridge. Lieutenant Krieg and Chief Ortiz, I'd like you to meet us there. Doctor Westphalen, I'll have you take a look at anything that looks like it needs checking: I leave that to your discretion. Captain out."
Bridger switched off the comlink, sighing. The Ulysses: a multi-billion dollar, high-tech ship dead in the water because no one on earth knew how it ran. Great. What brilliant move would the UEO make next?
Following Lucas as the teen ran excitedly towards the ship's main computer interface, his eyes practically glowing at the prospect of playing with such advanced technology, Nathan shook his head; they'd practically need a genius to command this ship. Hadn't the UEO even considered how difficult it would be to pilot a ship this technologically advanced? Hadn't they considered that most of the crew wouldn't know the difference between an ionizer and a tow beam?
Unfortunately, Nathan had a bad feeling that the answer was a resounding no.
Feeling like the proverbial stick-in-the-mud, Nathan stood out of the way and watched as Lucas tapped strange equations and even stranger numbers into the computer. Well, at least Lucas had figured how to turn the damned thing on; not even Hitchcock had gotten that far. If he could keep Krieg and Ortiz from both killing each other and distracting Lucas, they might just get off this boat sometime in the next century. He only hoped that Kristin was having more luck with her search than they were; as yet, Lucas hadn't quite found a problem with the computer. Of course, that was at least partially because the computer was behaving in a most non-user-friendly fashion. It'd already knocked Lucas—the whiz of computers and numbers—from its auspices three times.
With a sigh, Nathan sat down. His feet were killing him, and it looked like this was going to be one long night.
*****
Three hours later and nothing had changed. The computer was still being cantankerous. Lucas was glaring at its technologically superior faceplate and devising multiple plans for torturing the machine (assuming it could be tortured). Ortiz was noisily tapping his foot, obviously wanting to leave the Ulysses as soon as possible; Nathan wondered if the man had a date or something. And Krieg . . . well, he was doing his very best to be obnoxious to any and everyone. He was even getting on Lucas's nerves. If Krieg didn't shut his mouth soon, Nathan swore he'd tape it shut. How Lucas could concentrate with the man chattering in his ears hour after hour was beyond him. He suspected even Lucas was on the edge of losing his concentration, especially when he saw the boy roll his eyes and beat his fist angrily against the computer, glaring at his friend as if he wished he'd just struck the lieutenant instead.
Even Kristin had returned with little news from her search for possible problems. Everything seemed to be working fine. The engines just . . . wouldn't start.
Nathan suspected the next move was to check the ionizer. That, of course, worried him. He wondered if he should evacuate the boat of his skeleton crew before Lucas tried playing with that piece of equipment. He kept imagining giant holes blasted into the ship's shell. Though a brilliant computer whiz and scientist, Lucas was still a kid—and kids and ionizers gave Nathan serious indigestion.
Looking at the clock as he stretched his aching limbs, Nathan finally decided that they'd had enough for the day. They could all use a break. So, with a sigh, he flipped open his comlink and said, "All right, folks, the day is well past done for us. Let's go grab a bite to eat and call it a night. See you all in the Mess Hall in a few."
As he heard excited "Yes, sir's," he wryly reflected that this was one order his crew was more than happy to follow . . . probably because they didn't know what dinner would consist of. He'd wait to fill them in on that tiny little detail until they were all gathered together in the Mess Hall. From experience, he suspected that the last thing they'd want to hear was what dinner would be: dried beef, dried bread, and dried milk. Umm . . . appetizing.
So, surprised to find that he didn't need to pull Lucas from the computer after all, Nathan and company traipsed off to the Mess Hall.
On their journey towards dinner, they didn't spot the shadows following them.
*****
Sitting beside his captain with his feet propped up on one mess table and his head rested against the back of his chair, Lucas stared at what had been set in front of him. It had to be a joke. What he saw defied interpretation: three small rectangular cartons, each with the word dried inscribed across the surface. This had to be a joke: a malicious joke, but a joke nonetheless.
As he looked up, he saw variations of the same expression on the faces surrounding him. No, he wasn't the only one miffed at this. They'd just spent over ten hours on this tub of a technological showpiece, and what did the UEO's kind chefs provide them to eat? Dried supplements! Not even semi-dried, semi-identifiable supplements—such as vitamin supplements that suspiciously tasted and looked exactly like oranges—but cartons of powdered food. Zikes!
Pushing the cartons to the side, he decided he really wasn't that hungry after all.
And then he caught the captain's glare. As he watched Bridger actually tear his carton of dried beef open, add water and a straw, and—God above, the very bravery of the act!—drink the mixture, he shook his head. Bridger was still glaring at him; the glare intensified as Lucas, acting like the bratty kid he was supposed to be, charitably pushed his carton of dried beef towards the captain. Bridger's glare focused even more, so, at last, Lucas snapped, "What? I don't see anyone else eating this . . . stuff. If you'd like, you can have mine. In fact . . ." he glanced at the officers surrounding him, then said, "I think you can probably have all of ours. Enjoy, sir!"
"So much for setting a good example for the rest to follow, Lucas!" Captain Bridger huffed, still hunched over his dried beef and periodically chugging at its contents. Lucas tried to hide his laugh each time, for the captain's face said it all: it squished up, his nose wrinkling, his eyes watering, his mouth curling down. No, thank you—he'd do without eating that.
"What? Me? Set an example?" Lucas echoed, laughing softly. "I'm a kid, captain. I'm not supposed to set examples. Except maybe for pranks. But then, for pranks, you'd probably want to talk to Ben."
Krieg grinned, smoothly juggling his three cartons of dried meals with few mishaps. He glanced at Lucas between the flying cartons. "Who? Me? I'm honored."
Bridger snorted, catching one of Ben's cartons and holding it squarely in front of the lieutenant's nose. "Mr. Krieg, don't you have anything better to do—such as eat, for example? There are plenty of cartons for you to use."
"But, sir . . ."
With a sigh, Bridger interrupted, "Look, folks, I'm no happier about this than you are. But we do need to eat. At least get one of these down; we've all been working hard, and we need the nutrients. I've already hollered at the seaQuest to bring some real food over as soon as possible. They should be able to stop by sometime tomorrow." He looked at Lucas, then pushed the boy's dried beef back towards him, ignoring the disgusted expression on his face. Bridger then glanced at the rest of his small crew. "Now, since you're all navy men and women, I think you can handle this. I have faith in your courage."
Lucas was about to argue that no, he wasn't a member of the navy, but he caught Bridger's glower and decided to keep this little argument to himself. So, glaring at his captain, he added water to his dried beef and swallowed the chalk down all in one gulp, not daring even to breathe until the substance was completely down.
He then desperately swallowed three glasses of water.
He only hoped the sleeping accommodations were better than this.
His third glass of water in hand, Lucas finally followed as everyone began drifting out of the Mess Hall. But like an idiot, he suddenly remembered his computer was sitting on the dining table—his treasured, beaten, somewhat abused personal computer, his beloved instrument of computations and formulae. So, quickly, hoping to avoid becoming lost on this maze of a boat, he dodged back into the Mess Hall for his little computer and grabbed it. With a happy sigh, Lucas headed back towards his friends, knowing full well that they'd give him a hard time over his love for his computer. Some things just couldn't be sacrificed. His computer was one of them.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
What the hell?
He clearly saw Ben's back only feet in front of him, his shoulder's tense. Lucas stared. What looked like the barrel of a gun was pointing at his friend's chest. To his friend's side, Lucas could see a darkly clad, hooded figure, its head turned towards the hall in front.
Stunned, Lucas simply stood there, wondering what he should do.
He swallowed hard.
Carefully, slowly, Lucas began to back away, gliding as soundlessly as possible to the Mess. Only a few feet. Ben could do it in his sleep. He could do it now; he had to. Lucas didn't know who the hell was on the ship, but they certainly weren't friendly. They certainly weren't here to help put the ship back together.
God Almighty, guns. Guns!
He continued backing up, desperately searching for the hatch to the Mess. All he found was panel after panel of metallic wall. Sweat dripped down his cheeks, down his chin. His hands trembled. It hadn't seemed this far before . . .
And then, suddenly, he saw a red beam of light flash onto his arm. Oh, God. They'd spotted him.
"Stop right there."
He heard the voice just as he found the hatch to the Mess Hall. Licking his lips in pure terror, Lucas sprang with all his force into the hatch, slamming it behind him as he tumbled into the room. He smelled something burning next to him: a newly-created hole smoked in the Mess. Convulsively, he shuddered, slamming himself against the floor as more laser fire penetrated the wall. What the hell were they using, anyway? He'd never seen laser rifles capable of shooting through a ship's walls.
Quickly, knowing it was his only chance of escape, and perhaps their only chance of survival, Lucas tore open an instrument panel attached to the Mess Hall's refrigeration system. Probably for the first time in his life, he thanked the Lord above that he was so thin. He climbed into its entanglement of wires and fuses, then snapped the panel back into place behind him. The door to Mess Hall banged open.
Trying not to hyperventilate, Lucas closed his eyes, terrified. Talk about your miraculous timing. His timing was as unreal as the rest of this mess was.
As Lucas waited, panting, he felt something wet trickle into his eyes. Wiping it away, he realized it wasn't sweat. It was red. It was blood. His blood. Damn, he was bleeding all over the place. He couldn't imagine where he'd managed to hit himself; actually, now that he thought about it, breathing quickly and listening for any sounds of pursuit, it could've been just about anywhere. It could even be from the gunfire, though he doubted it: if he'd been hit by their guns, he'd now be one very dead Lucas Wolenczak.
Carefully, he slid through the tight passage cut into the ship's body. The ship, he knew, was riddled with these small, hidden passages: air vents, refrigeration units, bypass valves. Like a medieval castle, hidden passages went everywhere. If he could only figure out the design behind the passages, he could use them to his advantage.
Providing his unknown enemy didn't find him and/or shoot him first.
Damn. He suddenly wished he'd listened to the captain a few more times when he discussed ship schematics. This would teach him to ignore pertinent information.
He pressed on.