Entanglements with the Enemy
Part Ten
A loud voice erupted violently, painfully, through his head. He winced, then moaned softly as his head whacked into something hard. A slight pause. Strange sounds, voices he couldn't quite place, whirled in his mind. They seemed important, like something he should remember. But, unfortunately, he couldn't understand their significance. Just noise . . . just sounds . . .
Lucas shivered. Darkness surrounding him, he struggled to recall where he was, when he was . . . God, who he was.
That nasty voice again. It breathed near his ear. He could barely make out the words: ". . . vortex . . . ship . . . explode . . ." The words were warped, curling around one another, blending until Lucas couldn't hear anything but confused, jumbled sounds.
His lungs burned. For a moment, he blanked out the voice assaulting him, his mind trying to understand why his chest hurt so badly, why it hurt to breathe. His stomach also felt raw, like something was tearing him apart from the inside.
There was that damnable voice again. "Exaccctttllyyly . . . vvvooorrrrttteexxx . . ."
Nausea struck as the man's words stretched, twisted into an indecipherable code. He forced the nausea down, concentrating on breathing instead of on the nonsensical world around him. Breathe. Breathe. Oh, Lord . . . Lucas's silent litany broke as the nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He curled onto his side, again concentrating on his breathing. Just breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Pain again, this time in his joints. They throbbed, like tiny knives were repeatedly slamming into each joint. It felt like his muscles were tearing--ripping apart, maybe disintegrating. With a moan, Lucas rolled onto his back, only to find the pain rolling with him.
He felt hot breath against his ear. "I'll make the pain stop. I can do that." The words drifted towards him. Lucas struggled to understand them, to comprehend who was saying them and why. "It won't huurrrttt . . ."
God, the sounds were sickening. Lucas wanted to be ill, but couldn't move. His whole body burned with some internal fire he couldn't begin to identify. He mumbled softly, unaware that he was actually speaking, "Hurts. Hurts. Stop."
The voice was perched near his ear again. Words trickled towards him. "Tell me about the vortex. Tell me about what you did to this ship. I can stop the pain. It won't hurt anymore."
Lucas shivered. He shook his head. "Can't. Told them I wouldn't tell anyone..."
"But they're not here. You are," the voice coaxed. Lucas frowned, wishing he understood what was happening. Why was this man talking to him when all he wanted to do was sleep? "I can stop this from hurting you. All you have to do is tell me about your vortex."
Lucas tossed his head, the throbbing intensifying. He swallowed hard, then whispered, "Vocorder project . . . Darwin. Language . . . language . . ." He choked back the rest of his sentence as the nausea surged. Moments later, he continued, "Can't tell . . . Darwin . . ."
The voice disappeared. Something sharp pierced his skin. Ice poured into his veins.
Seconds ticked away: silently, deadly. Then the silence exploded. Lucas screamed as the most brutal pain he had ever known to exist pulsed through his body. It exploded in his mind, in his skull, in his bones, in his flesh. Something shattered, tore open, bled deeply within, a gash widening into a chasm. He reeled, throbbing with endless, inconceivable pain: torture.
Heat like fire burned through his blood, roaring inside his veins and blasting his cells apart. He could feel his blood disintegrate against the heat.
"The vortex. What is it? How did you create one here?" hissed the man's voice. His questioner had returned. "Tell me, and there will be no more pain. Just tell me."
Vaguely, Lucas thought he heard Krieg's voice in the background; he couldn't understand the words, though. But Krieg's voice was comforting. He listened to it, trying to anchor his pained mind to that sound. His friend was here. He wasn't alone.
He swallowed hard. Softly, he answered, "No."
Blackness suddenly surrounded him as his body was lifted and thrown against the nearest wall.
*****
Luridly glowing lights flickered in the blackened halls. Commander Nelson ignored the lights as he carefully slid around a corner. His eyes shot warily around him: no one. Thank God. The halls were still empty.
He doubted he'd be spotted, anyway. Brigg's team had serious problems on their hands. As he'd waited for the hall to clear, he'd seen Brigg's crew scurrying around like a bunch of rats in a maze. No one knew what was wrong, no one was familiar enough with the Ulysses to know where he or she was, no one bothered to look at anyone else, and everyone worried about running into Brigg. It was perfect for Nelson's needs.
Nelson continued treading warily down the hall, squinting to read the doors as he passed them: Aquatic Engineering, Science 1D, Artificial Intelligence and Robotics, Mammal Engineering, Aquaculture. A small smile played along his lips as he at last came to the right door: Weapons.
He glanced at the unguarded door, then breathed deeply. Guards had to be somewhere; not even Brigg's men were foolish enough to leave the weapons room unguarded. He supposed that, if they weren't outside, they had to be inside.
For the fifth or sixth time that hour alone, Nelson checked his gun. It was set on kill. The power was completely charged. The safety lock was off. It was ready; if only he were, too.
One more deep breath, and Nelson very carefully began to open the door. He moved the door handle up without sound, refusing to breath as he listened for the slightest click. No sound yet. He continued to move the door handle, swallowing hard, sweat trickling between his shoulder blades and down his back. Just a bit more . . . a tiny bit more.
The handle reached the end of its circle. With a quick prayer, Nelson shoved the door open and crashed inside the room.
Two men stared up from a game of cards played under the dim glow of an auxiliary light; their eyes were large, startled, as Nelson pointed his gun at them and fired. Before they had the chance to arm themselves, the two guards crashed forward. Cards tumbled everywhere, now completely forgotten on the floor.
Nelson strode past them, stopping only to relieve them of their keys and guns. Several computer panels met his eyes, all lined up and identical in shape and coloring. He frowned. If he recalled correctly, the design specs for the Ulysses set the third panel as weapons control. However, he could be wrong. Nelson closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember the layout as precisely as possible.
Of course, he could do one other thing. Nelson's eyes flew open, a smile again forming, as the thought struck home: he could simply destroy them all. That way, Brigg wouldn't have any chance of accessing his weapons.
All or nothing, he thought. He'd take all right now. Without further thought, Nelson simply charged his weapon to full power, aimed, and fired . . . and fired . . . and fired. The smell of burning wires immediately hung in the air. Sparks flew. Nelson continued to shoot. More sparks, more smoke: next, hot, twisting flames charged through the air itself. The air burned. Nelson ran, shooting towards the door as fast as his legs could carry him. He could feel the heat blasting up his back as he slid past the unconscious guards and jumped through the door's welcoming shape. His body flew past the door and crashed onto the floor. Hissing flames licked out towards him, raging, as he forced himself to his feet and continued to run.
Warning lights flared, flashing as fire was detected. However, Nelson knew the sprinklers wouldn't kick in this time. The entire computer was probably down now. He was even amazed the fire detectors were working.
He continued to run, darting past several crewmembers as they ran towards the fires. Fear flashed frantically across their faces. It didn't take Nelson much to understand why: the mad ass that he was, Brigg would probably nail someone's hide for this fire. As the crew ran through the halls, fire extinguishers in hand, Nelson sailed right past them. No one threw a second glance his way, so Nelson simply shrugged and continued running right in open view of anybody that bothered to look.
Sometimes, chaos was an ally. This was, apparently, one of those times.
On to step two: Bridger and Alicia.
And with any luck, the two of them hadn't managed to kill each other yet.
*****
When he heard the door crash open, Bridger fully expected Brigg to stride through the entryway, triumph dripping from his features. However, it wasn't Brigg. It was the same bearded pirate look-alike Alicia had addressed as "Nelson" when the original hijacking party had captured them . . . in what seemed like another lifetime to Bridger. The man looked haggard, his shaggy blond hair falling loosely into red eyes lined by dark smudges of exhaustion. Nelson paused in the doorway, eyes searching for his Captain's red hair; he smiled wearily as he handed her a gun. Nelson then walked towards Bridger, throwing him a gun, too. Bridger's eyes widened as, startled, he caught the weapon.
Nelson met his eyes, clearing his throat self-consciously. He glanced at Captain Noyce, then back at Bridger. "I'm sorry this has happened, sir. It wasn't our plan." He pushed a string of hair from his eyes, his look straying towards Dr. Westphalen's cold eyes. He sighed. "I'm trying to free us all from the murderous bastard currently in charge of this mission. Like I said, I'm sorry it happened in the first place. I can't change that. But I can help change how this whole mess ends."
After a second, Bridger nodded. It truly wasn't as if he had much choice in the matter . . . besides which, it did seem that Nelson was sorry for what he'd done. Anyhow, Bridger knew placing blame right now would do no good. "Can you give me an update on what's been happening?"
Nelson nodded, glancing at Noyce. "Yeah. I've knocked out the weapons system. I've also managed to contact the seaQuest." He smiled slightly at Bridger's sharply raised eyebrows. "I only followed Lucas's trail. Couldn't have done it any other way . . ."
Miguel Ortiz spun Nelson towards him. His eyes were intense, sharp, as he demanded, "Where is Lucas, by the way? And what about Lieutenant Krieg and Commander Hitchcock? Do you know?"
Nelson paused for a moment, then carefully answered, "The last I saw, Brigg was . . . interrogating . . . Lucas. The other two were tied on the side. Krieg and Hitchcock were okay, just mentally . . . stressed."
Bridger's fists tightened, clutching uselessly at his side. It didn't take a genius to understand the implications of Nelson's words: Krieg and Hitchcock were okay, but Lucas wasn't included in the lists of the "okay." He'd kill the nut. He'd strangle him. He'd skin him alive . . .
Abruptly, Nathan stopped himself, shocked. Where the hell had that thought come from? He'd never wanted--truly wanted--to skin someone alive. The violence of the thought sent warning bells ringing in his ears . . . but Bridger simply ignored them. Brigg would pay for what he'd done. He'd pay for whatever pain he'd caused Lucas. And he'd pay hard.
Nelson cleared his throat, seeing the hard glint to Bridger's eyes. He anxiously looked between Bridger and Noyce. "Anyway . . . anyway, I talked to Commander Ford. The seaQuest . . ."
Nelson's voice broke as the boat suddenly shimmied. Together, they listened, captivated, as a loud plink resounded through the ship. Another plink immediately followed the first, then a second, then a third. The Ulysses shook with each hit.
They were under attack.
Nelson turned back to Bridger, smiling slightly. "That, I believe, is the seaQuest. Ford promised to get here as fast as he could."
Bridger blinked, then asked, "Ford? Here?" Bridger's grim expression lightened somewhat as he saw Nelson nod. "What's the plan of attack?"
"Well . . . Ford's bringing in an attack squad. I think someone named Crocker is going to head it. It looked that way, at least." Nelson cleared his throat, then said sheepishly, "I was supposed to stay out of sight. But the timing was just too good to come in and get you."
With a slight nod, Bridger thoughtfully ran a hand across his chin. He looked back at Nelson. "With the seaQuest attacking and with an attack squad on its way, Brigg's crew will have its hands busy. We can use their confusion to our advantage. Nelson, do you know where Brigg's holding the rest of us?"
"Last I saw, they were in MedBay." He glanced towards the door. "We can go ahead and make our way there. The halls are almost pitch black. I suspect people will run past us even if they do see us. Several people ran right past me on my way over here. They didn't even stop to ask questions."
"Good." Bridger glanced around. "We'll see if we can free them in MedBay. Keep your eyes open, though. As anyone knows, people get all the more dangerous when the situation starts looking hopeless."
With one last glance at his crew, Bridger headed towards the door. After a brief pause, he glanced outside, smiling slightly at the two unconscious forms slumped across the floor: Nelson's work, without question. Cautiously, he stepped into the hall. No one was there; it was deserted, silent--almost eerily so. He wondered where everyone was; they had to be somewhere.
Eyes alert, Bridger started towards MedBay, his crew slipping in behind him with their weapons both fully charged and ready to fire.
*****
Five minutes later.
Bridger stared at the door in front of him, pausing long enough to look behind him. Everyone was still with him, eyes anxiously watching him.
Their escape had been without conflict. No one had bothered to confront them; the only person they'd passed in the halls had been running at break-neck speed and hadn't even bothered to notice them. He'd simply run right past, a gun in his hand, as if Bridger and crew were just ghosts. It was probably the oddest scenario Bridger had ever encountered.
Again, his eyes swung towards the door. He pushed in as he heard a loud, shrill scream.
The scream was in Lucas's voice.
The door swung open, clattering to the side. Bridger followed only a second behind. After him came Ortiz and O'Neill, Ortiz swinging inside with a hot, angry expression on his face. Not a second behind was Westphalen, followed shortly by Nelson and Noyce.
In front of them stood Brigg. Perched over his victim, fist ready to strike, a startled Brigg looked up.
The second froze.
Hatred seethed within Bridger's mind: living, writhing hatred. Blood ran from the corner of Lucas's mouth, from the side of his forehead. Bruises stood starkly against his overly pale skin. Softly, as Bridger watched, Lucas whispered, "No . . . won't tell . . . won't . . ."
The moment broke with Lucas's whispered words. Bridger launched himself at Brigg's throat, hands clasped like claws. He pounded into Brigg's body, tumbling to the floor. Fury drove him, a rage he'd rarely felt before: this bastard had tortured Lucas. This bastard had hurt Lucas. He'd kill him. He'd rip the man's throat apart. He'd rip into the man until there wasn't a recognizable shred of him left.
He pounded his fists into Brigg's head. Brigg struck back, grabbing a pair of scissors from the floor and aiming at Bridger's eyes. Both captains rolled across the floor, locked in their struggle. Ortiz tried to draw the two men apart, but was almost rewarded with a slashed wrist from Brigg's hand. He jumped back, then circled again, looking for a way to separate the fighters.
As Bridger and Brigg continued to strike insanely at one another, O'Neill moved towards Ben and Katie, looking for anything to cut their ties with. Nelson soon appeared at his side, handing him a pocket switchblade. O'Neill nodded thankfully, then glanced towards the combatants. Nelson silently slid away as he joined Ortiz, who was still trying to stop the fight. Kristin and Alicia moved to Lucas's aid. Her eyes nervously darting towards Bridger and Brigg, Kristin began anxiously searching for a blanket to keep Lucas warm and out of shock.
The fight continued. Brigg slashed at Bridger's neck; the scissors plunged into Nathan's shoulder. Bridger groaned but continued to struggle, reaching his hands towards Brigg's head. Sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging; he blinked, but refused to shut them.
Frightened shouts drifted in towards the MedBay. Kristin peered out into the hall. "No . . . this way! They haven't breached the hull over here yet . . ." She could barely see several men rushing past, arms toting weapons. More shouts. "No . . . the other way, idiots! They're coming in here, too!"
This time, Kristin saw the same men come running the opposite direction. Alicia moved towards the door, gun poised to shoot. Ben and Katie soon joined her, Ben wielding Nelson's knife as Katie held a scalpel. In the halls, new crewmen joined from side passages. The angry voices rung in the panic-heavy air: "Where the hell is Brigg, anyway? What'd he do, sell out?" One sarcastic reply echoed towards them as the speakers ran out of sight: "Probably jumped ship the second trouble showed up. Sounds like the coward. Couldn't face a real threat if he had to. Someone shoulda' killed that stoneless idiot years ago."
Kristin looked down at Lucas, then across at Bridger and Brigg, a worried frown on her face.
Her worried frown turned into utter shock as Bridger's hands snaked around Brigg's forehead and began to slam the man's head into the floor. Once, twice, thrice . . . Brigg's head banged into the hard floor. Kristin heard a grunt of pain. Bridger continued his attack, now bodily lifting Brigg and smashing him into the nearest wall. Ortiz tried to stop the fight once more, but was knocked back by Bridger's own hand.
Brigg slid bonelessly to the ground, moaning softly. Blood oozed from the side of his forehead, trickling around his ear and down his neck; more blood trickled from his nose and mouth.
Bridger tread softly towards him, eyes hard, created from steel itself. His hand reached down for Brigg's hair. Slowly, as if enjoying every second of his opponent's fear, Bridger lifted the head until it was a good foot away from the wall. He moved his other hand towards Brigg's neck, fingers spreading, a cruelly hooked talon swooping towards its prey . . .
"Stop that, sir. You don't want to do it."
The voice sliced through the silence, through the amazed apprehension as Bridger prepared to break Brigg's neck.
"Come on, Cap. You know you don't want to do this."
Kristin swallowed hard, looking from Bridger to their latest arrival: Security Chief Manilow Crocker. The stocky Security Chief stood silhouetted against the door, his hand urging fellow members of the attack squad to stay behind him. Slowly, he walked towards Bridger. He stopped at the Captain's side.
There was a short pause as Bridger stared, rage shooting through his mind, at Brigg. Crocker softly said, "You aren't like him, Cap. You never will be. He could kill in cold blood. You can't. It isn't in you." Crocker paused, then carefully placed his hand over Bridger's wrist. "I've served with you ten years, sir. I'm not about to think you've changed this much overnight. Just . . . let him go. The UEO can take care of him."
Bridger blinked quickly. A charged silence clung to the room. All eyes in the room trained on Bridger, waiting to see what the Captain would do.
Slowly, Bridger dropped his hand. The hand hung limply at his side, as if it were a part of his body he didn't wish to admit as his own. He stared at Brigg: simply stared. His head tilted downward.
As the strained silence continued, Bridger finally lifted his head. He lifted shaking hands to his forehead, then--blinking quickly--looked over at Crocker. After a long stare had passed between the two of them, Bridger patted Crocker's shoulder, nodding slightly. "Thank you, old friend. For more than you could know." He swallowed hard.
He met the eyes of his crew. They stood silently around him, simply staring at the scene. Bridger could almost swear he heard a silent horror screeching from every corner of the room, a silent horror that screamed from their minds and eyes as if shouted. There was fear, anger, disbelief. There was terror at the unknown: the Captain losing control. And Bridger knew the fear was well justified.
What he had done . . . what his hands had ached to do, what they had demanded to do . . .
Bridger shivered, a cold ache spreading through his chest: he'd almost killed someone in anger. He'd almost killed someone with his bare hands. He'd almost become a monster.
He'd almost become Brigg.
And that thought rocked him to his very core.
Voice unnaturally rough, as if he hadn't spoken for ages, Nathan turned to Kristin and asked, "Is he all right?"
Kristin jumped. She blinked. "He? Who . . . ?" For a second, Kristin simply stared at him in incomprehension before she gasped. "Oh, Lucas . . . yes, he's . . . all right. All things considered, that is."
Nathan nodded. He stepped next to her, seeing her wide eyes following his every movement. With care, he lifted Lucas into his arms. A second later, he looked back at Crocker. "Is everything secured, Chief?"
Crocker nodded, crossing his arms slightly. "Yes'sir. All secured. There shouldn't be any trouble."
Bridger nodded. He cleared his throat. "If you could simply show us to the nearest shuttle, Chief . . ."
They followed Crocker as the man briskly started walking towards their shuttle, Brigg's stumbling figure in tow. The halls seemed abandoned, almost dead; even the red light of the warning klaxons had faded to nothing. Each member of Crocker's team had small flashlights, the circular lights casting haunting shadows across the walls. The boat itself creaked and moaned, as if in pain, while they wandered its bowels.
They were nearing the shuttle when Brigg finally made his move: suddenly, he pushed his captor aside and reached for the man's weapon.
Kristin stared in horror as Brigg aimed the weapon at Bridger, his eyes gleaming madly, eerily, against the flashlights. From the right, Krieg tackled Brigg, pushing the weapon up until its barrel pointed at the ceiling of the boat. Ortiz tackled from the left, knocking Brigg's feet out from under him.
As if in slow motion, Bridger moved to help his crew. He gently deposited Lucas on the floor, then reached for his gun. It slid smoothly into his hand . . . no shaking, no worry about motives or intentions. He ran to Krieg's aid as the lieutenant suddenly found himself looking into the barrel of Brigg's weapon.
Ortiz kicked Brigg in the liver. O'Neill whacked at the mad Captain's head. Krieg fought as the barrel lowered yet another inch.
Bridger lifted his gun, aimed.
A shot fired.
Someone screamed in agony.
Bridger stared in horror as he realized that the shot had not been his own.
*****
With a low moan, Krieg rolled over to his side. He threw the heavy body off his chest. It flopped onto the floor like a dead fish, arms uselessly lolling to the side.
Shaking, he stood. He raised trembling fingers to his bleeding nose, then asked hesitantly, "Who . . . who shot him?"
Eyes instantly turned towards Bridger. However, Bridger shook his head. His weapon was still fully loaded.
Slowly, Alicia stepped forward. She waved her gun slightly. "I did." Surprise shot through the eyes trained on her, and she smiled harshly, lips twisted into a thin-lipped grimace. "If Bridger didn't kill him, I was going to. The bastard deserved it."
She walked past them, heading down the hall towards the shuttle. After a second, she turned back to look at them. Her face was grim. "He killed my crew. Every one of them . . . excepting myself and Nelson. Do you understand? Every one of them. They didn't have a chance. He slaughtered them. And he laughed! He laughed!"
Boldly, she met each pair of eyes. Bridger wondered if she were challenging them to even try arguing with her. "The bastard deserved to die slowly, in pain: in an acid bath, skinned alive, left to burn to death in a fire." Bridger frowned at this. It sounded too much like what he'd been feeling earlier: all too much. "He didn't deserve the easy death he just got. But, at least that way, I know he'll never do to anyone what he's done to us."
As she twisted on her heels and stepped rigidly away from them, Bridger followed, mind whirling. Where did it end? Where did the taste for revenge, for another's blood, stop? And where, truly, was the line drawn between self-protection and cruelty? Where did the line exist between the necessary and the monstrous?
Grimly, Nathan settled himself into the shuttle. He waited as Katie piloted the shuttle away from the ship, then watched the radar as the Ulysses slowly disappeared from sight.
Silence filled the shuttle, broken now and then with the sound of a cough or a soft moan as someone moved.
Bridger's gaze slid across the faces of his crew. They seemed a crew of shadows: Kristin, exhausted and worried, simply held Lucas's good hand as she stared at nothing; Lucas, his face white, lay unconscious beside Kristin, moving sometimes in pain; Ben Krieg tiredly rubbed his hands across his eyes, a haunted expression flashing through his eyes when he, at last, looked up; Katherine Hitchcock pressed her lips into a thin line, her ice blue eyes staring ahead expressionlessly as she piloted the shuttle; Miguel Ortiz sat beside her in the copilot's chair, empty eyes staring at the instruments; Tim O'Neill sat beside Ben, but simply sat without words. All of them . . . shadows.
They had won.
They had defeated the enemy.
They had triumphed over the worst odds.
But why did the words seem so empty right now?