Alternative Reality: 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.
Sequel: "Entangled Alliances" is a sequel to--yeah, you guessed correctly--"Entanglements with the Enemy." Let me know what you think of the new title (it used to be "More Entanglements with the Enemy"! I'd love to hear them!
Rating:PG-13, rated as such because of some adult themes and language.
Summary: Lucas plays boom-boom once again with his vortex. The only real question is . . .who is his enemy? :-)
Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn
Entangled Alliances
Part Five
Oh, What a Tangled Web We Weave . . .
Fifteen minutes had passed since General Thomas unceremoniously deposited Lucas in the strange little room. As of yet, he'd heard nothing: absolutely nothing. No noises, no movement, no blatant preparation for torture . . . nothing.
The silence was getting to him. It was worse than anything, for then . . . he could all too well imagine what the General just might be doing.
Nervously, Lucas ran a hand through his hair. He started walking around the room, looking carefully at everything. The desk was his first object of attention. Its gouged form contained three drawers, each firmly locked against intrusion. However, Lucas quickly took care of that little problem with a letter opener he found carelessly thrown on the desktop. A smile briefly flickered across his face as first one, then a second drawer creaked open. With a short snicker of derision for the idiot who had left a letter opener just sitting around, Lucas slammed through both drawers, throwing papers into a scattered heap on the floor. A plume of dust drifted through the room, and Lucas sneezed--then again. Damn. Thomas certainly wasn't a neat person, whatever else might be said of the man.
He continued digging, leaning away from the desk as more dust filtered into the air. Several small computer disks were thrown to the floor. They might have been interesting under different circumstances, but, unfortunately, Lucas had no computer to zap them into. Grumbling, he simply continued his excavation of the desk and its contents. A few pens were soon to follow. After that came tattered credit card receipts, a few erasers, and a black book filled with names and phone numbers.
However, nothing interesting was here . . . nothing like a knife, a gun, a key, or anything that might remotely get him out of this hell hole. Damn.
Not that Lucas had really thought to find such an item.
Lucas's brows instantly shot up in surprise, though, when he discovered several stacks of dry, highly academic treatises conveniently hidden beneath a dictionary, one that Lucas practically gouged as he tried to open the bottom drawer. He pulled out the wrinkled papers, noting that no dust coated these papers. Someone had obviously been reading them recently.
Suddenly, Lucas jerked back from the papers. Whoa. He simply stared at the papers before him. They were written on the nature of physical reality and quantum fluctuation.
Hmmm. Lucas's eyebrows shot up as he thought over the implications of his latest findings. Quantum fluctuation and physical reality . . . these subjects of exploration all led straight to Lucas's own field. It was, at least, loosely connected to his work in vortex engineering.
And Lucas wasn't about to believe that this was entirely coincidental.
No way.
Time suddenly seemed to slide quickly as Lucas sat comfortably in the chair behind the desk and started reading through the treatises in front of him. He was even more surprised to find that his work in vortex engineering was mentioned in at least half the reports. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, though, when he ran across his own work at the bottom of the pile, the paper clearly earmarked and highlighted.
Lucas could see highlighting on just about every page, with marginal notes printed neatly on the sides. Thomas appeared to have read through every major publication Lucas had made; the number of such publications wasn't extensive, but Thomas had obviously gotten his hands on each one of them.
Surprisingly--if Lucas was any judge of the General's notes--the man seemed to have understood a good portion of his work.
Well, if Thomas was researching vortex engineering--and even going so far as to read more than ten heavily technical documents on the subject (or, at least, willing to have someone else do so for him)-then Lucas didn't even want to know what the General wanted from him. It was obviously something to do with his vortex. He just couldn't imagine exactly what it could be . . .
Lucas suddenly snorted, rolling his eyes at himself.
No, he ruthlessly corrected himself. That's not true. I do know what Thomas might want the vortex for.
And what could that be?
Why, quite naturally, weapons. Thomas's eyes had practically glowed when Lucas had filled the man in on what he'd done aboard the Ulysses.
Damn. Just what could he do to get the vortex out of the General's hands, assuming, as he did, that that was what Thomas wanted? Lucas pondered the problem for several moments, thinking; he tried to explore several angles--even the most bizarre twists his mind could take--but he still came up with the same answer. He frowned. At this point, that answer was a depressing nothing.
He was trapped.
Lucas shuddered as the word trapped repeated in his mind. He could only too well recall what happened to most animals when they were trapped: they died.
*****
Just as Lucas was about to start prowling through the desk for the third time in less than thirty minutes, he heard the door swing open. Quickly, he turned from his investigation of the tiny black address book to his newest guest.
He was not at all amused with the sight he saw staring straight back at him.
They'd only met once before, but that had been a . . . stressful time. During that brief encounter, Lucas had thought he'd come to know the man, to understand him.
Obviously, he'd been wrong: terribly wrong. If this man was involved with General Thomas, he was dirt. He was a traitor. He had betrayed everything he stood for, as well as everything Lucas believed in and fought for. And Lucas would pay for that betrayal, too.
With a hard, pained swallow, Lucas leapt to his feet and angrily glared at the man. He jabbed a long, thin finger in the man's face. "You!" He sneered, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them, fuming angrily. His eyes poured venom over the beast's heart, if there even could be such a thing in the man . . . the two-faced, lying, son of a . . .
Lucas forcefully stopped himself, realizing that outrage wouldn't help. He needed a cool, collected mind . . . not a mind about to explode in fury. Unfortunately, the anger was about the only thing he could be assured of right now.
Slowly, Lucas crossed the room. He stood in front of the man before narrowing his eyes in withering hate.
"Well, long time no see," Lucas hissed. His blood simmered as he added bitingly, "Friend."
His "friend" stared at him, a note of sadness in the large eyes. His glance briefly wandered towards Thomas, who was now standing beside him. The eyes seemed to beg for permission, for understanding . . .
Lucas didn't know what, but he also really didn't care. Those seemingly guileless eyes turned back towards him. Lucas saw apology glimmering in their depths, but he refused to accept that apology.
He refused to extend the hand of friendship to someone who had betrayed his trust, especially when that trust hurt not only himself, but also his friends as well.
*****
The tension thickened between the two, thick enough to cut with a knife. If he'd had one, Lucas speculated that he would have been tempted to use a knife on the bastard; not that he'd really hurt the . . . man, but the idea of being able to hurt him was tantalizing.
Unfortunately, Lucas knew only too well that these were nothing more than his own idle wishes.
He paced around the room, watching Thomas and . . . his "friend" . . . as they watched him. Irritably, Lucas clenched his fingers together so hard that they lost all color, almost all feeling.
At least that was one thing in this miserable situation that wasn't being tormented by feeling.
Finally, he cleared his throat, whipping back from his angry perusal of the nearest wall to look at his enemies. His eyebrows lifted. "So. You're here. He's here." Lucas paused, then hissed, "I'm here. How convenient."
Again, the briefest of pain flickered across the man's features. He met Lucas's eyes, then looked away. After a second, he cleared his throat. "Lucas . . . look . . ."
If it had been anything else, Lucas could have forgiven him. If it had involved only himself and some research, he could have accepted Nelson's actions. But this . . . no, Lucas simply glared at Nelson and wished him to the lowest level of hell itself. No one involved his friends.
No one hurt his friends and got away with it.
"Don't you even 'Lucas, look,' me, Commander. Don't even try it." Lucas pounded his fist against the wall. He couldn't remember how many times he'd seen Krieg do this--hit the wall--but right now . . . hitting the wall seemed the safest of the ideas screaming through his brain, each seeking release through his balled fist.
Silence. Thomas sighed loudly. He moved across the room, sitting in the leather chair behind the desk, a smile of satisfaction written clearly across his face for all to see. He then gestured for the two men to sit down. Thomas smiled slightly at the dark expression on Lucas's face, at the jaw clamped so tightly that little muscles pulsed in his cheek; he'd evidently shaken and angered the boy. That was working according to plan, too. Riling Lucas up might unsettle him enough to make any ideas or plans for escape that much more difficult for him to make.
Especially when he now knew someone he dearly trusted had betrayed him.
No, Thomas suspected ideas of escape would be overwhelmed by Lucas's anger at the Commander, leaving Thomas with the perfect opportunity to manipulate the teen into doing exactly what Thomas wanted him to do.
And manipulation . . . that was his forte. Lucas presented such an easy target, such a . . . workable target. Thomas was almost saddened that there wasn't more difficulty to be expected of this manipulation.
Of course, if, by some miracle, this didn't work--if Lucas somehow managed to withstand the manipulation Thomas had so carefully prepared for him--Thomas also had other threats to use against the kid, threats conveniently stashed within these very halls. He almost hoped he'd be able to use these threats; it would be so much more interesting that way.
He smiled, watching as Lucas's fingers curled into a tight ball. Perfect. He had the genius wrapped up so tightly that nothing but anger, nothing but thoughts of revenge, ran through his mind.
His eyes flickered to the other element in his plan: the traitor. The man sat with eyes trained painfully upon the ground, self-disgust evident in the way his body slouched forward, in the way that he avoided Lucas's gaze . . . provided, of course, that Lucas was willing to even look at him. Right now, it appeared that this wasn't the case. The NAP officer's hair was mussed, unkempt, as was his entire appearance. Thomas realized that this wasn't anything overly unusual for the Commander, but he suspected the current situation had made the man lose all interest in how he appeared.
For, truly, what did appearances matter when you betrayed those you loved? What did an overgrown beard mean when you betrayed your country . . . even if you were understandably sickened by the actions of that country?
Thomas smiled, exhilarated, though he was careful that neither of his guests noticed his expression. He had them. And now . . . he would use this latest possession to his advantage.
*****
Thomas leaned back in his chair. His smile widened. "Well. I imagine you're wondering why you're here, Mr. Wolenczak."
Lucas glared over at him, then snorted derisively. "Give me credit for moderate intelligence, at least, Thomas." He glanced at the stack of papers sitting in front of Thomas's hands. "You're reading up on quantum fluxes. You have me here. And you have . . . him . . . here." The last words were spoken coldly, laced with a disgust Lucas couldn't hide. His one-time friend flinched. "You want me to do something with my vortex. The only thing I haven't quite managed to guess is what."
Dramatically, Thomas clapped his hands, eyebrows raising in mock admiration. "Very good, Wolenczak. I see the files didn't lie when they said you had uncanny perception." Lucas's fists clenched, his jaws tightening perceptibly; however, he kept silent, simply glaring at the General.
The General's gaze swung towards the man seated beside Lucas. "It must feel particularly good to work with someone of his caliber, Nelson. I can understand why you two worked together so well on the Ulysses . . ."
Lucas snorted at this, disgust clear in his eyes, in the pointed glare he struck at Commander Dean Nelson. "Worked together? Oh, that's very funny. Ha, ha. Yeah, good joke there, Thomas."
Thomas chuckled. "That would probably be because you were working at sabotaging the Ulysses even as he was trying to hijack the Ulysses." Thomas leaned forward, looking from one face to the next. "That part of the story seems most clear, Mr. Wolenczak."
Lucas simply decided to remain silent. If Nelson decided to betray him, fine. Nelson could tell the General what had happened . . . what he knew had happened, at least. But Nelson sure as hell didn't know everything that had happened. He hadn't been there, in Lucas's shoes. He hadn't been the one to blow holes through the ship. He hadn't been the one to set the renegade vortex. He also hadn't been the one injected with chemicals designed to torture. The remembrance of what Nelson had done compared to what he was now doing tore into Lucas's heart, but he knew that Thomas wouldn't be learning much from the Commander's mouth . . . traitor or not.
In Lucas's eyes, there were only two real possibilities here: Worst case scenario, Nelson's account of the Ulysses disaster would bring up some issues Lucas would rather not discuss . . . but his account would still be spotty, unrevealing, for the man truly hadn't been involved in the vortex itself. Best case scenario, Nelson wouldn't know a damned thing to save his own neck.
And Lucas himself absolutely, positively, was not going to fold under General Thomas's pressure.
He would not.
His thoughts were ripped from what he should do and what Nelson was doing when Thomas said, his voice cool, calculating, "We've been researching your latest field of interest. Commander Nelson here seems to think he understands your theory."
Ah. The journal articles, of course. It would seem that both Nelson and Thomas had been doing their homework. Lucas cleared his throat. "That's just great for him. And you. Then you can kindly let us go."
Thomas laughed at this . . . outright laughed. Lucas scowled at the General's levity. "Oh, very good, Wolenczak . . . very good. Your file didn't mention what a sense of humor you possess."
Yeah, right. Sense of humor. Lucas wondered if he could shove the General's laughing mouth right up . . .
"It's always nice to spot a sense of humor in one's colleagues . . ."
Colleagues?! Was the man flaming insane?
"Oh, for . . ." exasperated, Lucas stood, starting to stomp around the room. Anger burned through him, and he fought to control it. He pounded his fist into the nearest wall, wishing it were Nelson or Thomas's face instead. What game was the General playing? He had Lucas, Bridger, Dr. Westphalen . . . Nelson . . . what the hell was he planning to do with them? He spun towards a perfectly calm Thomas, wishing he could wipe the smirk from the man's face. "What am I doing here, Thomas?"
Thomas shrugged negligently. "You said it yourself. I have Nelson. I have your articles. What do you think I want with you?"
"I don't know. Enlighten me." Lucas continued to wander around the room, trying to fight down a vicious anger.
"Mr. Wolenczak, I think you would be the first to agree that practice and theory are rarely the same thing." Thomas smiled at Lucas's sharp inhalation of breath, at his narrowed, almost cobalt eyes. "You've blown your share of holes through the science lab, from what I understand."
Lucas nervously shifted from foot to foot, refusing to look at Thomas.
"The greatest difference between 'practice' and 'theory' must be what happened on the Ulysses. You turned a peaceful device designed for transportation into a deadly weapon that crippled the most state-of-the-art ship built in the UEO's history." Thomas's hands spread wide in a gesture demanding acceptance. "Theoretically, your design was peaceful; in practice, however, it was the most powerful weapon I have heard of in years."
Despite himself, Lucas angrily ground out, "On the ship, there was no difference between theory and practice. I knew exactly what I wanted to get, and I got it. I don't see where you're going with this." His troubles with the vortex--particularly the troubles that resulted in gaping holes in the science lab--still rankled.
Thomas grinned, triumph gleaming from his eyes. Lucas had walked straight into his trap, absolutely unwittingly. "You see? That is the difference between you and Commander Nelson here. Nelson is good with the theory, the ideas . . . but the practical aspects of the vortex are his stumbling points."
Lucas snorted at this, not feeling like adding that these very "practical aspects" of the vortex were his bane in existence, too . . . or, for that matter, discussing just what those "practical aspects" truly were.
"You, however, Mr. Wolenczak, have made it work." Thomas stared at the boy, noticing that he was doing his best to avoid his gaze. He smiled slightly at the genius's avoidance. "And that is what I need: a working vortex."
I'll blow a flaming vortex right through your bedroom, you snake-skinned eel . . . Lucas thought silently, hands shaking. A working vortex. Why didn't the bastard just give him a gun and ask him to shoot hundreds--no, thousands--of people on sight? That's about what the vortex could do, if it was used to do so. He had seen the effects of that vortex in all of its horrifying reality.
Holes, ripped through the wall: giant holes bleeding through the metallic flesh of the ship. Screams of pain as panels, equipment, and glass whipped into the air, suddenly becoming both alive and deadly . . .
Howls, screeches deep within the ship's skeleton . . . tearing apart, unraveling . . .
Flames searing the halls, burning out of control in several areas . . .
He did not, did not want to hand this type of weapon to the military. What it could do . . . in the hands of the wrong people. Lucas shuddered as he thought of it. He had destroyed the Ulysses with that weapon, merely because he had had no other choice. But people like Thomas--people who didn't give a damn about who they hurt, who they maimed, who they killed--they didn't even bother to examine for choices. They just killed.
Slowly, Lucas turned to face the General. He shook his head, swallowing hard as he tried to calm his stomach. "A working vortex? What, so you can . . . so you can go and blow people up?" He flashed accusing eyes towards Nelson, then glared back at Thomas. "The UEO . . . the UEO is supposed to be dedicated to peace, to working out solutions without . . ."
"Don't even feed me that nonsense!" Thomas interrupted with a snort of disgust, suddenly rising from his chair and leaning over the table; Lucas's voice died in his throat as he noticed the man's face was ashen, his eyes blazing. He shrunk against the wall, as if he could somehow disappear into its surface. "The UEO . . ." the man spat the words out, hate seething in the voice, "the UEO . . . the weakest, most powerless organization in the world. Peacekeeper! That's garbage not even worthy of feeding a hog."
Images of Stark sped through Lucas's mind. He'd never met the woman, but he'd certainly encountered her work--and her madness.
Behind that image, he saw Brigg, interrogating him . . . eyes glazed with madness, with something Lucas couldn't even identify . . . maybe lust for power, he couldn't be certain. Something frightening beyond anything Lucas had seen. He remembered the fists pounding into him, the drugs burning violently through his veins . . .
He remembered the words that rung in his ears, making no sense. He remembered the hatred in the man's eyes. The voice hissing in his mind, demanding cooperation, demanding answers . . .
Snapping his mind back to reality, Lucas cringed even further into the wall, wishing he could simply disappear, fade, when Thomas stalked towards him. Heavy footsteps beat towards him, footsteps that resounded in the suddenly silent room. Brigg . . . Thomas . . . Stark . . . his own father . . .
God, no. The madness . . . it seemed to glow in those eyes, passed like a torch from one set of eyes to the next. God, no. The madness . . . it glowed luridly in those eyes, a torch passed from one set of eyes to the next.
"You will listen to me, Mr. Wolenczak, and you will listen well." Thomas whispered, stopping in front of Lucas, within an inch of Lucas's face. "The UEO is weak, a mewling waiting for something to destroy it. I won't allow that to happen. Peace-loving, science-hugging idiots . . . like Bridger," Lucas blanched as the General spat his Captain's name with hate, "will destroy us."
He leaned closer, then suddenly gripped Lucas's head by the hair. He pulled the teenager closer, forcing Lucas's ear within a centimeter of his hissing mouth. "You, Wolenczak, will keep that from happening. Nothing . . . not NAP, not anything . . . will destroy us."
Thomas pulled at the boy's hair, then flung him into the wall, watching with satisfaction as the genius slumped bonelessly to the ground. His eyes slid past Nelson's horrified expression, then returned to stare at Lucas.
Slowly, Thomas walked over to stand above Lucas. The General's face was without expression. "If you wish to keep alive, if you wish to keep your spineless friends alive, you will do exactly as I say. Exactly. Anything you do to change my plans will get one of them tortured or killed. You screw up, they die." Lucas stared at him, eyes huge against a face drained of all color.
Thomas stood away from him. Lucas watched in terrified fascination as the man's face suddenly . . . changed. Transformed before his eyes. Gone now was the mad, insane glow to his eyes, the sneer of his lips; instead, he simply smiled pleasantly at his two guests. He dusted absently at a nonexistent speck on his shirt.
"So . . . Wolenczak, I will leave you to reacquaint yourself with your 'friend' Nelson. My men will take you back to your . . . quarters . . . in approximately five hours. I recommend that you and Nelson work through some theories on putting this vortex together."
With a pleasant nod, Thomas unlocked the door and walked out, shutting it behind him. The door thudded into place, sending a shiver down Lucas's back.
He turned to look at Nelson. They stared at one another before Nelson hesitantly cleared his throat. "Do you need help up?"
Slowly, Lucas shook his head, carefully dragging his aching body from the floor. He looked back at Nelson. "I . . . guess . . . we need to work on this."
Their eyes locked for a moment. Nelson opened his mouth to speak several times, then simply snapped his jaw shut. Resignedly, he nodded his head, moving to join Lucas as they started working through the journal articles on quantum physics . . . and noting sadly that Lucas sat as far apart from him as was possible within their prison.
*****
Lucas read the sentence, then reread it. Unfortunately, it still didn't make any sense. Lucas glanced at the author's name: Mandeel. Mandeel wasn't a name he recognized, which probably meant that he was straight out of graduate school and looking to establish a name. He seemed to have overlooked several variables along the way . . . if he even understood vortex engineering in the first place. However, there was one positive side to this most recent discovery: Thomas didn't know the scientist was a bit off in his theories. If Thomas didn't know, then, perhaps, Lucas could try to act like he didn't know there was a problem, either.
Lucas's shoulders sagged, though, when he remembered one slight problem: Thomas had other hostages. He had Dr. Westphalen and Captain Bridger. With little question, the man wouldn't hesitate to hurt his hostages should the need arise.
Well, there goes yet another brilliant Wolenczak idea, Lucas thought angrily. A lot of good being a genius did him. When he needed to rescue his friends, that much-glorified and publicized brain of his did him no good. All his ideas, all his plans, had some flaw in them. Every one of them.
Shifting in annoyance, Lucas looked up to find Commander Nelson's eyes on him. He glared back at the man before returning to his work. Yeah, just what he needed: one of Thomas's cohorts spying on him. Just flaming great.
Briefly, Lucas wondered why he always seemed to run into trouble. It was like the universe held something against him; in fact, it would be easy to think he liked trouble and danger, for it sure as hell liked him. It liked him so much that it courted him on a regular basis.
"Lucas?" He heard the voice calling his name carefully, almost cautiously. After a second, Lucas looked up, regarding Nelson with wary eyes. Nelson smiled slightly, seeing he had, at last, caught the boy's attention. "What have you found on your end? I'm afraid I haven't found much of anything useful."
Lucas was silent for a moment, carefully considering Nelson's question. He supposed Thomas would only beat the answers from him, eventually, if he refused to answer . . . or, perhaps, drug the answers from him. One way or another, he knew Thomas would get his answers.
He just had to make it look like he was giving answers when he wasn't. That way, the General would have no reason to harm the Captain or Dr. Westphalen . . . and Lucas himself might remain in one piece for a few more hours, anyway. It was certainly worth a try.
He held up the journal article he was currently "investigating." With a sigh, he said, "This one seems to have the best information in it. The discussion on vortex construction in a lab environment was particularly enlightening." Lucas had to keep himself from snickering at that idea. Mandeel, quite obviously, was merely hypothesizing; he hadn't actually tried to build a vortex in his lab. Some of his hypotheses were absolutely hilarious. Lucas only prayed the scientist decided to keep his ideas within the realms of the strictly intellectual; he could just imagine the mess this "lab experiment" would make. The scientist would be lucky if he didn't blow up his entire building.
Nelson peered at the journal article, then looked at Lucas with a rather skeptical expression. "You've got to be kidding, Lucas."
Surprised, Lucas lied, "Why? I mean, the theory is perfectly sound."
Nelson leaned back in his chair, obviously trying to control a brief fit of annoyance. He sighed. "I know you don't trust me, Lucas . . ."
Looking at his hands, Lucas mumbled, "No, shit, Sherlock," then beamed beatifically as Nelson glared at him.
Nelson continued, growling slightly, ". . . But that's no reason to treat me like I'm the most idiotic baffoon on the face of the planet. I wouldn't even insult Thomas with that last statement of yours."
Ah. So . . . Nelson understood enough about vortex engineering to know Mandeel was full of crap. That was worth knowing, Lucas supposed. He'd have to be a little more subtle with the lies he fed the Commander. But, hey, he could do subtle once in awhile--not often, but upon occasion.
Nelson shifted in his chair, a restless, charged expression on his face. He studied the wall for a moment before turning to face Lucas once more. "Look, Lucas . . ."
"I thought we'd been through this already, Commander Nelson," Lucas interrupted with a snap, pretending to read the article in front of him. "No 'look, Lucas' conversations, please."
Nelson mumbled something Lucas couldn't hear.
"Besides, what good would it do?" Lucas continued, as if Nelson hadn't said a word. "You'd just tell me how horrible you feel, how you had no choice, blah, blah, blah . . . I'd just tell you what a ruthless, integrity-lacking, dishonest, loathsome, petty, useless, spineless . . ." Lucas paused a moment, trying to think of other adjectives to describe Nelson, but drawing a blank. He shrugged. "Anyway, I'd just say what a bastard you are . . . and we'd be done. This way, we skip all the emotional arguments in between and get to our work."
"If you'd only listen! I have good reason for what I'm doing . . ."
"Yeah, I'm sure you do. About a million good reasons stuffed into your bank account?" Lucas questioned, again not even bothering to look up at the man. Instead, he continued acting like he was reading.
"No, I am not getting paid for this . . ."
"That's nice."
Nelson visibly inhaled to control the outburst trembling at his lips. He shook his head. "Lucas, damn it, you're not thinking straight right now." He sighed, rubbing at his forehead. "Not that I can much blame you, but . . . Thomas has me in the same position he has you."
Lucas stopped reading, slowly looking up to meet Nelson's eyes. His face paled at the pain on the man's face.
"I haven't got a choice here, Lucas. Thomas didn't give me one. I either did as told, or . . . or . . ."
Nelson looked away, face lined with regret, with torture. Slowly, Lucas set Mandeel's article down, quickly rising to his feet and walking to Nelson's side. His heart wrenched at what he saw: at what he, in his anger, had refused to see until now.
Agony twisted Nelson's face--indeed, his figure, for he was bent at the waist in shame. He met Lucas's eyes slowly, wiping away a frustrated tear as the teenager knelt beside him.
Softly, Lucas asked, sorrow edging his words, "Who does he have, Nelson . . . Dean?" He studied the man's face, and, suddenly, knew without question who it had to be. He swallowed hard. "Does he have her, Commander? Does he have Alicia?"
At Nelson's defeated nod, Lucas sat back on his heels, thinking. Damn. It was bad enough that Thomas had Captain Bridger and Dr. Westphalen, but . . . Alicia Noyce added an entirely new dimension to the problem. God alone knew where she was being held. It could be in a completely different part of the building . . . if it was within the building at all. Hell, Thomas could even have her stashed miles away.
Just who else did Thomas have hidden in some cell, ready to hang over their precariously perched necks? Were there more surprises awaiting them, more hostages to hold against them?
How was Lucas to avoid meeting the General's demands for a fully working, lethal vortex when the General had these threats ready to use against him? How was he to both foil General Thomas and keep his friends' heads firmly attached to their necks?
And if he couldn't do both . . . which was Lucas to sacrifice?
Turning slowly from Nelson, Lucas shut his eyes, squeezed them until nothing but blackness stood before him. A tremor quaked through his body: through his feet, his ankles, his knees and arms. A tear trickled down his cheek, joined shortly by another. He didn't care. More spasms coursed through him, turning his muscles into water. With an inarticulate cry, he slid to the floor, wanting to scream, to holler at the top of his lungs, to shout until every ounce of stress was gone from his body . . . but unable to make even a sound.
Nelson watched for one moment, then joined him, placing a steadying hand behind Lucas's back as the tears, at last, came to him as well.